Tall, Dark and Daring

Her hair was blond, long and straight. She wore it in classic California-girl style, with no bangs to soften her face. But she had a face that didn’t need softening—it was already soft enough. She had baby-smooth skin, a face that was nearly a perfect oval, and equally perfect, delicately shaped features. From her fair skin and her light coloring, he’d expected her eyes to be blue. But they weren’t. She had brown eyes. Not a light, hazel shade of brown, but deep, dark chocolate brown.

Was it possible for someone with eyes that dark to be a natural blonde? He knew exactly how to find out.

I’m all yours—if you’ll have me.

Don’t go there, pal! She hadn’t meant it that way.

Jake focused his attention on his SEAL team. Harvard Becker. He’d never worked with the African-American senior chief, but when it came to electronic surveillance, he was the best. And right now Jake needed the best.

Seamen First Class Wesley Skelly, short and skinny, and Bobby Taylor, built double-wide, could’ve been any of the enlisted guys he knew back in Nam. Loyal to the bitter end, they drank too much, played too hard and were always right where you needed them, when you needed them. Right now, their loyalty was to Harvard, though, and they waited for their senior chief to nod his acceptance before they, too, agreed to sign on.

Lieutenant Billy Hawken, nicknamed Crash, was Jake’s wife, Daisy’s, cousin. Jake had helped raise him from the time the boy was ten. He thought of him as a son, but there was real reservation in the kid’s eyes as he gazed at Jake across the table. Are you sure you know what you’re doing? He could read the words in Billy’s eyes as clearly as if he’d spoken them aloud.

Jake nodded. Yeah. He knew exactly what he was doing. He’d thought about it long and hard. This was more than just an excuse to get back into the real world. Although—he couldn’t kid himself—he did want to do it just a little too much. Still, the timing was right and he trusted himself, trusted his instincts.

Billy turned to look at Lieutenant Mitchell Shaw, sitting on his right. Mitch and Billy had both worked for Jake’s Gray Group more times than any of them could count. Mitch had been there at the conception of the group. He’d been part of the first mission. At five feet ten, he was shorter than most of the other SEALs, lean and compact, with long, dark hair and hazel eyes that gave nothing away.

Including his doubt.

His silence broadcast that, though, loud and clear.

Jake knew how Mitch thought, and he could practically see the progression that led to the lieutenant’s short nod. He was in—but only because Mitch believed he and the rest of the SEALs would be able to keep Jake out of harm’s way.

Jake was going to have to set him straight, but not here, not now.

“I’m in,” Lieutenant Luke O’Donlon announced, his words echoed by Lieutenant Harlan Jones. Lucky and Cowboy. Both blond and blue-eyed, Jake had chosen them based on their fair-skinned complexions as well as their reputations. Both were hotshots, that title well earned, and both would be accepted into the CRO as easily as possible, if they had to go that way.

And that was that. He had his team. The SEALs had all agreed, if not quite as enthusiastically as Zoe Lange.

“Gather your gear, gentlemen—and Doctor,” Jake said, glancing at the young woman. “And prepare to meet at Andrews in two hours. Bring a sweater or two. We’re going to Montana.”

Senior Chief Harvard Becker was the first to reach the door. He hit the buzzer that signaled the guards in the outer chambers and the hatch swung open. The SEALs cleared out, none of them uttering another word.

They probably knew Admiral Stonegate would handle all the uttering necessary.

“I will be registering my official protest,” he told Jake stiffly. “An admiral’s place is not in the field. You are far too valuable to the U.S. Navy to put yourself into a position of such high risk that—”

“Didn’t you hear anything Dr. Lange said?” Jake asked the older man. “With the magnitude of this kind of potential disaster, we’re all expendable, Ron.”

“It’s been years since you’ve been in the field.”

“I’ve been keeping up,” Jake told him evenly.

“Mentally, perhaps, but physically, there’s just no way—”

Since he’d gotten out of the hospital, Jake had put himself into the best physical shape he’d been in since Vietnam. “I can keep up physically, too. Ron, you know, fifty-three’s just not that old—”

“Dammit, this is all John Glenn’s fault.”

Jake had to laugh. “Excuse me for laughing in your face, pal, but that’s ridiculous.”

Stonegate was offended. “I will be registering a protest.”

“You do that, Admiral,” Jake said, tired of the noise. “But not until this mission is over. Everything you’ve heard today in this room is top secret. You leak any of it—even in the form of a protest, and I will throw your narrow-minded, pointy ass in jail.”

Well, that did it.

Stonegate stormed out.

Mac Forrest followed. “And I’ll help,” he murmured to Jake with a wink. “Anything I can do, Jake, you just let me know.”

The room was finally empty.

Jake drew in a deep breath and let it all out in a rush as he collected and organized his notes and papers.

That had gone far better than he’d hoped. He’d been sure his age was going to be an insurmountable issue, that none of his first choice of SEALs would accept the assignment. He’d gone so far as to have his hair colored for the occasion, covering the silver at his temples with his regular shade of dark brown. He’d figured looking as young as possible couldn’t hurt.

And it had made him look younger, there was no doubt about it.

He’d liked the way his colored hair looked more than he cared to admit. But he had admitted it. He’d forced himself to confront the issue. He hated the thought of growing old. He’d fought it ever since he’d turned thirty with every breath he took, cutting red meat and high-cholesterol-inducing foods out of his diet. Eating health foods and seaweeds and exercising religiously every day. Aerobics. Weights. Running.

He hadn’t lied to Ron Stonegate. He was in top-notch, near-perfect shape, even for a man fifteen years his junior.

There was only one type of exercise he no longer participated in regularly and that was—

Jake closed his briefcase with a snap and turned around and found himself staring directly into Zoe Lange’s eyes.

Sex.

Yes, it had definitely been nearly three years since he’d last had sex.

Jake swallowed and forced a smile. “God, I’m sorry,” he said. “How long have you been standing there? I didn’t realize you were still in the room.”

She shifted her briefcase to her other hand, and Jake realized that she was nervous. He made Pat Sullivan’s top operative nervous.

The feeling was extremely mutual—but for what had to be an entirely different reason. He found her attractive, college-girl getup and all. Much too attractive.

“I just wanted to thank you again for including me in this assignment,” she said, all but stammering. She was trying so hard to be cool, but he knew otherwise.

“Let’s see if you’re still thanking me after you get an up-close look at the CRO compound.” Jake headed for the door to get away from her subtle, freshly sweet scent. She wasn’t wearing perfume. He had to guess it was her hair. Hair that would slip between his fingers like silk. If he were close enough to touch it. Which he wasn’t.

“I’ve spent years in the Middle East. At least I won’t have to walk around wearing a veil in Montana.” She followed, almost tripping over her own feet to keep up. “I’m just … I’m thrilled to be working with you, sir.”

He stopped in the corridor just outside the third door. There was no doubt about it. “You’ve read Scooter’s damn book.”

For seventeen years, that book had been coming back to haunt him. Scoot had written his memoirs about his time in Nam. Who knew the monosyllabic, conversationally challenged SEAL was a budding Hemingway? But he’d written Laughing in the Face of Fire both eloquently and gracefully. It was one of the few books on Nam that Jake had actually almost liked—except for the fact that Scooter had made Jake out to be some kind of demigod.

Zoe Lange had probably read the damn thing when she was twelve or thirteen—or at some other god-awful impressionable age—and no doubt had been carrying around some crazy idea of Lieutenant Jake Robinson, superhero, ever since.

“Well, yeah, I’ve read it,” she told him. “Of course I’ve read it.” She was looking at him the way a ten-year-old boy would look at Mark McGwire or Sammy Sosa.

He hated it. Hero worship without a modicum of lust. What the hell had happened to him?

He’d turned fifty, that’s what. And children like Zoe Lange—who hadn’t even been born during his first few tours in Vietnam—thought of him as someone’s grandpa.

“Scooter exaggerated,” he said shortly, starting down the hall toward the elevators. He was mad at himself for giving a damn. So what if this girl didn’t see him as a man? It was better that way, considering they were going to be working together, considering he was not interested in getting involved with her. “Extensively.”

“Even if only ten percent of the stories he told were true, you would still be a hero.”

“There’s no such thing as a Vietnam war hero.”

“You don’t really believe that.”

“Yeah? You can’t be a hero alone in a room. You need the crowd. The ticker-tape parade. The gorgeous blonde rushing the convertible to kiss you silly. I know—I’ve seen pictures of U.S. soldiers coming home after the Second World War. They sure as hell didn’t get egged by college students.”

“The Vietnam era was a confusing time in history.”

Jake winced. “History. Jeez, it wasn’t that long ago. Make me feel old, why don’t you?”

“I don’t think you’re old, Admiral.”

“Okay, then start by calling me Jake. You’re on my team, we’re going to get to know each other pretty well by the time this is over.” Jake stopped at the elevators and punched his security code into the keypad. “And I am old. I’ve been around a half a century, and I’ve seen more than my share of terrible, violent, monstrous acts. The things people do to each other appalls me. But I’m going to use that in my favor. Everything I’ve seen and learned is going to help me keep Chris Vincent and the CRO from doing some awful, permanent damage to this country that I love.”

She laughed. Her teeth were white and straight. “And you claim you’re not a hero.” The elevator doors slid open and she followed him inside. “I think you’re wrong. I think you can be a hero alone in a room. I think you would’ve shied away from the ticker-tape parade anyway.”

“Are you kidding? I would’ve eaten it up with a spoon.” He punched in the code that would take them to the ground floor. “Look, Doc, I appreciate your support, I do. Just … don’t believe everything you read in Scooter’s book.”

“Four hundred and twenty-seven.”

“Four hundred and twenty-seven what?”

“Men.”

His first thought was surely a sign that he’d had sex on his mind far too frequently of late. But there was no innuendo in Zoe Lange’s face, no hint of a suggestion in her eyes that she wanted Jake to be number four hundred and twenty-eight in a very, very long line. In fact, such a long line, it was preposterous. He tried not to laugh and failed. “I cannot begin to guess what you’re talking about. I mean, I’m trying, but …” He laughed again at his own cluelessness. “You’ve lost me, Doctor.”

“My father was number four hundred and twenty-seven,” she said quietly. “He’s one of Jake’s Boys.”

Jake didn’t know what to say.

It happened sometimes. Someone would come up to him with emotion brimming in their eyes and shake his hand, whispering that their husband or son or father was one of Jake’s Boys. As if he still had some kind of hold over them. Or as if, upon saving their lives, he’d somehow become responsible for them until the end of time.

He’d learned to be courteous and brief. He’d shake their hand, touch their shoulder, smile into their eyes and pretend he remembered Private This or Corporal That. The truth was, he didn’t remember any of them. The faces stuck in his mind were only of the men he hadn’t been able to save. The men who died, who were already dead. Empty eyes. All those awful, empty eyes …

“Sergeant Matthew Lange,” she told him. “He was with the forty-fifth—”

“I don’t remember him.” He couldn’t lie to this woman. Not if she was going to be on his team.

She didn’t even blink. “I didn’t expect you to, sir. He was only one out of hundreds.” She smiled and reached out to take his hand, to squeeze his fingers. “You know, I owe my life to you, as well. I wasn’t born until a year after he came home.”

Which meant her father was probably younger than Jake was.

Perfect.

His one completely loyal ally, the one person on his team who honestly didn’t have any reservations about his age or ability, had just managed to make him feel undeniably old.

And not just old, but nasty and old. Like some kind of complete degenerate.

As he gazed into her perfect brown eyes, as she held on to his hand and he felt the warmth and strength of her fingers, the smoothness of her skin against his palm, he forced himself to admit that for the first time in the two and a half years since Daisy had died, he’d finally met a woman he could imagine himself making love to.

And he didn’t want that. He didn’t want to imagine himself capable of wanting anyone but the only woman he’d ever loved, the woman he still loved. But he couldn’t deny that he missed sex, that he wanted sex. And he didn’t know how to reconcile his physical needs with the indisputable fact that Daisy was forever gone.

Forever, permanently gone. And she wasn’t coming back.

For just a second, he let himself really look at Zoe Lange. She was brilliant, she was brave, she was tough, yet her beauty held a sweetness to which he was powerfully drawn. Her eyes were alight with intelligent wit, her mouth quick to smile. Her laughter was contagious, and her body …

Jake let himself look, for just a second, at Dr. Zoe Lange’s near-perfect body. Her legs were long, her jeans slightly loose on her hips and thighs. She was not particularly tall, not particularly short, but average wasn’t a word that could ever be used to describe her. Her arms were well toned, lithe. She was trim in all the right places, and, God, all right, yes, he was a breast man, and she had a body that pushed all his buttons in a very big way. Her T-shirt clung to her full figure enticingly, making her demure little flowered print look decadent and sexy.

In a flash, in his mind’s eye, Jake saw her, tumbled back on his bed with him, her T-shirt and jeans gone, his mouth locked on hers, her perfect breasts filling his palms, his body buried deeply inside her as they moved together and …

Oh God, oh God, oh God. Sheer wanting slammed into him so hard he nearly gasped aloud. But that wanting was followed just as quickly by guilt and shame.

He still loved Daisy. How could he still love Daisy and want someone else so badly?

Sweet Lord, he missed her so much.

The hole in his gut that he’d been trying to heal for nearly three years tore wide open.

And he released Zoe’s hand and took a step backward, bumping awkwardly against the elevator wall. He realized almost instantly that he was well on his way to becoming completely aroused. Ah, jeez, terrific. Just what he needed—a souvenir from his little guilt trip.

He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

So he did neither, casually holding his briefcase in front of him.

Zoe kept her eyes carefully on the numbers above the elevator door, and he knew she’d seen something in his eyes that embarrassed her. No wonder—he’d been eyeing her like the hungry old fox checking out the gingerbread girl. Good job, Robinson. Way to feel even older and nastier. And somehow it was even worse since his attraction was clearly one-sided.

But when she turned toward him, she was the one who apologized. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you. You must get approached by people all the time and—”

“I like it when they’ve done something really right with their lives—the way your father obviously did. He must be very proud of you. God knows I’d be proud as hell if you were my kid.” He tried his best to sound fatherly. But all he sounded was pathetic.

She smiled tentatively. “Well, thanks.”

The elevator opened, and this time Jake stood back, courteously letting her out first. She looked both ways, up and down the deserted corridor as the elevator doors closed behind them.

“Exit to the street’s down that way.” Jake pointed. “Take the—”

“First right,” she said. “I know, thanks. Listen, Admiral—”

“Jake,” he said. “Please.”

“Actually, Admiral works a little better for me.”

“All right,” he said quickly. “That’s fine. It’s not like I’m ordering you to call me Jake or anything. It’s not like—”

“I know.” She tried to meet his gaze, but couldn’t hold it this time. She was nervous again. “I was just … I can’t help but wonder about your willingness to put yourself at risk. I mean, you’ve earned the right to sit back and command safely from behind a desk, sir. And I can’t imagine your, um, wife is very happy about your decision to go back into the field. Particularly after that assassination attempt a few years ago. You were in the hospital for months.”

Jake had been around long enough to recognize a fishing expedition when he heard one. But what information exactly was Zoe Lange fishing for? Was she looking to find his motivation for taking the mission or his reason for looking at her as if he wanted to eat her alive?

He had no need to hide anything from her—well, except for the extremely unprofessional fact that nearly every time he looked at her, he pictured her naked. And even if thoughts of Daisy didn’t stop that, all he really had to do was think about those missing canisters of T-X. That cooled him down pretty damn instantly.

“I know that’s an extremely personal question,” she continued quickly, “and you can tell me it’s none of my business if you want and—”

“Daisy, my wife, died of cancer,” he told her quietly. “It’ll be three years ago this Christmas.”

“Oh,” she said. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”

“And I think you’re probably right. If she were still alive, I’d be thinking long and hard about the risks of this mission. But even if she were still alive, I wouldn’t be able to avoid the fact that I’ve got a connection to Christopher Vincent. I know I can get into the CRO’s inner sanctions. It’s just, this way, it makes the choice a complete no-brainer.”

She was looking at him with compassion in her eyes, and he glanced away, unable to bear the thought of looking closer and seeing her pity.

“You better go pack,” he said brusquely. “We go wheels up in ninety-eight minutes. If you make us wait for you, trust me, the team will never let you live it down.”

“Don’t worry, Jake,” she said. “I’ll be the first one on the plane.”

He watched her walk away, and before she took that right corner, she looked back and gave him a smile and a little wave.

And it wasn’t until he was in his office, changing out of his ice-cream suit and into black BDUs, that he realized she’d called him Jake.

CHAPTER THREE

ZOE ITCHED TO CALL PETER.

Five months ago, she would have. She would have called on a secured line and she would have said, “What does it mean—a man’s been a widower for nearly three years, and he still wears his wedding ring?”

Peter would’ve said, “That’s obvious. He uses the ring to keep women from coming too close.”

And she would have said, “I think he still loves her.”

And Peter would’ve snorted and said, “Love’s a myth. He just hasn’t met anyone who could replace his dead wife. But you better believe when he does, that ring will come off faster than you can spit. The hell with him. What do you say you and I meet in Boston next weekend and set the Ritz-Carlton aflame?”

But that’s what Peter would’ve said five months ago. Before he’d discovered that love was indeed not a myth.

Her name was Marita and she was a TV news anchor based in Miami. She was of Cuban descent and lovely, but Zoe wasn’t even remotely jealous. Well, maybe she was a little jealous—but only of the fact that Peter, restless, hungry, insatiable, cynical superagent Peter McBride had finally found complete inner peace.

Zoe was jealous of that. She’d liked Peter—she’d even loved him more than a little, but she knew just from one conversation with him after he’d met Marita that he finally had a shot at true happiness.

And Peter deserved that.

Zoe had liked talking to him, liked the way he could always make her laugh. And she had liked making love with him the few times a year that their work for the Agency brought them into each other’s presence.

But she’d known from the start there could be no permanence in their relationship. She was too like him. Too restless, too hungry, too damned insatiable, too jaded by a world bent on destroying itself.

She hadn’t spoken to Peter in five months, assuming his new bride wouldn’t appreciate his getting phone calls from a former lover. But she missed his friendship. She missed talking to him.

She missed the sex, too. It had been safe. She’d never once been in danger of completely losing her heart.

“So,” she said to Peter, even though he wasn’t there, “what does it mean that I’m packing my sexiest underwear and this little black nightgown?”

“To wear in Montana in September?” he would have mused, lifting one elegant eyebrow. “You’re in trouble, Lange.”

“You wouldn’t believe the way he looked at me in that elevator.” Zoe closed her eyes, momentarily melting just from the heat of the memory. “Dear God, I am in trouble.”

“Doing your boss is bad office politics,” Peter would have reminded her. “But on the other hand, he’s not really your boss, is he? Pat Sullivan is. So, go for him. You’ve been fantasizing about the guy for years—how could you not go for him? And if he’s looking at you like that … I’m surprised you didn’t make a move right then and there. It wouldn’t’ve taken much to disable the security cams in the elevator and …”

“He’d been giving me go-away signals from the moment we met.” She pulled her warmest sweaters from her closet shelf. Her warmest sweaters—and her skimpiest tank tops. Shorts. Her bathing suit even. It was a bikini—Rio cut. Not quite a thong, but not quite demure, either. Maybe she’d get lucky and they’d have Indian summer. “Besides, at the time I thought he was still married.”

“Ooh, there are those upright, golden, Girl Scout morals, shining through again.” When Peter said it like that, it was as if it were something she should be ashamed of.

“He seemed so embarrassed by the fact that he finds me attractive. As if it made him feel, you know, guilty.” She’d come full circle. “He definitely still loves her. In his mind, he is still married.”

“So what are you going to do?” Peter would’ve asked.

Zoe zipped and shouldered her bag. “He’s a really good guy, Pete. I’m going to try to be his friend.”

He’d always hated it when she called him Pete. “And for that you definitely need all that underwear from Victoria’s Secret?”

“Six missing canisters of Trip X,” she said, and Peter’s evil spirit was instantly exorcised, instantly gone.

She had a job to do. A very, very important, life-or-death job.

Zoe grabbed her briefcase, grabbed her laptop and locked her apartment door without looking back.