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“Hi, Luke, it’s Lucy McCoy. I just spoke to Alan Francisco, and he told me about Admiral Stonegate’s little bomb. I honestly don’t think this is going to be a problem for you—I’ve met the candidates he’s targeted and they’re good men. Anyway, the reason I’m calling is I’ve found out a few more details about this case that I think you should know, and it’s occurred to me that it might be a good idea for the grown-ups—assuming Bobby’s part of your team—to meet tonight. I’m on duty until late, so why don’t we say eleven o’clock—2300 hours—at Skippy’s Harborside? Leave a message on my machine if this works for you. Later, dude.”
There was one more call—the pool cleaner wanted to reschedule her visit for later in the week—but then the answering machine gave a final-sounding beep. There was silence for a moment, and then Syd heard Lucky’s lowered voice.
“Hey, Luce. S’me. 2300 sounds peachy keen. I haven’t talked to Frisco yet—did you actually use the word candidates? Why do I hate this already, before I even know what the hell’s going on?” He swore softly and laughed. “I guess I just have a good imagination. See you at Skip’s.”
He hung up the phone without making any noise, then whistled his way into the bathroom.
Syd quietly opened the screen door and tiptoed onto the deck. She stood there, leaning against the railing, looking down into the crystal blueness of his swimming pool and the brilliantly lush flower gardens as he made his grand entrance.
He had changed, indeed. The crisp uniform had been replaced by a pair of baggy cargo shorts and a Hawaiian shirt, worn open to reveal the hard planes of his muscular, tanned chest. Navy Ken had magically become Malibu Ken. He’d run his fingers through his hair, loosening the gel that had glued it down into some semblance of a conservative military style. It now tumbled over his forehead and into his eyes, waving tendrils of sun-bleached gold, some of it long enough to tickle his nose. His feet were bare and even his toes were beautiful. All he needed was a surfboard and twenty-four hours’ worth of stubble on his chin, and he’d be ready for the Hunks of the Pacific calendar photo shoot.
And he knew it, too.
Syd took little sips of her wine as Lucky gave a running discourse on his decision four years ago to build this deck, the hummingbird feeders he’d put in the garden, and the fact that they’d had far too little rain this year.
As he lit the grill, he oh-so-casually pointed out that the fence around the backyard made his swimming pool completely private from the eyes of his neighbors, and how—wink, wink—that helped him maintain his all-over tan.
Syd was willing to bet it wouldn’t take much to get him to drop his pants and show off the tan in question. Lord, this guy was too much.
And she had absolutely no intention of skinny dipping with him. Not now, not ever, thanks.
“Have you tried it recently?” he asked.
Syd blinked at him, trying to remember his last conversational bounce. Massage. He’d just mentioned some really terrific massage therapy he’d had a few months ago, after a particularly strenuous SEAL mission. She wasn’t sure exactly what he’d just asked, but it didn’t matter. He didn’t wait for her to answer.
“Here, let me show you.” He set his glass on the railing of the deck and turned her so that she was facing away from him.
It didn’t occur to him that she might not want him to touch her. His grip was firm, his hands warm through the thin cotton of her shirt and jacket as he massaged her shoulders. He touched her firmly at first, then harder, applying pressure with his thumbs.
“Man, you’re tense.” His hands moved up her neck, to the back of her head, his fingers against her skin, in her hair.
Oh. My. God.
Whatever he was doing felt impossibly good. Fabulously good. Sinfully good. Syd closed her eyes.
“It’s been a stressful few days, hasn’t it?” he murmured, his mouth dangerously close to her ear. “I’m glad we’ve got this chance to, you know, start over. Get to know each other. I’m…looking forward to…being friends.”
God, he was good. She almost believed him.
His hands kept working their magic, and Syd waited to see what he’d do or say next, hoping he’d take his time before he crossed the line of propriety, yet knowing that it wasn’t going to be long.
He seemed to be waiting for some sort of response from her, so she made a vague noise of agreement that came out sounding far too much like a moan of intense pleasure as he touched a muscle in her shoulders that no doubt had been tightly, tensely flexed for the past fifteen years, at least.
“Oh, yeah,” he breathed into her ear. “You know, I feel it, too. It’s crazy, isn’t it? We hardly know each other and yet…” In one smooth move he turned her to face him. “I’m telling you, Sydney, I’ve been dying to do this from the moment we first met.”
It was amazing. It was like something out of a movie. Syd didn’t have time to step back, to move away. His neon-blue gaze dropped to her mouth, flashed back to her eyes, and then, whammo.
He was kissing her.
Syd had read in her massive research on Navy SEALs that each member of a team had individual strengths and skills. Each member was a specialist in a variety of fields. And Lieutenant Lucky O’Donlon, aka Navy Ken, was clearly a specialist when it came to kissing.
She meant to pull away nanoseconds after his lips touched hers. She meant to step back and freeze him with a single, disbelieving, uncomprehending look.
Instead, she melted completely in his arms. The bones in her body completely turned to mush.
He tasted like the wine, sweet and strong. He smelled like sunblock and fresh ocean air. He felt so solid beneath her hands—all those muscles underneath the silk of his shirt, shoulders wider than she’d ever imagined. He was all power, all male.
And she lost her mind. There was no other explanation. Insanity temporarily took a tight hold. Because she kissed him back. Fiercely, yes. Possessively, absolutely. Ravenously, no doubt about it. She didn’t just kiss him, she inhaled the man.
She slanted her head to give him better access to her mouth as he pulled her more tightly against him.
It was crazy. It was impossibly exciting—he was undeniably even more delicious than that excellent wine. His hands skimmed her back, cupping the curve of her rear end, pressing her against his arousal and—
And sanity returned with a crash. Syd pulled back, breathing hard, furious with him, even more furious with herself.
This man was willing to take her to bed, to be physically intimate with her—all simply to control her. Sex meant so little to him that he could cheerfully use himself as a means to an end.
And as for herself—her body had betrayed her, damn it. She’d been hiding it, denying it, but the awful truth was, this man was hot. She’d never been up close to a man as completely sexy and breathtakingly handsome as Lucky O’Donlon. He was physical perfection, pure dazzling masculine beauty. His looks were movie-star quality, his body a work of art, his eyes a completely new and unique shade of blue.
No, he wasn’t just hot, he was white-hot. Unfortunately, he was also insensitive, narrow-minded, egocentric and conniving. Sydney didn’t like him—a fact she conveniently seemed to have forgotten when he kissed her.
The hunger in his perfect eyes was nearly mesmerizing as he reached for her again.
“Thanks but no thanks,” she managed to spit out as she sidestepped him. “And while I’m at it, I’ll pass on dinner, too.”
He was completely thrown. If she’d felt much like being amused, she could have had a good laugh at the expression on his face as he struggled to regroup. “But—”
“Look, Ken, I’m not an idiot. I know damn well what this is about. You figure you can keep me happy by throwing me a sexual bone—no pun intended. And yes, your kisses are quite masterful, but just the same—no thanks.”
He tried to feign innocence and then indignation. “You think that…? Wait, no, I would never try to—”
“What?” she interrupted. “I’m supposed to believe that crap about ‘isn’t it crazy? This attraction—you feel it, too?’” She laughed in disbelief. “Sorry, I don’t buy it, pal. Guys like you hit on women like me for only two reasons. It’s either because you want something—”
“I’m telling you right now that you’re wrong—”
“Or you’re desperate.”
“Whoa.” It was his turn to laugh. “You don’t think very highly of yourself, do you?”
“Look me in the eye,” she said tightly, “and tell me honestly that your last girlfriend wasn’t blond, five-foot-ten and built like a supermodel. Look me in the eye and tell me you’ve always had a thing for flat-chested women with big hips.” Syd didn’t let him answer. She went back into the house, raising her voice so he could hear her. “I’ll catch a cab back to the police-station parking lot.”
She heard him turn off the grill, but then he followed her. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll give you a ride to your car.”
Syd pushed her way out the front door. “Do you think you can manage to do that without embarrassing us both again?”
He locked it behind him. “I’m sorry if I embarrassed you or offended you or—”
“You did both, Lieutenant. How about we just not say anything else right now, all right?”
He stiffly opened the passenger-side door to his truck and stood aside so that she could get in. He was dying to speak, and Syd gave him about four seconds before he gave in to the urge to keep the conversation going.
“I happen to find you very attractive,” Luke said as he climbed behind the wheel.
Two and a half seconds. She knew he’d give in. She should have pointedly ignored him, but she, too, couldn’t keep herself from countering.
“Yeah,” she said. “Right. Next you’ll tell me it’s my delicate and ladylike disposition that turns you on.”
“You have no idea what’s going on in my head.” He started his truck with a roar. “Maybe it is.”
Syd uttered a very non-ladylike word.
The lieutenant glanced at her several times, and cranked the air-conditioning up a notch as Syd sat and stewed. God, the next few weeks were going to be dreadful. Even if he didn’t hit on her again, she was going to have to live with the memory of that kiss.
That amazing kiss.
Her knees still felt a little weak.
He pulled into the police-station parking lot a little too fast and the truck bounced. But he remembered which car was hers and pulled up behind it, his tires skidding slightly in the gravel as he came to a too-swift stop.
Syd turned and looked at him.
He stared straight ahead. It was probably the first time he’d ever been turned down, and he was embarrassed. She could see a faint tinge of pink on his cheeks.
She almost felt sorry for him. Almost.
After she didn’t move for several seconds, he turned and looked at her. “This is your car, right?”
She nodded, traces of feeling sorry turning into hot anger. “Well?”
“Well, what?” He laughed ruefully. “Something tells me you’re not waiting for a good-night kiss.”
He wasn’t going to tell her. He’d had no intention of telling her, the son of a bitch.
Syd glared at him.
“What?” he said again. “Jeez, what did I do now?”
“Eleven o’clock,” she reminded him as sweetly as she could manage. “Skippy’s Harborside?”
Guilt and something else flickered in his eyes. Disappointment that she’d found out, no doubt. Certainly not remorse for keeping the meeting a secret. He swore softly.
“Don’t make me go over your head, Lieutenant,” Syd warned him. “I’m part of your team, part of this task force.”
He shook his head. “That doesn’t mean you need to participate in every meeting.”
“Yes, it does.”
He laughed. “Lucy McCoy and I are friends. This meeting is just an excuse to—”
“Exchange information about the case,” she finished for him. “I heard her phone message. I would have thought it was just a lovers’ tryst myself, but she mentioned what’s-his-name, Bobby, would be there.”
“Lovers’ tryst…?” He actually looked affronted. “If you’re implying that there’s something improper between Lucy and me—”
Syd rolled her eyes. “Oh, come on. It’s a little obvious there’s something going on. I wonder if she knows what you were trying to do with me. I suppose she couldn’t complain because she’s married to—”
“How dare you?”
“Your…what did you call it? XO? She’s married to your XO.”
“Lucy and I are friends.” His face was a thundercloud—his self-righteous outrage wasn’t an act. “She loves her husband. And Blue…he’s…he’s the best.”
His anger had faded, replaced by something quiet, something distant. “I’d follow Blue McCoy into hell if he asked me to,” Luke said softly. “I’d never dishonor him by fooling around with his wife. Never.”
“I’m sorry,” Syd told him. “I guess…You just…You told me you never take anything too seriously, so I thought—”
“Yeah, well, you were wrong.” He stared out the front windshield, holding tightly to the steering wheel with both hands. “Imagine that.”
Syd nodded. And then she dug through her purse, coming up with a small spiral notebook and a pen. She flipped to a blank page and wrote down the date.
Luke glanced at her, frowning slightly. “What…?”
“I’m so rarely wrong,” she told him. “When I am, it’s worth taking note of.”
She carefully kept her face expressionless as he studied her for several long moments.
Then he laughed slightly, curling one corner of his mouth up into an almost-smile. “You’re making a joke.”
“No,” she said. “I’m not.” But she smiled and gave herself away. She climbed out of the truck. “See you tonight.”
“No,” he said.
“Yes.” She closed the door and dug in her purse for her car keys.
He leaned across the cab to roll down the passenger-side window. “No,” he said. “Really. Syd, I need to be able to talk to Lucy and Bob without—”
“Eleven o’clock,” she said. “Skippy’s. I’ll be there.”
As she got into her car and drove away, she glanced back and saw Luke’s face through the windshield.
No, this meeting wasn’t going to happen at Skippy’s at eleven. But the time couldn’t be changed—Lucy McCoy had said she was on duty until late.
But if she were Navy Ken, she’d call Lucy and Bobby what’s-his-name and move the location—leaving Syd alone and fuming at Skipper’s Harborside at eleven o’clock.
Bobby what’s-his-name.
Syd pulled up to a red light and flipped through her notebook, looking for the man’s full name. Chief Robert Taylor. Yes. Bobby Taylor. Described as an enormous SEAL, at least part Native American. She hadn’t yet met the man, but maybe that was a good thing.
Yeah, this could definitely work.
CHAPTER FOUR
LUCKY HADN’T REALLY EXPECTED to win, so he wasn’t surprised when he followed Heather into La Cantina and saw Sydney already sitting at one of the little tables with Lucy McCoy.
He’d more than half expected the reporter to second-guess his decision to change the meeting’s location and track them down, and she hadn’t disappointed him. That was part of the reason he’d called Heather for dinner and then dragged her here, to this just-short-of-seedy San Felipe bar.
Syd had accused him of being desperate as she’d completely and brutally rejected his advances. The fact that she was right—that he had had a motive when he lowered his mouth to kiss her—only somehow served to make it all that much worse.
Even though he knew it was foolish, he wanted to make sure she knew just how completely non-desperate he was, and how little her rejection had mattered to him, by casually showing up with a drop-dead gorgeous, blond beauty queen on his arm.
He also wanted to make sure there was no doubt left lingering in her nosy reporter’s brain that there was something going on between him and Blue McCoy’s wife.
Just the thought of such a betrayal made him feel ill.
Of course, maybe it was Heather’s constant, mindless prattle that was making the tuna steak he’d had for dinner do a queasy somersault in his stomach.
Still he got a brief moment of satisfaction as Syd turned and saw him. As she saw Heather.
For a fraction of a second, her eyes widened. He was glad he’d been watching her, because she quickly covered her surprise with that slightly bored, single-raised-eyebrow half-smirk she had down pat.
The smirk had stretched into a bonafide half smile of lofty amusement by the time Lucky and Heather reached their table.
Lucy’s smile was far more genuine. “Right on time.”
“You’re early,” he countered. He met Syd’s gaze. “And you’re here.”
“I got off work thirty minutes early,” Lucy told him. “I tried calling you, but I guess you’d already left.”
Syd silently stirred the ice in her drink with a straw. She was wearing the same baggy pants she’d had on that afternoon, but she’d exchanged the man-size, long-sleeved, button-down shirt for a plain white T-shirt, her single concession to the relentless heat. She hadn’t put on any makeup for the occasion, and her short dark hair looked as if she’d done little more than run her fingers through it.
She looked tired. And nineteen times more real and warm than perfect, plastic Heather.
As Lucky watched, Syd lifted her drink and took a sip through the straw. With lips like that, she didn’t need makeup. They were moist and soft and warm and perfect. He knew that firsthand after kissing her.
That one kiss they’d shared had been far more real and meaningful than Lucky’s entire six month off-and-on, whenever-he-was-in-town, non-relationship with Heather. And yet, after kissing him as if the world were coming to an end, Syd had pushed him away.
“Heather and I had dinner at Smokey Joe’s,” Lucky told them. “Heather Seeley, this is Lucy McCoy and Sydney Jameson.”
But Heather was already looking away, her MTV-length attention span caught by the mirrors on the wall and her distant but gorgeous reflection…
Syd finally spoke. “Gee, I had no idea we could bring a date to a task-force meeting.”
“Heather’s got some phone calls to make,” Lucky explained. “I figured this wasn’t going to take too long, and after…” He shrugged.
After, he could return to his evening with Heather, bring her home, go for a swim in the moonlight, lose himself in her perfect body. “You don’t mind giving us some privacy, right, babe?” He pulled Heather close and brushed her silicone-enhanced lips with his. Her perfect, plastic body…
Sydney sharply looked away from them, suddenly completely absorbed by the circles of moisture her glass had made on the table.
And Lucky felt stupid. As Heather headed for the bar, already dialing her cell phone, he sat down next to Lucy and across from Syd and felt like a complete jackass.
He’d brought Heather here tonight to show Syd…what? That he was a jackass? Mission accomplished.
Okay, yes, he had taken Syd into his arms on his deck earlier this evening in an effort to win her alliance. But somehow, some way, in the middle of that giddy, free-fall-inducing kiss, his strictly business motives had changed. He thought it had probably happened when her mouth had opened so warmly and willingly beneath his. Or it might’ve been before that. It might’ve been the very instant his lips touched hers.
Whenever it had happened, all at once it had become very, very clear to him that he kept on kissing her purely because he wanted to.
Desperately.
Yes, there was that word again. As he ordered a beer from the bored cocktail waitress, as he pointed out Heather and told the waitress to get her whatever she wanted—on him—he tried desperately not to sound as if he were reeling from his own ego-induced stupidity in bringing Heather here. He knew Syd was listening. She was still pretending to be enthralled with the condensation on the table, but she was listening, so he referred to Heather as “that gorgeous blonde by the bar, with the body to die for.”
Message sent: I don’t need you to want to kiss me ever again.
Except he was lying. He needed. Maybe not quite desperately, but it was getting pretty damn close. Jeez, this entire situation was growing stupider and stupider with every breath he took.
Syd was so completely not Lucky’s type. And he was forced to work with her to boot, although he was still working on ways to shake her permanently after tomorrow’s session with the hypnotist.
She was opinionated, aggressive, impatient and far too intelligent—a know-it-all who made damn sure the rest of the world knew that she knew it all, too.
If she tried, even just a little bit, she’d be pretty. In a very less-endowed-than-most-women way.
Truth was, if life were a wet T-shirt contest and Heather and Syd were the contestants, Heather would win, hands down. Standing side by side, Syd would be rendered invisible, outshone by Heather’s golden glory. Standing side by side, there should have been no contest.
Except, one of the two women made Lucky feel completely alive. And it wasn’t Heather.
“Hey, Lucy. Lieutenant.” U.S. Navy SEAL Chief Bobby Taylor smiled at Sydney as he slipped into the fourth seat at the table. “You must be Sydney. Were my directions okay?” he asked her.
Syd nodded. She looked up at Lucky almost challengingly. “I wasn’t sure exactly where the bar was,” she told him, “so I called Chief Taylor and asked for directions.”
So that’s how she found him. Well, wasn’t she proud of herself? Lucky made a mental note to beat Bobby to death later.
“Call me Bob. Please.” The enormous SEAL smiled at Syd again, and she smiled happily back at him, ignoring Lucky completely.
“No nickname?” she teased. “Like Hawk or Cyclops or Panther?”
And Lucky felt it. Jealousy. Stabbing and hot, like a lightning bolt to his already churning stomach. My God. Was it possible Sydney Jameson found Bob Taylor attractive? More attractive than she found Lucky?
Bobby laughed. “Just Bobby. Some guys during BUD/S tried to call me Tonto, which I objected to somewhat…forcefully.” He flexed his fists meaningfully.
Bobby was a good-looking man despite the fact that his nose had been broken four or five too many times. He was darkly handsome, with high cheekbones, craggy features, and deep-brown eyes that broadcast his mother’s Native American heritage. He had a quiet calmness to him, a Zen-like quality that was very attractive.
And then there was his size. Massive was the word for the man. Some women really went for that. Of course, if Bobby wasn’t careful to keep up his PT and his diet, he’d quickly run to fat.
“I considered Tonto politically incorrect,” Bobby said mildly. “So I made sure the name didn’t stick.”
Bobby’s fists were the size of canned hams. No doubt he’d been extremely persuasive in his objections.
“These days the Lieutenant here is fond of calling me Stimpy,” Bob continued, “which is the name of a really stupid cartoon cat.” He looked down at his hands and flexed his hot-dog-sized fingers again. “I’ve yet to object, but it’s getting old.”
“No,” Lucky said. “It’s because Wes—” he turned to Syd. “Bobby’s swim buddy is this little wiry guy named Wes Skelly, and visually, well, Ren and Stimpy just seems to fit. It’s that really nasty cartoon that—”
“Wes isn’t little,” Lucy interrupted. “He’s as tall as Blue, you know.”
“Yeah, but next to Gigantor here—”
“I like Gigantor,” Bobby decided.
Syd was laughing, and Lucky knew from the way the chief was smiling at her that he was completely charmed, too. Maybe that was the way to win Syd’s alliance. Maybe she could be Bobby’s girlfriend.
The thought was not a pleasant one, and he dismissed it out of hand. Charming women was his strength, damn it, and he was going to charm Sydney Jameson if it was the last thing he did.