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Dear Reader,

Once upon a time, back when I was a fledgling romance author, I wanted to write a miniseries of connected books, and I did some brainstorming with my good friend Eric, searching for a unique hook to tie these books together.

In Eric’s travels, he happened across a Newsweek article about the Navy SEAL BUD/S (Basic Underwater Demolition SEALs) “Hell Week” of training. He immediately called me and announced, “I have found your miniseries hook!”

I remember running to the library (this was pre-internet), reading that article and getting goosebumps because I knew Eric was right. Navy SEALs make great romance heroes. And with my lifelong admiration for the men and women of the U.S. Military, I knew I would be able to do them justice. (And I’d love doing the research, along the way….)

And so my Tall, Dark & Dangerous series about U.S. Navy SEAL Team Ten came to be. The book you’re holding includes two installments—Harvard’s Education and Hawken’s Heart (originally published with the holiday title It Came Upon A Midnight Clear)—first published by Silhouette Books.

Don’t miss the recently reissued Tall, Dark and Dangerous (Prince Joe and Forever Blue), and Tall, Dark and Fearless (Frisco’s Kid and Everyday, Average Jones). And visit www.eHarlequin.com or my website, www.SuzanneBrockmann.com, for more information about upcoming releases and reissues!

Happy reading,

Suz Brockmann

Praise for the novels of New York Times bestselling author SUZANNE BROCKMANN

“Zingy dialogue, a great sense of drama, and a pair of lovers who generate enough steam heat to power a whole city.”

—RT Book Reviews on Hero Under Cover

“Brockmann deftly delivers another testosterone-drenched, adrenaline-fueled tale of danger and desire that brilliantly combines superbly crafted, realistically complex characters with white-knuckle plotting.”

—Booklist on Force of Nature

“Readers will be on the edge of their seats.”

—Library Journal on Breaking Point

“Another excellently paced, action-filled read. Brockmann delivers yet again!”

—RT Book Reviews on Into the Storm

“Funny, sexy, suspenseful, and superb.”

—Booklist on Hot Target

“Sizzling with military intrigue and sexual tension, with characters so vivid they leap right off the page, Gone Too Far is a bold, brassy read with momentum that just doesn’t quit.”

—New York Times bestselling author Tess Gerritsen

“An unusual and compelling romance.”

—Affaire de Coeur on No Ordinary Man

“Sensational sizzle, powerful emotion and sheer fun.”

—RT Book Reviews on Body Language

Suzanne Brockmann
Tall, Dark and Devastating

CONTENTS

HARVARD’S EDUCATION

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

EPILOGUE

HAWKEN’S HEART

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

HARVARD’S EDUCATION

For my fearless pointman, Ed.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Special thanks to Candace Irvin—friend, fellow writer and unlimited source of U.S. Navy information.

Thanks also to the helpful staff at the UDT SEAL Museum in Fort Pierce, Florida, and to Vicki Debock, who told me about it.

Thanks to my swim buddy Eric Ruben for suggesting I write a book with a Navy SEAL hero! (I owe it all to you, baby!)

Thanks to the Harvard Project volunteers from the Team Ten list (http://groups.yahoo.com/group/teamten/) for their proofreading skills: Group Captain Rebecca Chappell, Vi Dao, Kellie Jones, Amy Madden, Claire Madden, Lynn McCrea, Heather McCormack-McHugh, Debbie Meiers and Kelly Shand. Hooyah, gang! Thanks for helping to make the TDD world as typo-free as possible.

Thanks to the real teams of SEALs, and to all the courageous men and women in the U.S. military (especially the Marines! Forgive me for including the banana joke as an example of the healthy rivalry between the Navy and the Marines!), who sacrifice so much to keep America the land of the free and the home of the brave.

Last but not least, a heartfelt thank-you to the wives, husbands, children and families of these real-life military heroes and heroines. Your sacrifice is deeply appreciated.

Any mistakes I’ve made or liberties I’ve taken in writing this book are completely my own.

CHAPTER ONE

THIS WAS WRONG. It was all wrong. Another few minutes, and this entire combined team of FInCOM agents and Navy SEALs was going to be torn to bits.

There was a small army of terrorists out there in the steamy July night. The Ts—or tangos, as the SEALs were fond of calling them—were waiting on their arrival with assault rifles that were as powerful as the weapon P. J. Richards clutched in her sweating hands.

P.J. tried to slow her pounding heart, tried to make the adrenaline that was streaming through her system work for her rather than against her as she crept through the darkness.

FInCOM Agent Tim Farber was calling the shots, but Farber was a city boy—and a fool, to boot. He didn’t know squat about moving through the heavy underbrush of this kind of junglelike terrain. Of course, P.J. was a fine one to be calling names. Born in D.C., she’d been raised on concrete and crumbling blacktop—a different kind of jungle altogether.

Still, she knew enough to realize that Farber had to move more slowly to listen to the sounds of the night around him. And as long as she was criticizing, the fact that four FInCOM agents and three SEALs were occupying close to the same amount of real estate along this narrow trail made her feel as if she were part of some great big Christmas package, all wrapped up with a ribbon on top, waiting under some terrorist’s tree.

“Tim.” P.J. spoke almost silently into the wireless radio headset she and the rest of the CSF team—the Combined SEAL/FInCOM Antiterrorist team—had been outfitted with. “Spread us out and slow it down.”

“Feel free to hang back if we’re moving too fast for you.” Farber intentionally misunderstood, and P.J. felt a flash of frustration. As the only woman in the group, she was at the receiving end of more than her share of condescending remarks.

But while P.J. stood only five feet two inches and weighed in at barely one hundred and fifteen pounds, she could run circles around any one of these men—including most of the big, bad Navy SEALs. She could outshoot nearly all of them, too. When it came to sheer, brute force, yes, she’d admit she was at a disadvantage. But that didn’t matter. Even though she couldn’t pick them up and throw them any farther than she could spit, she could outthink damn near anyone, no sweat.

She sensed more than heard movement to her right and raised her weapon.

But it was only the SEAL called Harvard. The brother. His name was Daryl Becker and he was a senior chief—the naval equivalent of an army sergeant. He cut an imposing enough figure in his street clothes, but dressed in camouflage gear and protective goggles, he looked more dangerous than any man she’d ever met. He’d covered his face and the top of his shaved head with streaks of green and brown greasepaint that blended eerily with his black skin.

He was older than many of the other SEALs in the illustrious Alpha Squad. P.J. was willing to bet he had a solid ten years on her at least, making him thirty-five—or maybe even older. This was no green boy. This one was one-hundred-percent-pure grown man—every hard, muscled inch of him. Rumor had it he’d actually attended Harvard University and graduated cum laude before enlisting in Uncle Sam’s Navy.

He hand-signaled a question. “Are you all right?” He mouthed the words as well—as if he thought she’d already forgotten the array of gestures that allowed them to communicate silently. Maybe Greg Greene or Charles Schneider had forgotten, but she remembered every single one.

“I’m okay,” she signaled to him as tersely as she could, frowning to emphasize her disapproval.

Damn, Harvard had been babying her from the word go. Ever since the FInCOM agents had first met the SEALs from Alpha Squad, this man in particular had been watching her closely, no doubt ready to catch her when she finally succumbed to the female vapors and fainted.

P.J. used hand signals to tell him what Tim Farber had ignored. Stop. Listen. Silent. Something’s wrong.

The woods around them were oddly quiet. All the chirping and squeaking and rustling of God only knows what kinds of creepy crawly insect life had stopped. Someone else was out there, or they themselves were making too much racket. Either possibility was bad news.

Tim Farber’s voice sounded over the headphones. “Raheem says the campsite is only a quarter mile ahead. Split up into groups.”

About time. If she were the AIC—the agent in charge—of the operation, she would have broken the group into pairs right from the start. Not only that, but she would have taken what the informant, Raheem Al Hadi, said with a very large grain of salt instead of hurtling in, ill-informed and half-cocked.

“Belay that.” Tim’s voice was too loud in her ears. “Raheem advises the best route in is on this path. These woods are booby-trapped. Stay together.”

P.J. felt like one of the redcoats, marching along the trail from Lexington to Concord—the perfect target for the rebel guerrillas.

She had discussed Raheem with Tim Farber before they’d left on this mission. Or rather, she’d posed some thought-provoking questions to which he’d responded with off-the-cuff reassurances. Raheem had given information to the SEALs before. His record had proven him to be reliable. Tim had reassured her, all right—he’d reassured her that he was, indeed, a total fool.

She’d found out from the other two FInCOM agents that Farber believed the SEALs were testing him to see if he trusted them. He was intending to prove he did.

Stay close to me, Harvard said with his hands.

P.J. pretended not to see him as she checked her weapon. She didn’t need to be babysat. Annoyance flooded through her, masking the adrenaline surges and making her feel almost calm.

He got right in her face. Buddy up, he signaled. Follow me.

No. You follow me. She shot the signal back at him. She, for one, was tired of blindly following just anyone. She’d come out here in these wretched, bug-infested, swampy woods to neutralize terrorists. And that was exactly what she was going to do. If G.I. Joe here wanted to tag along, that was fine by her.

He caught her wrist in his hand—Lord, he had big hands—and shook his head in warning.

He was standing so close she could feel body heat radiating from him. He was much taller than she was, more than twelve inches, and she had to crane her neck to glare at him properly.

He smiled suddenly, as if he found the evil eye she was giving him behind her goggles amusing. He clicked off his lip mike, pushing it slightly aside so that he could lean down to whisper in her ear, “I knew you’d be trouble, first time I saw you.”

It was remarkable, really, the way this man’s smile transformed his face, changing him from stern, savage warrior to intensely interested and slightly amused potential lover. Or maybe he was just mildly interested and highly amused, and her too vivid imagination had made up the other parts.

P.J. pulled her hand away, and as she did, the world exploded around her, and Harvard fell to the ground.

He’d been shot.

Her mind froze, but her body reacted swiftly as a projectile whistled past her head.

She brought her weapon up as she hit the ground, using her peripheral vision to mark the positions of the tangos who had crept up behind them. She fired in double bursts, hitting one, then two, then three of them in rapid succession.

All around her, weapons were being fired and men were shouting in outrage and in pain. From what she could see, the entire CSF team was completely surrounded—except for the little hole she’d made in the terrorists’ line of attack.

“Man down,” P.J. rasped, following FInCOM procedure as she crawled on knees and elbows toward Harvard’s body. But he’d taken a direct hit. She knew from one glance there was no use pulling him with her as she moved outside the kill zone.

“Backup—we need backup!” She could hear Tim Farber’s voice, pitched up an octave, as she moved as silently as possible toward the prone bodies of the terrorists she’d brought down.

“By the time help arrives—” Chuck Schneider’s voice was also very squeaky “—there’ll be nothing left here to back up!”

Yeah? Not if she could help it.

There was a tree with low branches just beyond the terrorists’ ambush point. If she could get there and somehow climb up it…

She was a city girl, an urban-street agent, and she’d never climbed a tree in her life. She absolutely hated heights, but she knew if she could fire from the vantage point of those branches, the tangos wouldn’t know what hit them.

P.J. moved up and onto her feet in a crouching run and headed for the tree. She saw the tango rising out of the bushes at the last possible second and she fired twice, hitting him squarely in the chest. He fell, and only then did she see the man behind him.

She was dead. She knew in that instant that she was dead. She fired anyway, but her aim was off. His wasn’t.

The force of the double impact pushed her back, and she tripped and went down. She felt her head crack against something, a rock, the trunk of a tree—she wasn’t sure what, but it was granite hard. Pain exploded, stars sparking behind her tightly closed eyes.

“Code eighty-six! Eighty-six! Cease and desist!”

Just like that, the gunfire stopped. Just like that, this particular training exercise was over.

P.J. felt bright lights going on all over the area, and she struggled to open her eyes, to sit up. The movement made the world lurch unappealingly, and she desperately fought the urge to retch, curling instead into a tight little ball. She prayed she’d somehow find her missing sense of equilibrium before anyone noticed she was temporarily out for the count.

“We need a hospital corpsman,” the voice over her headset continued. “We’ve got an agent down, possible head injury.”

P.J. felt hands touching her shoulder, her face, unfastening her goggles. So much for no one noticing.

“Richards, yo. You still with me, girl?” It was Harvard, and his voice got harsher, louder as he turned away from her. “Where the hell is that corpsman?” Softer again, and sweeter, like honey now. “Richards, can you open your eyes?”

She opened one eye and saw Harvard’s camouflaged face gazing at her. His chin and cheeks were splattered with yellow from the paint ball that had hit him in the center of his chest.

“I’m fine,” she whispered. She still hadn’t quite regained her breath from the paint ball that had caught her directly in the midsection.

“Like hell you’re fine,” he countered. “And I should know. I saw you doing that George of the Jungle imitation. Right into that tree, headfirst…”

One Harvard became two—and Lord knows one was more than enough to deal with. P.J. had to close her eyes again. “Just give me another minute….”

“Corpsman’s on the way, Senior Chief.”

“How bad’s she hurt, H.?” P.J. recognized that voice as belonging to Alpha Squad’s commanding officer, Captain Joe Catalanotto—Joe Cat, as his men irreverently called him.

“I don’t know, sir. I don’t want to move her, in case she’s got a neck injury. Why the hell didn’t one of us think about the danger of firing a paint ball at someone this girl’s size? What is she? A hundred, hundred and five pounds at the most? How the hell did this get past us?”

The breathlessness and dizziness were finally fading, leaving a lingering nausea and a throbbing ache in her head. P.J. would have liked a few more minutes to gather her senses, but Harvard had just gone and called her a girl.

“This is no big deal,” P.J. said, forcing her eyes open and struggling to sit up. “I was moving when the projectile hit me—the force caught me off balance and I tripped. There’s no need to turn this into some kind of a national incident. Besides, I weigh one-fifteen.” On a good day. “I’ve played paint-ball games before with no problem.”

Harvard was kneeling next to her. He reached out, caught her face between his hands and lightly touched the back of her head with the tips of his fingers. He skimmed an incredibly sore spot, and she couldn’t help but wince.

He swore softly, as if it hurt him, as well. “Hurts, huh?”

“I’m—”

“Fine,” he finished for her. “Yes, ma’am, you’ve made that clear. You’ve also got a bump the size of Mount Saint Helens on the back of your head. Odds are, you’ve got a concussion to go along with that bump.”

P.J. could see Tim Farber standing in the background, all but taking notes for the report she knew he was going to file with Kevin Laughton. I recommend from now on that Agent Richards’s role in this antiterrorist unit be limited to dealing with administrative issues…. Some men couldn’t abide working in the field alongside a woman. She glanced at Harvard. No doubt he’d be first in line to put his initials right next to Farber’s recommendation.

She silently composed her own note. Hey, Kev, I fell and I landed wrong—so sue me. And before you pull me off this team, prove that no male FInCOM agent ever made a similar mistake and… Oh, wait, what’s that I’m remembering? A certain high-level AIC who shall remain nameless but whose initials are K.L. doing a rather un-graceful nosedive from a second-story window during a training op back about a year and a half ago?

P.J. focused on the mental image of Laughton grinning ruefully as he rubbed the newly healed collarbone that still gave him twinges of pain whenever it rained. That picture made Farber’s lofty smirk easier to bear.

No way was Kevin Laughton pulling her from this assignment. He had been her boss for two years, and he knew she deserved to be right here, right through to the end, come hell or high water or Tim Farber’s male chauvinist whining.

The corpsman arrived, and after he flashed a light into P.J.’s eyes, he examined the bump on the back of her head a whole lot less gently than Harvard had.

“I want to take you over to the hospital,” the corpsman told her. “I think you’re probably fine, but I’d feel better if we got an X-ray or two. You’ve got a lot of swelling back there. Any nausea?”

“I had the wind knocked out of me, so it’s hard to tell,” P.J. said, sidestepping the question. Harvard was shaking his head, watching her closely, and she carefully made a point not to meet his gaze.

“Can you walk or should we get a stretcher?”

P.J. was damned if she was going to be carried out of these woods, but truth was, her legs felt like rubber. “I can walk.” Her voice rang with false confidence as she tried to convince herself as well as everyone else.

She could feel Harvard watching as she pushed herself unsteadily to her feet. He moved closer, still looking to catch her if she fell. It was remarkable, really. Every other woman she knew would’ve been dying for a good-looking man like Senior Chief Daryl Becker to play hero for them.

But she wasn’t every other woman.

She’d come this far on her own two feet and she wasn’t about to let some silly bump on the head undermine her tough-as-nails reputation.

It was hard enough working at FInCOM, where the boys only grudgingly let the girls play, too. But for eight weeks, she was being allowed access to the absolutely-no-women-allowed world of the U.S. Navy SEALs.

For the next eight weeks, the members of SEAL Team Ten’s invincible Alpha Squad were going to be watching her, waiting for her to screw up so they could say to each other, See, this is precisely why we don’t let women in.

The SEALs were the U.S. Navy’s special operations units. They were highly trained warriors with well-earned reputations for being the closest things to superheroes this side of a comic book.

The acronym came from sea, air and land, and SEALs were equally comfortable—and adept—at operating in all of those environments.

They were smart, they were brave and they were more than a little crazy—they had to be to make it through the grueling sessions known as BUD/S training, which included the legendary Hell Week. From what P.J. had heard, a man who was still in the SEAL program after completing Hell Week had every right to be cocky and arrogant.

And the men of Alpha Squad at times could be both.

As P.J. forced herself to walk slowly but steadily away, she could feel all of Alpha Squad’s eyes on her back.

Especially Senior Chief Harvard Becker’s.

CHAPTER TWO

HARVARD DIDN’T KNOW what the hell he was doing here.

It was nearly 0100. He should have gone back to his apartment outside the base. He should be sitting on his couch in his boxers, chillin’ and having a cold beer and skimming through the past five days’ videotapes of The Young and the Restless instead of making a soap opera out of his own life.

Instead, he was here in this allegedly upscale hotel bar with the rest of the unmarried guys from Alpha Squad, making a sorry-assed attempt to bond with FInCOM’s wunderkinder.

Steel guitars were wailing from the jukebox—some dreadful song about Papa going after Mama and doing her in because of her cheatin’ heart. And the SEALs—Wes and Bobby were the only ones Harvard could see from his quick scan of the late-night crowd—were sitting on one side of the room, and the three male FInCOM agents were on the other. Not much bonding going down here tonight.

Harvard didn’t blame Wes and Bob one bit. FInCOM’s fab four didn’t have much in common with the Alpha Squad.

It was amazing, really. There were something like seventy-three-hundred agents in the Federal Intelligence Commission. He’d have thought the Chosen Four would have come equipped with superhero capes and a giant S emblazoned on the fronts of their shirts at the very least.

Timothy Farber was FInCOM’s alleged golden boy. He was a fresh-faced, college-boy type, several years shy of thirty, with a humorless earnestness that was annoying as hell. He was a solid subscriber to the FInCOM my-way-or-the-highway way of thinking. This no doubt worked when directing traffic to allow clear passage for the President’s convoy, but it wouldn’t do him quite as well when dealing with unpredictable, suicidal, religious zealots.

No, in Harvard’s experience, a leader of a counterterrorist team needed constantly to adjust his plan of attack, altering and revising as unknown variables become known. A team leader needed to know how to listen to others’ opinions and to know that sometimes the other guy’s idea might be the best idea.

Joe Cat had consulted with Alan “Frisco” Francisco—one of the best BUD/S training instructors in Coronado—and had purposely put blustery Tim Farber in command of the very first training scenario in an attempt to knock him off his high horse. A former member of the Alpha Squad who was off the active duty list because of a permanent injury to his knee, Frisco had duties that kept him in California, but he was in constant contact with both Alpha Squad’s captain and Harvard.

Still, judging from the way Farber was holding court at the bar, surrounded by his two fellow agents, it was obvious to Harvard that Frisco’s ploy hadn’t worked. Farber was totally unperturbed by his failure.

Maybe tomorrow, when Alpha Squad reviewed the exercise, the fact would finally sink in that Farber had personally created this snafu, this grand-scale Charlie Foxtrot.

But somehow Harvard doubted it.

As Harvard watched, Farber drew something on a napkin, and the two other FInCOM agents nodded seriously.

Greg Greene and Charles Schneider were around Harvard’s age, thirty-five, thirty-six, maybe even older. They’d spent most of the preliminary classroom sessions looking bored, their body language broadcasting “been there, done that.” But in the field, during the evening’s exercise, they’d shown little imagination. They were standard issue FInCOM agents—finks, as the SEALs were fond of calling them. They didn’t make waves, they followed the rule book to the last letter, they waited for someone else to take the lead and they looked good in dark suits and sunglasses.

They’d looked good smeared with yellow paint from the terrorists’ weapons, too. They’d followed Tim Farber’s command without question, and in the mock ambush that had resulted, they’d been rather messily mock killed.

Still, they hadn’t seemed to learn that following Farber unquestioningly might’ve been a mistake, because here they were, following Farber still. No doubt because someone higher up in FInCOM had told them to follow him.

Only one of the four superfinks out there tonight had openly questioned Farber’s command decisions.

P. J. Richards.

Harvard glanced around the bar again, but he didn’t see her anywhere. She was probably in her room, having a soak in the tub, icing the bruise on the back of her head.

Damn, he could still see her, flung backward like some rag doll when that paint ball hit her. He hadn’t gone to church in a long time, but he’d silently checked in with God as he’d called for the training session to halt, asking for divine intervention, praying that P.J. hadn’t hit that tree with enough force to break her pretty neck.

Men died during training. The risk was part of being a SEAL. But P. J. Richards was neither man nor SEAL, and the thought of her out there with them, facing the dangers they so casually faced, made Harvard’s skin crawl.

“Hey, Senior Chief. I didn’t expect to see you here.” Lucky O’Donlon was carrying a pitcher of beer from the bar.

“I didn’t expect to see you here, either, O’Donlon. I was sure you’d be heading out to see that girlfriend of yours at warp speed.”

Harvard followed Lucky to the table where Bobby and Wes were sitting. He nodded a greeting to them—the inseparable twins of Alpha Squad. Unidentical twins. Bobby Taylor came close to Harvard’s six foot five, and he gave the impression of being nearly as wide around as he was tall. If he hadn’t wanted to become a SEAL, he would have had a serious future as a professional football linebacker. And Wes Skelly was Alpha Squad’s version of Popeye the sailor man, short and wiry and liberally tattooed. What he lacked in height and weight, he more than made up for with his extremely big mouth.

“Renee had a meeting tonight for the state pageant.” Lucky sat down at the table and then kicked out a chair for Harvard to join them. He filled first Bobby’s mug from the pitcher, then poured some beer for Wes. “You want me to get you a glass?” he asked Harvard.

“No, thanks.” Harvard shook his head as he sat down. “What’s that title Renee just won? Miss Virginia Beach?”

“Miss East Coast Virginia,” Lucky told him.

“Pretty girl. Young girl.”

Lucky flashed his movie-star-perfect grin as if the fact that his girlfriend probably hadn’t yet celebrated her nineteenth birthday was something to be proud of. “Don’t I know it.”

Harvard had to smile. To each his own. Personally, he liked women with a little more life experience.

“Hey, Crash,” Wes called in his megaphone voice. “Pull up a chair.”

William Hawken, Alpha Squad’s newest temporary member, sat across from Harvard, meeting his eyes and nodding briefly. Hawken was one spooky individual, dark and almost unnaturally quiet, seemingly capable of becoming invisible upon demand. At first glance, he was not particularly tall, not particularly well-built, not particularly handsome.

But Harvard knew better than to go by a first glance. The man had been nicknamed Crash for his ability to move soundlessly in any circumstance, under any condition. Crash was anything but average. On closer examination, his eyes were a steely shade of blue with a sharpness to them that seemed almost to cut. Crash didn’t so much look around a room—he absorbed it, memorized it, recorded it, probably permanently. And beneath his purposely loose-fitting clothes, his body was that of a long-distance runner—lean and muscular, without an extra ounce of fat anywhere.

“Grab a glass and have a beer,” Lucky told Crash.

He shook his head. “No, thanks,” he said in his deceptively quiet voice. “Beer’s not my drink. I’ll wait for the waitress.”

Harvard knew that Crash was part of this FInCOM project at Captain Catalanotto’s special request. He was in charge of organizing all the “terrorist” activities the Combined SEAL/FInCOM team would be running into over the next eight weeks. He’d been the strategical force behind tonight’s paint-ball slaughter. The score so far was Crash—one, CSF team—zero.

Harvard didn’t know him very well, but Hawken’s reputation was close to legendary. He’d been part of the SEALs’ mysterious Gray Group for years. And apparently he’d been involved in countless black operations—highly covert, hush-hush missions that were as controversial as they were dangerous. SEALs were allegedly sent into other countries to perform tasks that even the U.S. Government claimed to know nothing about—neutralization of drug lords, permanent removal of political and military leaders preaching genocide and so on. The SEALs were forced to play God, or at least take on the roles of judge, jury and hangman combined. It was not a job Harvard would have relished doing.

If the SEALs on a black op succeeded at their mission, they’d get little or no recognition. And if they failed, they were on their own, possibly facing espionage charges, with no chance of the government stepping forward and accepting the responsibility.

No wonder Crash didn’t drink beer. He probably had an ulcer the size of an aircraft carrier from the stress.

He’d no doubt come here tonight in an attempt to better get to know the SEALs who made up Alpha Squad—the men he’d be working with for the next eight weeks.

Which reminded Harvard of why he’d come here. He glanced at the three FInCOM agents sitting at the bar. Still no sign of P.J. “Has anyone tried to make friends with the finks tonight?”

“Besides you trying to get close to P. J. Richards, you mean? Trying to hold her hand out in the woods?” Wes Skelly laughed at his miserable joke. “Jeez, Senior Chief, only time in my memory that you were the first man down in a paint-ball fight.”

“That was my paint ball that hit you, H.,” Lucky drawled. “I hope it didn’t hurt too badly.”

“Hey, it’s about time he found out what it feels like just being hit,” Bobby countered in his sub-bass-woofer voice.

“I couldn’t resist,” Lucky continued. “You were such a great, big, perfect target, standing there like that.”

“I think Harvard let you shoot him. I think he was just trying to score some sympathy from P.J.,” Wes said. “Is she hot or is she hot?”

“She’s a colleague,” Harvard said. “Show a little respect.”

“I am,” Wes said. “In fact, there are few things I respect more than an incredibly hot woman. Look me in the eye, H., and tell me that you honestly don’t think this lady is a total babe.”

Harvard had to laugh. Wes could be like a pit bull when he got hold of an idea like this. He knew if he didn’t admit it now, Wes would be on him all night until he finally caved in. He met Crash’s amused gaze and rolled his eyes in exasperation. “All right. You’re right, Skelly. She’s hot.”

“See? Harvard was distracted,” Bobby told Lucky. “That’s the only reason you were able to hit him.”

“Yeah, his focus was definitely not where it should have been,” Lucky agreed. “It was on the lovely Ms. Richards instead.” He grinned at Harvard. “Not that I blame you, Senior Chief. She is a killer.”

“Are you gonna go for her?” Wes asked. “Inquiring minds want to know. You know, she’s short, but she’s got really great legs.”

“And a terrific butt.”

Wes smiled blissfully, closing his eyes. “And an incredible set of—”

“Well, this is really fun.” Harvard looked up to see P. J. Richards standing directly behind him. “But aren’t we going to talk about Tim and Charlie and Greg’s legs and butts, too?” Her big brown eyes were open extra wide in mock innocence.

Silence. Dead, total silence.

Harvard was the first to move, pushing back his chair and standing up. “I have to apologize, ma’am—”

The feigned curiosity in her eyes shifted to blazing hot anger as she glared at him from her barely five-foot-two-inch height.

“No,” she said sharply. “You don’t have to apologize, Senior Chief Becker. What you have to do is learn not to make the same disrespectful mistakes over and over and over again. What you as men have to do is learn to stop dissing women by turning them into nothing more than sex objects. Great legs, a terrific butt and an incredible set of what, Mr. Skelly?” She turned her glare to Wesley. “I have to assume you weren’t about to compliment me on my choice of encyclopedias, but were instead commenting on my breasts?”

Wes actually looked sheepish. “Yeah. Sorry, ma’am.”

“Well, you get points for honesty, but that’s all you get points for,” P.J. continued tartly. She looked from Wes to Bobby to Lucky. “You were the first three tangos I shot out there tonight, weren’t you?” She turned to Crash. “Exactly how many members of your team were hit tonight, Mr. Hawken?”

“Six.” He smiled slightly. “Four of whom you were responsible for.”

“Four out of six.” She shook her head, exhaling in a short burst of disbelief as she glared at the SEALs. “I beat you at your own game, and yet you’re not talking about my skills as a shooter. You’re discussing my butt. Don’t you think there’s something really wrong with this picture?”

Lucky looked at Bobby, and Bobby glanced at Wes.

Bobby seemed to think a response was needed, but didn’t know quite what to say. “Um…”

P.J. still had her hands on the hips in question, and she wasn’t finished yet. “Unless, of course, you think maybe my ability to hit a target was just dumb luck. Or maybe you think I wouldn’t have been able to hit you if I had been a man. Maybe it was my very femaleness that distracted and stupefied you, hmm? Maybe you were stunned by the sight of my female breasts—which, incidentally, boys, are a meager size thirty-two B and can barely be noticed when I’m wearing my combat vest. We’re not talking heavy cleavage here, gang.”

Harvard couldn’t hide his smile.

She turned her glare to him. “Am I amusing you, Senior Chief?”

Damn, this woman was mad. She was funny as hell, too, but he wasn’t going to make things any better by laughing. Harvard wiped the smile off his face. “Again, I’d like to apologize to you, Ms. Richards. I assure you, no disrespect was intended.”

“Maybe not,” she told him, her voice suddenly quiet, “but disrespect was given.”

As he looked into her eyes, Harvard could see weariness and resignation, as if this had happened to her far too many times. He saw physical fatigue and pain, too, and he knew that her head was probably still throbbing from the blow she’d received earlier that evening.

Still, he couldn’t help thinking that despite everything she’d said, Wesley was right. This girl was smoking hot. Even the loose-fitting T-shirt and baggy fatigues she wore couldn’t disguise the lithe, athletic and very female body underneath. Her skin was smooth and clear, like a four-year-old’s, and a deep, rich shade of chocolate. He could imagine how soft it would feel to his fingers, how delicious she would taste beneath his lips. Her face was long and narrow, her chin strong and proud, her profile that of African royalty, her eyes so brown the color merged with her pupils, becoming huge dark liquid pools he could drown in. She wore her hair pulled austerely from her face in a ponytail.

Yeah, she was beautiful. Beautiful and very, very hot.

She stepped around him, heading toward the bar. Harvard caught up with her before she was halfway across the room.

“Look,” he said, raising his voice to be heard over the cowboy music blaring from the jukebox. “I don’t know how much of that conversation you overheard—”

“Enough. Believe me.”

“The truth is, you were a distraction out there tonight. To me. Having you there was extremely disconcerting.”

She had her arms folded across her chest, one eyebrow raised in an expression of half-disdain, half-disgust. “And the point of your telling me this is…?”

He let his eyelids drop halfway. “Oh, it’s not a come-on line. You’d know for sure if I were giving you one of those.”

Her gaze faltered, and she was the first to look away. What do you know? She wasn’t as tough as she was playing.

Harvard pressed his advantage. “I think it’s probably a good idea for you to know that I believe there’s no room in this kind of high-risk joint FInCOM/military endeavor for women.”

P.J. gave him another one of those you’ve-lost-your-mind laughs. “It’s a good thing you weren’t on the FInCOM candidate selection committee, then, isn’t it?”

“I have no problem at all with women holding jobs in both FInCOM and in the U.S. military,” he continued. “But I believe that they—that you—should have low-risk supporting roles, doing administrative work instead of taking part in combat.”

“I see.” P.J. was nodding. “So what you’re telling me is that despite the fact that I’m the best shooter in nearly all of FInCOM, you think the best place for me is in the typing pool?”

Her eyes were shooting flames.

Harvard stood his ground. “You did prove yourself an expert shooter tonight. You’re very good, I’ll grant you that. But the fact is, you’re a woman. Having you on my team, out in the field, in a combat situation, would be a serious distraction.”

“That’s your problem,” she said, blazing. “If you can’t keep your pants zipped—”

“It has nothing to do with that, and you know it. It’s a protectiveness issue. How can my men and I do our jobs when we’re distracted by worrying about you?”

P.J. couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “You’re telling me that because you’re working with a Stone Age mentality, because you’re the one with the problem, I should be the one to adapt? I don’t think so, Jack. You’re just going to have to stop thinking of me as a woman, and then we’ll get along just fine.”

It was his turn to laugh in disbelief. “That’s not going to happen.”

“Try counseling, Senior Chief, because I’m here to stay.”

His smile was nowhere to be seen, and without it, he looked hard and uncompromising. “You know, it’s likely that the only reason you’re here is to fill a quota. To help someone with lots of gold on their sleeves be PC.”

P.J. refused to react. “I could fire those exact same words right back at you—the only black man in Alpha Squad.”

He didn’t blink. He just stood there, looking at her.

Lord, he was big. He’d changed into a clean T-shirt, but he still wore the camouflage fatigue pants he’d been wearing earlier tonight. With his shirt pulled tight across his mile-wide shoulders and broad chest, with his shaved head gleaming in the dim barroom light, he looked impossibly dangerous. And incredibly handsome in a harshly masculine way.

No, Harvard Becker was no pretty boy, that was for sure. But he was quite possibly the most handsome man P.J. had ever met. His face was angular, with high cheekbones and a strong jaw. His nose was big, but it was the right length and width for his face. Any smaller, and he would have looked odd. And he had just about the most perfect ears she’d ever seen—just the right size, perfectly rounded and streamlined. Before the war game, he’d taken off the diamond stud he always wore in his left ear, but he’d since put it back in, and it glistened colorfully, catching snatches of the neon light.

But it was Harvard’s eyes that P.J. had been aware of right from the start. A rich, dark golden-brown, they were the focal point of his entire face, of his entire being. If it were true that the eyes were the window to the soul, this man had one powerfully intense soul.

Yeah, he was the real thing.

As a matter of fact, more than one or two of the other patrons in the bar, both men and women, were sneaking looks at the man. Some were wary, some were nervous, and some were flat-out chock-full of pheromones.

Without even turning around, Harvard could have snapped his fingers and three or four women—both black and white—would’ve been pushing their way to his side.

Well, maybe she was exaggerating a little bit. But only a little bit.

This man could have any woman he wanted—and he knew it. And even though P.J. could still hear an echo of his rich voice saying yes, he thought she was hot, she knew the last thing he needed was any kind of involvement with her.

Hell, he’d made it more than clear he didn’t even want to be friends.

P.J. refused to feel regret, pushing the twinges of emotion far away from her, ignoring them as surely as she ignored the dull throb of her still-aching head. Because the last thing she needed was any kind of involvement with him—or with anyone, for that matter. She’d avoided it successfully for most of her twenty-five years. There was no reason to think she couldn’t continue to avoid it.

He was studying her as intently as she was looking at him. And when he spoke, P.J. knew he hadn’t missed the fatigue and pain she was trying so hard to keep from showing in her face. His voice was surprisingly gentle. “You should call it a night—get some rest.”

P.J. glanced toward the bar, toward Tim Farber and the other FInCOM agents. “I just thought I’d grab a nightcap before I headed upstairs.” Truth was, she’d wanted nothing more than to drag herself to her room and throw herself into a warm tub. But she felt she had to come into the bar, put in an appearance, prove to the other agents and to any of the SEALs who might be hanging around that she was as tough as they were. Tougher. She could go from a hospital X-ray table directly to the bar. See? She wasn’t really hurt.

See? She could take damn near anything and come back ready for more.

Harvard followed her as she slid onto a bar stool several seats away from the other agents. “It wasn’t even a concussion,” she said. She didn’t bother to raise her voice—she knew Farber was listening.

Harvard glanced at the FInCOM agents. “I know,” he said, leaning against the stool next to her. “I stopped in at the hospital before heading over here. The doctor said you’d already been checked over and released.”

“Like I said before, I’m fine.”

“Whoops, I’m getting paged.” Harvard took his pager from his belt and glanced at the number. As the bartender approached, he greeted the man by name. “Hey, Tom. Get me my usual. And whatever the lady here wants.”

“I’m paying for my own,” P.J. protested, checking her own pager out of habit. It was silent and still.

“She’s paying for her own,” Harvard told Tom with a smile. “Mind if I use the phone to make a local call?”

“Anytime, Senior Chief.” The bartender plopped a telephone in front of Harvard before looking at P.J. “What can I get you, ma’am?”

Iced tea. She truly wanted nothing more than a tall, cool glass of iced tea. But big, tough men didn’t drink iced tea, so she couldn’t, either. “Give me a draft, please, Tom.”

Beside her, Harvard was silent, listening intently to whoever was on the other end of that telephone. He’d pulled a small notebook from one of his pockets and was using the stub of a pencil to write something down. His smile was long gone—in fact, his mouth was a grim line, his face intensely serious.

“Thanks, Joe,” he said, then he hung up the phone. Joe. He’d been talking to Joe Catalanotto, Alpha Squad’s CO. He stood up, took out his wallet and threw several dollar bills onto the bar. “I’m sorry, I can’t stay.”

“Problem at the base?” P.J. asked, watching him in the mirror on the wall behind the bar. For some reason, it was easier than looking directly at him.

He met her eyes in the mirror. “No, it’s personal,” he said, slipping his wallet into his pants.

She instantly backed down. “I’m sorry—”

“My father’s had a heart attack,” Harvard told her quietly. “He’s in the hospital. I’ve got to go to Boston right away.”

“I’m sorry,” P.J. said again, turning to look directly at him. His father. Harvard actually had a father. Somehow she’d imagined him spawned—an instant six-and-a-half-foot-tall adult male. “I hope he’s all right….”

But Harvard was already halfway across the room.

She watched him until he turned the corner into the hotel lobby and disappeared from view.

The bartender had set a frosty mug of beer on a coaster in front of her. And in front of the bar stool that Harvard had been occupying was a tall glass of iced tea. His usual.

P.J. had to smile. So much for her theory about big, tough men.

She pushed the beer aside and drank the iced tea, wondering what other surprises Harvard Becker had in store for her.

CHAPTER THREE

“HE LOOKS AWFUL.”

“He looks a great deal better than he did last night in that ambulance.” His mother lowered herself carefully onto the deck chair, and Harvard was aware once again of all the things he’d noticed for the first time in the hospital. The gray in her hair. The deepening lines of character on her slightly round, still pretty face. The fact that her hip was bothering her yet again—that she moved stiffly, more slowly each time he saw her.

Harvard’s father had looked awful—a shriveled and shrunken version of himself, lying in that hospital bed, hooked up to all those monitors and tubes. His eyes had been closed when Harvard had come in, but the old man had roused himself enough to make a bad joke. Something about how he’d gone to awfully extreme lengths this time just to make their wayward son come to visit.

The old man. Harvard had called his father that since he was twelve. But now it was true.

His parents were getting old.

The heart attack had been relatively mild, but from now on Dr. Medgar Becker was going to have to stop joking about how he was on a two-slices-of-cheesecake-per-day diet and really stick to the low-fat, high-exercise regimen his doctor had ordered. He was going to have to work to cut some of the stress out of his life, as well. But God knows, as the head of the English department at one of New England’s most reputable universities, that wasn’t going to be an easy thing to do.

“We’re selling the house, Daryl,” his mother told him quietly.

Harvard nearly dropped the can of soda he’d taken from the refrigerator on his way through the kitchen. “You’re what?”

His mother lifted her face to the warmth of the late afternoon sunshine, breathing in the fresh, salty air. “Your father was offered a part-time teaching position at a small college in Phoenix. It’ll be fewer than a third of the hours he currently has, and far less responsibility. I think we’ve been given a sign from the Almighty that it’s time for him to cut back a bit.”

He took a deep breath, and when he spoke, his voice was just as calm as hers had been. “Why didn’t you tell me about this before?”

“Medgar wasn’t sure he was ready to make such a big change,” his mother told him. “We didn’t want to worry you until we knew for sure we were going to make the move.”

“To Phoenix. In Arizona.”

His mother smiled at the skepticism in his voice. “We’ll be near Kendra and Robby and the kids. And Jonelle and her bunch won’t be too far away in Santa Fe. And we’ll be closer to you, too, when you’re in California. It’ll be much easier for you to come and visit. There’s a fine community theater there—something I’m truly looking forward to. And last time we were out there, we found the perfect little house within walking distance of the campus.”

Harvard leaned against the railing on the deck, looking out over the grayish-green water of Boston Harbor. His parents had lived in Hingham, Massachusetts, in this house near the ocean, for nearly thirty years. This had been his home from the time he was six years old.

“I’ve read that the housing market is really soft right now,” he said. “It might be a while before you find a buyer willing to meet your asking price.”

“We’ve already got a buyer—paying cash, no less. I called this morning from the hospital, accepted his offer. Closing date’s scheduled for two weeks from Thursday.”

He turned to face her. “That soon?”

His mother smiled sadly. “I knew that out of all the children, you would be the one to take this the hardest. Five children—you and four girls—and you’re the sentimental one. I know you always loved this house, Daryl, but we really don’t have a choice.”

He shook his head as he sat next to her. “I’m just surprised, that’s all. I haven’t had any time to get used to the idea.”

“We’re tired of shoveling snow. We don’t want to fight our way through another relentless New England winter. Out in Arizona, your father can play golf all year long. And this house is so big and empty now that Lena’s gone off to school. The list of pros is a mile long. The list of cons has only one item—my Daryl will be sad.”

Harvard took his mother’s hand. “I get back here twice a year, at best. You’ve got to do what’s right for you and Daddy. Just as long as you’re sure it’s really what you want.”

“Oh, we’re sure.” Conviction rang in his mother’s voice. “After last night, we’re very sure.” She squeezed his fingers. “We’ve been so busy talking about Medgar and me, I haven’t had the chance to ask about you. How are you?”

Harvard nodded. “I’m well, thanks.”

“I was afraid when I called last night you’d be off in some foreign country saving the world or whatever it is that you Navy SEAL types do.”

He forced a smile. His parents were moving from this house in just a few weeks. This was probably going to be the very last time he sat on this deck. “Saving the world just about sums it up.”

“Have you told that captain of yours it ticks your mother off that you can’t freely talk about all these awful, dangerous assignments you get sent on?”

Harvard laughed. “Right now we’re temporarily stationed in Virginia. We’re helping train some FInCOM agents in counterterrorist techniques.”

“That sounds relatively safe.”

P. J. Richards and her blazing eyes came to mind. “Relatively,” he agreed. “But it’s going to keep me tied up over the next seven and a half weeks. I won’t be around to help you pack or move or anything. Are you sure you’re going to be able to handle that—especially with Daddy laid up?”

“Lena’s home for the summer, and Jonelle’s volunteered to help out, too.”

Harvard nodded. “Good.”

“How’s that young friend of yours—the one that just got married and had himself a son, although not quite in that order?”

“Harlan Jones.” Harvard identified the friend in question.

His mother frowned. “No, that’s not what you usually call him.”

“His nickname’s Cowboy.”

“That’s right. Cowboy. How could I forget? How’s that working out for him? He had to grow up really fast, didn’t he?”

“It’s only been a few months, but so far so good. He’s on temporary assignment with SEAL Team Two out in California. He had the chance to be part of a project he couldn’t turn down.”

“A project you can’t tell me anything about, no doubt.”

Harvard had to smile. “Sorry. You’ll like this irony, though. Cowboy’s swim buddy from BUD/S training—a guy named William Hawken—is temporarily working with Alpha Squad.”

“That’s that small world factor again,” his mother proclaimed. “Everyone’s connected in some way—some more obviously than others.” She leaned forward. “Speaking of connections—what’s the chance you’ll bring a girlfriend with you when you come to the new house for Thanksgiving?”

He snorted. “We’re talking negative numbers—no chance at all. I’m not seeing anyone in particular right now.”

“Still tomcatting around, huh? Gettin’ it on without getting involved?”

Harvard closed his eyes. “Mom.”

“Did you really think your mother didn’t know? I know you’re a smart man, so I won’t give you my safe-sex speech—although in my opinion, the only sex that’s truly safe is between a man and his wife.” She pushed herself out of her chair. “Okay, I’m done embarrassing you. I’m going to go see about getting lunch on the table.”

“Why don’t you let me take you out somewhere?”

“And miss the chance to make sure you get at least one home-cooked meal this month? No way.”

“I’ll be in in a sec to help.”

She kissed the top of his head. “You know, you were born with hair. You have exceptionally nice hair. I don’t see why you insist on shaving it all off that way.”

Harvard laughed as she headed inside. “I’ll try to grow it in for Thanksgiving.”

He’d already reserved a few days of leave to spend the holiday at home with his parents.

Home.

It was funny, but he still thought of this place as home. He hadn’t lived here in more than fifteen years, but he’d always considered this house his sanctuary. He could come here anytime he needed to, and he could center himself. It was the one place he could come back to that he’d foolishly thought would always remain the same.

The sweet smell of cookies baking in his mother’s kitchen. The scent of his father’s pipe. The fresh ocean air.

It was weird as hell to think that within less than two weeks his home would belong to strangers.

And he would be spending Thanksgiving far from the ocean at his parents’ new house in Arizona.

“Excuse me, Senior Chief Becker! I’ve been looking for you!”

Harvard turned to find P. J. Richards bearing down on him, eyes shooting fire.

He turned and kept walking. He didn’t need this right now. Damn it, he was tired, he was hungry, he was wearing the same clothes he’d had on when he’d left here close to forty-eight hours ago, he hadn’t been able to grab more than a combat nap on the flight from Boston to Virginia, and he’d had to stand on the crowded bus back to the base.

On top of the annoying physical inconveniences, there were seven different items that had crash-landed on his desk while he was gone that needed his—and only his—immediate and undivided attention.

It was going to be a solid two hours before he made his way home and reintroduced himself to his bed.

And that was if he was lucky.

P.J. ran to catch up with him. “Did you give the order to restrict my distance for this and yesterday morning’s run to only three miles?”

Harvard kept walking. “Yes, I did.”

She had to keep trotting to match the length of his stride. “Even though the rest of the team was required to go the full seven miles?”

“That’s right.”

“How dare you!”

She was nearly hopping up and down with anger, and Harvard swore and turned to face her. “I don’t have time for this.” He spoke more to himself than to her, but of course, she had no way of knowing that.

“Well, you’re going to have to make time for this.”

Damn, she was pretty. And so thoroughly passionate. But if his luck continued in its current downward spiral, he stood only a blind man’s chance in a firing range of ever getting a taste of that passion any way other than her hurling angry words—or maybe even knives—in his direction.

“I’m sorry if my very existence is an inconvenience,” she continued hotly, “but—”

“My order was standard procedure,” he told her tightly.

She wasn’t listening. “I will file a formal complaint if this coddling continues, if I am not treated completely the same as—”

“This coddling is by the book for any FInCOM agent who has received an injury sufficient to send him—or her—to the hospital.”

She blinked at him. “What did you say?”

Well, what do you know? She was listening. “According to the rule book set up for this training session, if a fink goes to the hospital, said fink gets lighter physical training until it’s determined that he—or she—is up to speed. Sorry to disappoint you, Ms. Richards, but you were treated no differently than anyone else would have been.”

The sun was setting, streaking the sky with red-orange clouds, giving the entire base a romantic, fairy-tale look. Everything was softer, warmer, bathed in diffused pink light. Back home in Hingham, it would have been the perfect kind of summer evening for a long, lazy walk to the local ice-cream stand, flirting all the way with his sister’s friends, strutting his seventeen-year-old stuff while they gazed at him adoringly.

The woman in front of him was gazing at him, but it sure as hell wasn’t adoringly. In fact, she was looking at him as if he were trying to sell her a dehumidifier in the desert. “Rule book?”

Harvard glanced in the direction of his office, wishing he was there so he could, in turn, soon go home. “No doubt one of your bosses was afraid that Alpha Squad was going to hurt you and keep on hurting you. There’s a list of ground rules for this training session.”

“I wasn’t shown any rule book.”

Harvard snorted, his patience flat-out gone. He started walking again, leaving her behind. “Yeah, you’re right, I’m making all this up.”

“You can’t blame me for being wary!” P.J. hurried to keep pace. “As far as I know, there’s never been this kind of a rule book before. Why should FInCOM start now?”

“No doubt someone heard about BUD/S Hell Week—about the sleep deprivation and strenuous endurance tests that SEALs undergo at the end of phase-one training. I bet they were afraid we’d do something similar to the finks with this counterterrorist deal. And they were right. We would have, if we could. Because in real life, terrorists don’t pay too much attention to time-out signals.”

P.J. was back to glaring at him, full power. “I’ll have you know that I find ‘fink’ to be an offensive term.”

“It’s a nickname. A single syllable versus four. Easier to say.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t like it.”

“There’s not much you do like, is there?” Including him. Maybe especially him. Harvard pushed open the door to the Quonset hut that housed Alpha Squad’s temporary offices. “My father’s going to be fine. I’m sure you were dying to know.”

“Oh, God, I’m so sorry I didn’t ask!”

His mistake was turning to look at her.

She looked stricken. She looked completely, thoroughly horrified, all her anger instantly vanished. He almost felt bad for her—and he didn’t want to feel bad for her. He didn’t want to feel bad for anyone, especially not himself.

He’d been off balance since he’d gotten that phone call from Joe Cat telling him about his father’s heart attack. His entire personal life had been turned on its side. His parents were succumbing to age and his home was no longer going to be his home.

And then here came P. J. Richards, getting in his face, making all kinds of accusations, reminding him how much easier this entire assignment would be were it not for her female presence.

“Please forgive me—I didn’t mean to be insensitive. I was rude not to have asked earlier. Is he really going to be all right?”

As Harvard gazed into P.J.’s bottomless dark eyes, he knew he was fooling himself. He hadn’t been off balance since that phone call came in about his father. Damn, he’d been off balance from the moment this tiny little woman had stepped out of the FInCOM van and into his life. He’d liked her looks and her passion right from the start, and her ability to face up to her mistakes made him like her even more.

“Yeah,” he told her. “He should be just fine in a few weeks. And his long-term prognosis is just as good, provided he stays with his diet.” He nodded at her, hoping she’d consider herself dismissed, wishing he could pull her into his arms and kiss that too-vulnerable, still-mortified look off her face. Thank God he wasn’t insane enough to try that. “If you’ll excuse me, Ms. Richards, I have a great deal of work to do.”

Harvard went inside the Quonset hut, forcing himself to shut the door tightly behind him, knowing that starting something hot and heavy with this woman was the dead last thing he should do but wanting it just the same.

Damn, he wanted it, wanted her.

He wanted to lose this unpleasant sensation he had of being adrift, to temporarily ground himself in her sweetness.

He took a deep breath and got to work.

His father was going to be fine in a few weeks, but he suspected his own recovery was going to take quite a bit longer.

P.J. had never done so much shooting in her life. They were going on day fourteen of the training, and during every single one of those days she’d spent a serious chunk of time on the firing range.

Before she’d started, she could outshoot the three other FInCOM agents, as well as some of the SEALs in Alpha Squad. And after two weeks of perfecting her skill, she was at least as good as the quiet SEAL with the thick Southern accent, the XO or executive officer of Alpha Squad, the one everyone called Blue. And he was nearly as good as Alpha Squad’s CO, Joe Cat. But, of course, nobody even came close to Harvard.

Harvard. P.J. had managed successfully to avoid him since that day she’d been so mad she’d forgotten even the most basic social graces. She still couldn’t believe she hadn’t remembered to ask him about his father’s health. Her anger was a solid excuse, except for the fact that that degree of rudeness was inexcusable.

Lord, she’d made one hell of a fool out of herself that evening.

But as much as she told herself she was avoiding any contact with Harvard out of embarrassment, that wasn’t the only reason she was avoiding him.

The man was too good at what he did. How could she not respect and admire a man like that? And added onto those heaping double scoops of respect and admiration was a heady whipped topping of powerful physical attraction. It was a recipe for total disaster, complete with a cherry on top.

She’d learned early in life that her own personal success and freedom hinged on her ability to turn away from such emotions as lust and desire. And so she was turning away. She’d done it before. She could do it again.

P.J. went into the mess hall and grabbed a tray and a turkey sandwich. It turned out the food they’d been eating right from the start wasn’t standard Uncle Sam fare. This meal had been catered by an upscale deli downtown, as per the FInCOM rule book. Such a list of rules did exist. Harvard had been right about that.

She felt his eyes following her as she stopped to pour herself a glass of iced tea.

As usual, she’d been aware of him from the moment she’d walked in. He was sitting clear across the room, his back against the far wall. He had two plates piled on his tray, both empty. He was across from the quiet SEAL called Crash, his feet on a chair, nursing a mug of coffee, watching her.

Harvard watched her all the time. He watched her during physical training. He watched her during the classroom sessions. He watched her on the firing range.

You’d think the man didn’t have anything better to do with his time.

When he wasn’t watching her, he was nearby, always ready to offer a hand up or a boost out of the water. It was driving her insane. He didn’t offer Greg Greene a boost. Or Charlie Schneider.

Obviously, he didn’t think Greg or Charlie needed one.

P.J. was more than tempted to carry her tray over to Harvard, to sit herself down at his table and to ask him how well she was doing.

Except right now, she knew exactly how well she was doing.

The focus of this morning’s classroom session had been on working as a team. And she and Tim Farber and Charlie and Greg had totally flunked Teamwork 101. P.J. had read the personnel files of the other three agents, so when asked, she’d at least been able to come up with such basic facts as where they were from. But she hadn’t been able to answer other, more personal questions about her team members. She didn’t know such things as what they perceived to be their own strengths and weaknesses. And in return, none of them knew the first little teeny thing about her. None of them were even aware that she hailed from Washington, D.C.—which, apparently, was as much her fault as it was theirs.

And it was true. She hadn’t made any attempts to get to know Tim or Charlie or Greg. She’d stopped hanging out in the hotel bar after hours, choosing instead to read over her notes and try to prepare for the coming day’s assignments. It had seemed a more efficient use of her time, especially since it included avoiding Harvard’s watching eyes, but now she knew she’d been wrong.

P.J. headed for the other FInCOM agents, forcing her mouth into what she hoped was a friendly smile. “Hey, guys. Mind if I join you?”

Farber blinked up at her. “Sorry, we were just leaving. I’ve got some paperwork to do before the next classroom session.”

“I’m due at the range.” Charlie gave her an insincere smile as he stood.

Greg didn’t say anything. He just gathered his trash and left with Charlie.

Just like that, they were gone, leaving P.J. standing there, holding her tray like an idiot. It wasn’t personal. She knew it wasn’t personal. She’d arrived late, they had already eaten, and they all had things that needed to get done.

Still, something about it felt like a seventh-grade shunning all over again. She glanced around the room, and this time Harvard wasn’t the only one watching her. Alpha Squad’s captain, Joe Catalanotto, was watching her, too.

She sat and unwrapped her sandwich, praying that both men would leave her be. She took a bite, hoping her body language successfully broadcast, “I want to be alone.”

“How you doing, Richards?” Joe pulled out the chair next to hers, straddled it and leaned his elbows on the backrest.

So much for body language. Her mouth was full, so she nodded a greeting.

“You know, one of my biggest beefs with FInCOM has to do with their refusing to acknowledge that teams just can’t be thrown together,” he said in his husky New York accent. “You can’t just count down a line, picking, say, every fourth guy—or woman—and automatically make an effective team.”

P.J. swallowed. “How do the SEALs do it?”

“I handpicked Alpha Squad,” Joe told her, his smile making his dark brown eyes sparkle. It was funny. With his long, shaggy, dark hair, ruggedly handsome face and muscle-man body, this man could pull off sitting in a chair in that ridiculously macho way. He made it look both comfortable and natural. “I’ve been with Blue McCoy, my XO, for close to forever. Since BUD/S—basic training, you know?”

She nodded, her mouth full again.

“And I’ve known Harvard just as long, too. The rest of the guys, well, they’d developed reputations, and when I was looking for men with certain skills… It was really just a matter of meeting and making sure personalities meshed before I tapped ’em to join the squad.” He paused. “Something tells me that FInCOM wasn’t as careful about compatible personalities when they made the selections for this program.”

P.J. snorted. “That’s the understatement of the year.”

Joe absentmindedly twisted the thick gold wedding band he wore on his left hand. P.J. tried to imagine the kind of woman who’d managed to squeeze vows of fidelity from this charismatic, larger-than-life man. Someone unique. Someone very, very special. Probably someone with the brains of a computer and the body of a super model. “What FInCOM should have done,” he told her, “if they wanted a four-man team, was select a leader, have that leader choose team members they’ve worked with before—people they trust.”

“But if they’d done that, there’s no way I would be on this team,” she pointed out.

“What makes you so sure about that?”

P.J. laughed.

Joe laughed along with her. He had gorgeous teeth. “No, I’m serious,” he said.

P.J. put down her sandwich. “Captain, excuse me for calling you crazy, but you’re crazy. Do you really think Tim Farber would have handpicked me for his team?”

“Call me Joe,” he said. “And no, of course Farber wouldn’t have picked you. He’s not smart enough. From what I’ve seen, out of the four of you, he’s not the natural leader, either. He’s fooled a lot of people, but he doesn’t have what it takes. And the other two…” He shrugged. “I’m not particularly impressed. No, out of the four of you, this assignment should’ve been yours.”

P.J. couldn’t believe what she’d just heard. She wasn’t sure what to say, what to do, but she did know that knocking over her iced tea was not the correct response. She held tightly onto the glass. “Thank you…Joe,” she somehow managed to murmur. “I appreciate your confidence.”

“You’re doing all right, P.J.,” he said, standing in one graceful movement. “Keep it up.”

As he walked away, P.J. closed her eyes. God, it had been so long since she’d been given any words of encouragement, she’d almost forgotten how important it was to hear praise. Someone else—in this case, the commanding officer of Alpha Squad—recognized that she was doing her job well. He thought she was the one who should lead the team.

Out of the four FInCOM agents…

P.J. opened her eyes, realizing with a flash of clarity that the captain’s compliment hadn’t been quite as flattering as she’d first believed. She was the best candidate for team leader—compared to Farber, Schneider and Greene.

Still, it was better than being told that women had no place on a team like this one.

She wrapped her half-eaten sandwich and threw it in the trash on her way out of the mess hall, aware of Harvard glancing up to watch her go.