The Admiral’s Bride
Suzanne Brockmann

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

Before you start reading, why not sign up?

Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

SIGN ME UP!

Or simply visit

signup.millsandboon.co.uk

Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

For Nancy Peeler.

We miss you guys!

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Epilogue

Copyright

Prologue

Vietnam, 1969

Sergeant Matthew Lange had been left to die.

His leg was badly broken and he had shrapnel embedded in his entire right side. It hadn’t hit anything vital. He knew, because he’d been hit hours ago and he wasn’t dead yet. And that was almost a shame.

His morphine wasn’t working. He not only hurt like hell but he was still alert enough to know what was coming.

The soldier next to him knew, too. He lay there, crying softly. Jim was his name. Jimmy D’Angelo. He was just a kid, really—barely eighteen—and he wasn’t going to get any older.

None of them were.

There were a dozen of them there, United States Marines, hiding and bleeding in the jungle of a country too small to have been mentioned in fifth-grade geography class. They were too badly injured to walk out, but most of ’em were still conscious, still alive enough to know that sometime within the next few hours, they were going to die.

Charlie was coming.

Probably right before dawn.

The Vietcong had launched a major offensive yesterday morning, and Matt’s platoon had been one of several trapped by the attack. They were now God knows how many clicks behind enemy lines, with no chance of rescue.

Hours ago, Captain Tyler had radioed for help, but help wasn’t coming. There were no chopper pilots insane enough to fly into this hot spot. They were on their own.

But then the bomb dropped—close to literally. Well, at least it would be dropping literally, come morning. The captain had been ordered out of the area. He was told that in an attempt to halt the Vietcong, the Americans would be napalming this very mountain in less than twelve hours.

There had been twenty injured men. They’d outnumbered the uninjured by more than two to one.

Captain Tyler had played God, choosing the eight least wounded to drag out of there. He’d looked at Matt, looked at his leg, and he’d shaken his head. No. He’d had tears in his eyes, not that that helped much now.

Father O’Brien had been the only one to stay behind.

Matt could hear his quiet voice, murmuring words of comfort to the dying men.

If Charlie found them, he’d use bayonets to kill them. He wouldn’t want to waste bullets on men who couldn’t fight back. And Matt couldn’t fight back. His right arm was useless, his left too weak to shoulder his weapon. Most of the other guys were worse than he was. And he couldn’t picture Father O’Brien picking up someone’s machine gun and giving Charlie a mouthful of lead.

No, bayonets or burning. That’s what their future had come down to.

Matt felt like weeping along with Jimmy.

“Sarge?”

“Yeah, Jim. I’m still here.” Like Matt might’ve walked away.

“You have a family, don’t you?”

Matt closed his eyes, picturing Lisa’s sweet face. “Yeah,” he said. “I do. Back in New Haven. Connecticut.” He might as well have said Mars, it seemed as far away. “I got two boys. Matt, Jr., and Mikey.” Lisa had wanted a little girl. A daughter. He’d always thought there’d be plenty of time for that later.

He’d been wrong.

“You’re lucky.” Jimmy’s voice shook. “I don’t have anyone besides my ma who’s gonna remember me. My poor ma.” He started to cry again. “Oh, God, I want my ma….”

Father O’Brien came over, but his calm voice didn’t cover Jimmy’s sobbing. The poor bastard wanted his ma.

Matt wanted Lisa. It was the stupidest thing. When he’d been there, back in that stifling little crummy two-bedroom apartment in one of the worst neighborhoods in New Haven, he’d thought he’d go absolutely mad. He hated working as a mechanic, hated the way his money was already spent on groceries and rent before he even brought home his paycheck. So he’d re-upped. He’d told Lisa he’d reenlisted for the money, but the real truth was he’d wanted to get the hell out of there before he suffocated. And he’d left, even though she’d cried.

He’d married too young—not that he’d had a real choice about it. And he’d liked it, at first. Lisa, in his bed every night. No need to worry about getting her pregnant, since he’d already done that. He’d loved the way she’d grown heavy with child, with his child. It made him feel like a man, even though at twenty-two, fresh out of the service, he’d been little more than a child himself. But when the second baby had come right after the first, the weight of his responsibilities had scared him to death.

So he’d left. He’d come here, to Nam.

It was much different from his first tour, when he’d been stationed in Germany.

And right now all he wanted was to be back in Lisa’s arms. He was the stupidest fool in the world—he didn’t realize how much he had, how much he truly loved that girl, his wife, until he was hours away from dying.

Bayonets or burning. “Dear God.”

Father O’Brien’s soft voice had quieted Jimmy, and he now turned to Matt. “Sergeant—Matthew. Would you like to pray?”

“No, Father,” he said.

Not even prayer could help them now.

“Their captain just left them there?” Lieutenant Jake Robinson kept his voice even, kept his voice low, even though he absolutely could not believe what his chief had just told him. Wounded marines, left behind by their CO in the jungle to die. “And now the good guys are going to finish them off with friendly fire?”

Ham nodded, his headphones still plugged into the radio, his dark eyes grim. “It’s not as heartless as you’re thinkin’, Admiral. There’s only a dozen or so of them. If Charlie isn’t stopped before he gets to the river, we’ll have casualties in the thousands. You know that.” He spoke in a barely audible voice, too.

The enemy was all around them tonight. And well they should know. Jake’s team of Men with Green Faces, U.S. Navy SEALs, had spent the past twenty-four hours marking the Vietcongs’ location in this target area. They’d radioed the info in and now had exactly four hours to get out before the bombing raid began.

“Only a dozen men,” Jake said. “Or so. Any chance of giving me an exact number, Chief?”

“Twelve wounded, one priest.”

Fred and Chuck materialized from the jungle. “Only nine wounded now,” Fred corrected him in his soft Southern drawl. “We found ’em, Admiral. Near a clearing, like they hoped a chopper would be able to come in and grab ’em. Didn’t approach—didn’t want to get their hopes up if we didn’t think we could help. What we could see, three of ’em are already KIA.”

KIA. Killed in action. It was one of Jake’s least favorite acronyms. Along with POW and MIA. But he didn’t let his aversion show on his face. He never let anything like that show. His men didn’t need to know when he was shaken. And this one had shaken him, hard. The commanders-in-chief knew those men were there. U.S. Marines. Good men. Brave men. And those commanders had given the order to proceed with the bombing regardless.

He met Ham’s eyes and read the skepticism there.

“We’ve pulled off some tough missions before,” Jake said. His words were as much to convince himself.

Ham shook his head. “Nine wounded men and seven SEALs,” he said. “Against thirty-five hundred Vietcong? Come on, Lieutenant.” The chief didn’t need to say what he was thinking. This wasn’t just a tough mission, it was insanity.

And the chief had called Jake by his true rank, a sign of his disapproval. It was funny how accustomed he’d become to the nickname this team of SEALs had given him—Admiral. It was the ultimate expression of respect from this motley crew, particularly since he’d gone through BUD/S cursed with the label Pretty Boy, PB for short. Yeah, he liked Admiral much better.

Fred and Chuck were watching him. So were Scooter and the Preacher and Ricky. Waiting for his command. At age twenty-two, Jake was one of the two old men of the team—a full lieutenant having served three back-to-back tours of duty in this hell on earth. Ham, his chief, had been there with him for the last two. Steady as a rock and, at twenty-seven years of age, as gnarled and ancient as the hills. But he’d never questioned Jake’s authority.

Until now.

Jake smiled. “Nine wounded men, seven SEALs and one priest,” he pointed out lightly. “Don’t forget the priest, Ham. Always good to have one of them on our side.”

Fred snickered, but Ham’s expression didn’t change.

“I wouldn’t leave you to die,” Jake quietly told the man who was the closest thing to a friend he had in this armpit of a jungle. “I will not leave those men out there.”

Jake didn’t wait for Ham’s response, because frankly, Ham’s response didn’t matter. He didn’t need his chief’s approval. This wasn’t a democracy. Jake and Jake alone was in command.

He met Fred’s eyes, then Scooter’s and Preacher’s and Ricky’s and Chuck’s, infusing them all with his confidence, letting them see his complete faith in their ability as a SEAL team to pull off this impossible task.

Leaving those poor bastards to die was not an option. Jake couldn’t do it. Jake wouldn’t do it.

He turned to Ham. “Get on the radio, Chief, and find Crazy Ruben. If anyone’ll fly a chopper in this deep, it’ll be him. Pull in all those favors he owes me, promise him air support, and then get on the wire and get it for him.”

“Yes, sir.”

Jake turned to Fred. “Go back there and get their hopes up. Get them ready to move, then get your ass back here on the double.” He smiled again, his best picnic-in-the-park smile. The one that made men under command believe they’d live to see another sunrise. “The rest of you gentlemen get ready to cut some very long fuses. Because I’ve got one hell of a plan.”

“They musta parachuted in!” Jimmy had real excitement in his voice. “Listen to that, Sarge! How many of ’em do you think are out there?”

Matt painfully pulled himself up, trying to see something, anything in the darkness of the jungle. But all he could see were the flashes in the sky from an enormous battle just off to the west. Deep in VC territory. “God, there must be hundreds.”

Even as he said the words he couldn’t believe it. Hundreds of American soldiers, appearing out of nowhere?

“They had to’ve dropped ’em in,” Jimmy said again.

It seemed impossible, but it must have been true—because there came the air support, then, big planes screaming overhead, dropping all kinds of nasty surprises on Charlie.

Two hours ago a big, dark-skinned man had appeared, rising out of the jungle like an apparition, his face savagely painted with green and brown, a cammy-print bandanna tied neatly around the top of his head. He’d ID’d himself as Seaman Fred Baxter of the U.S. Navy SEALs.

Matt had highest rank among the men left behind, and had asked what the hell a sailor was doing this far inland?

Apparently there was a whole group of sailors out there in the jungle. A team, Baxter had said. Jake’s team, he’d called them, as if that meant something—whoever the hell Jake was. And they were going to get Matt and Jimmy and the rest of ’em out of there. Stand ready for extraction, Baxter had said, and he’d disappeared.

Matt had been left wondering if the entire conversation hadn’t been some weird morphine hallucination. Seals. Who would name a special forces group after a circus animal? And how the hell was an entire team of them going to get out of the jungle with nine wounded men?

“I’ve heard of the SEALs,” Jimmy said, as if he’d somehow been able to follow Matt’s drug-hazed thoughts. “They’re some kind of demolitions experts. Even underwater, if you can believe that. And they’re kinda like ninjas—they can move right past Charlie—within feet of Charlie—without being seen. They go miles behind the line in teams of six or seven men and blow stuff up. And I don’t know what kind of voodoo they use, but they always come back alive. Always.”

Six or seven men. Matt looked up at the flashes of explosions lighting the sky. Demolitions experts…No. Couldn’t be.

Could it?

“Chopper!” Father O’Brien shouted. “Praise our Lord God Almighty!”

The roar was unmistakable. The hurricane-force wind from the blades felt like a miracle. Holy Jesus, they actually had a chance.

Tears were running down the padre’s round face as he helped the medics lift the wounded men up and into the chopper. Matt couldn’t hear him over the roar, over the sound of weapons discharging as the men with green faces suddenly appeared, keeping Charlie back, away from the clearing. Matt didn’t need to hear O’Brien to know that his mouth was moving in a continuous prayer of thanks.

But Matt wasn’t Catholic, and they hadn’t made it out yet.

Someone lifted him up and the sudden knifelike pain in his leg made him scream.

“Sorry, Sergeant.” The voice held the quiet confidence of a seasoned officer. “No time to ask where it hurts.”

And then the pain was worth it, because he was inside, his cheek pressed against the olive-drab U.S.-made riveted metal of the chopper floor. And then they were lifting up and away, on an express flight out of hell.

But fear cut through his waves of relief. Dear God, don’t let them have left anyone behind!

He forced himself over, onto his back, and the pain nearly made him retch. “Head count!” he somehow managed to shout.

“We got all of you, Sarge.” It was the steady voice of the man who’d carried him aboard. He was crouched by the open doorway, a grenade launcher in his arms, aiming and firing even as he spoke. He was younger than Matt had imagined from his voice. He wore no insignia, no rank, no markings on his camouflage gear at all. Like the other SEALs, his face was streaked with green and brown, but as he turned to glance over his shoulder at the wounded men, Matt could see his eyes. They were an almost startling shade of blue. And as he met Matt’s gaze, he smiled.

It wasn’t a tense, tight grimace laced with fear. And it wasn’t a wolfish expression of adrenaline-induced high. It was a calm, relaxed, “let’s get together and play softball sometime” kind of smile.

“We got everyone,” he shouted again, no room for doubt in his voice. “Hold on, Sergeant, it’s going to be a bumpy ride, but we will get you out, and we will get you home.”

When he said it like that, as if it were an absolute truth, even Matt could believe him.

The hospital was the pits, filled with pain and stink and death, but Matt knew he was only going to be there a little while longer.

He’d been given his orders, his medical discharge. He was going home to Lisa.

He was going to walk with a limp, probably for the rest of his life, but the doctors had managed to save his leg. Not bad for a guy who’d been left for dead.

“You’re looking much better today.” The nurse that stopped by his bed and checked his leg was a pretty brunette with two deep dimples in her cheeks when she smiled. “I’m Constance. You can call me Connie for short.”

He hadn’t seen her before, but he’d only been here about forty-eight hours. He’d spent most of that time in surgery and recovery.

“Oh, you’re one of Jake’s Boys,” Connie said as she checked his chart, her Georgia peaches-and-cream accent suddenly hushed with respect.

“No,” he said, “I’m not a SEAL. I’m a sergeant with—”

“I know you’re not a SEAL, silly.” She dimpled up again. “Jake’s SEALs don’t turn up in our hospital beds. We sometimes have to give them extra penicillin, but perhaps I shouldn’t mention that in mixed company.” She winked.

Matt was confused. “But you said—”

“Jake’s Boys,” she repeated. “That’s what we call you—the wounded men that Lieutenant Jake Robinson brings in. Someone started keeping count here at the hospital about eight months ago.”

At his blank look, she tried to explain. “Jake has developed the habit of resurrecting U.S. soldiers from the dead, Sergeant. Last month, his team liberated an entire prisoner-of-war camp. Don’t ask me how, but Jake and his team came out of that jungle with seventy-five POWs, each one looking worse than the last. I swear, I cried for a week when I saw those poor souls.” She shook her head. “I think there were ten of you this time, weren’t there? Jake’s up to…let’s see…I think it’s four hundred and twenty-seven now.” She dimpled again. “Although if you ask me, he should get extra points for the priest.”

“Four hundred and…”

“Twenty-seven.” Connie nodded, taking his blood pressure, her touch businesslike, impersonal. “All of whom owe their lives to him. Of course, we only started counting eight months ago. He’s been in-country much longer.”

“A lieutenant, huh?” Matt mused. “My captain couldn’t get even get one single chopper to fly in to pull us out.”

Connie bristled. “Your captain is a word I will not use because I am a lady. Shame on him for leaving you boys that way. He better not come to this hospital for his annual checkup. There are a dozen doctors and nurses who are dying to get a chance to tell him to turn his head and cough.”

Matt laughed, but then winced. “Captain Tyler tried,” he said. “I was there. I know he tried. That’s what I don’t understand. How could this lieutenant make things happen when a captain couldn’t?”

“Well, you know Jake’s nickname.” Connie looked up from her gentle but methodical checking of his shrapnel wounds. “Or maybe you don’t. His teammates call him Admiral. And it wouldn’t surprise me one bit if he made it to that rank someday. He’s got something about him. Oh, yes, there’s something very special in those blue eyes.”

Blue eyes. “I think I met him,” Matt said.

“Sergeant, you wouldn’t just think it if you’d met him. You’d know it. He has a face like a movie star and a smile that makes you want to follow him just about anywhere.” She sighed, then smiled again. “Oh, my. I am getting myself worked up over that young man, aren’t I?”

Matt had to know. “So how did a lieutenant manage to get all those soldiers dropped into the area? There must’ve been hundreds of them, and—”

Connie laughed but then stopped, her eyes widening as she looked at him. “My goodness,” she said. “You don’t know, do you? When I heard about it, I didn’t quite believe it, but if they managed to fool you, too…”

Matt just waited for her to explain.

“It was a ruse,” she said. “Jake and his SEALs rigged a chain of explosives to fool the VC into thinking we’d launched a counteroffensive. It was just a distraction so he could get Captain Ruben’s chopper in to pull you out. There weren’t hundreds of soldiers in that jungle, Sergeant. What you saw and heard was solely the handiwork of seven U.S. Navy SEALs, led by one Lieutenant Jake Robinson.”

Matt was floored. Seven SEALs had made him believe there was a huge army out there in the darkness.

Connie’s dimples deepened. “Gracious, that man might be more than an admiral someday. He just might go all the way and become our president.” She raised her eyebrows suggestively. “I’d give him my vote, that’s for sure.”

She made a note on Matt’s chart, about to move on to the next bed.

“Connie?”

She turned back patiently. “Sergeant, I can’t give you anything for the pain for another few hours.”

“No, that’s not…I was just wondering. Does he ever come around here? Lieutenant Robinson, I mean. I’d like to thank him.”

“First off,” she said. “As one of Jake’s Boys, you and he are on a first-name basis. And secondly, no. You won’t see him around here. He’s already back out there, Sergeant. He’s sleeping in the jungle tonight—that is, if he’s sleeping at all.”

Chapter 1

Washington, D.C., today

The Pentagon.

Dr. Zoe Lange gazed out the window of the limo as the driver pulled up to the Pentagon.

Damn.

She was way underdressed.

Her boss, Patrick Sullivan, had told her only that she was a candidate for an important and potentially long-term assignment. Zoe had figured that appropriate dress for such a meeting meant comfortable—blue jeans, running shoes, a T-shirt with a little blue flower print, and hardly any makeup. She was who she was, after all. If she were going to join a long-term mission, everyone might as well know exactly what to expect right from the start.

She didn’t dress up unless she had to.

Unless she were going someplace like, oh, say, the Pentagon.

If she’d known she was coming to the Pentagon, she would have put on her skintight black cat suit, her three-inch heels, dark red lipstick and worn her long blond hair in some kind of fancy French braid, rather than this high-school cheerleader ponytail she was wearing. Because men in the military tended to think female agents who looked like Emma Peel or one of James Bond’s babes could hold their own when the going got tough. But little blue flowers, nuh-uh. Little blue flowers meant they’d have to hand her hankies to mop her frightened tears. Never mind the fact that little blue flowers didn’t compromise her ability to run hard and fast, the way three-inch heels did.

Well, okay. She was here now. The little blue flowers were going to have to do.

She put on her sunglasses and picked up her oversize handbag that doubled as a briefcase and let herself be escorted by the guards into the building, through all the security checkpoints and into a waiting elevator.

Down. They headed down, further even than the B that marked the basement floor. Even though no more letters or numbers flashed on the display over the door, they kept sinking. What could possibly be this far down besides hell?

Zoe smiled tightly at the idea of being summoned for a meeting with the devil himself. In her line of business, it was entirely possible. She just hadn’t expected to meet him here in D.C.

Finally the elevator stopped and the doors opened with a subdued chime.

The hallway was a clean off-white and very bright, not the dimly lit, smoky magentas and red-oranges of hell. The guards waiting for her outside didn’t carry pitchforks. Instead they wore naval uniforms. Navy, huh? Hmm, wasn’t that interesting?

U.S. Navy Lieutenant Clones One and Two led her down that nondescript corridor, through countless doors that opened and closed automatically. Maxwell Smart would’ve been right at home.

“Where are we heading, boys?” Zoe asked. “To the Cone of Silence?”

One of the lieutenants looked back at her blankly, either too young or too serious to have seen all those late night Get Smart reruns she’d watched as a kid.

But as they stopped at an unmarked doorway, Zoe realized her joking question had been right on the mark. The door was ridiculously thick, reinforced with steel, layered with everything else—lead included, no doubt—that would render the room within completely spy-proof. No infrared satellites could look through these walls and see who was inside. No high-powered microphones could listen in. Nothing that was said inside could be recorded or overheard.

It was, indeed, the equivalent of Maxwell Smart’s Cone of Silence.

The outer door—and it was only the first of three she passed through—closed with a thunk, followed by the second. The third door was like a hatch on a ship—she had to step over a rim to get inside. It, too, was sealed tightly behind her.

Apparently, she was the last to arrive.

The inner chamber was not a big room. It was barely sixteen by thirteen, and it was filled with men. Big men, wearing gleaming white naval dress uniforms. The glare was intense. Zoe resisted the urge to pull her sunglasses down from where she’d pushed them atop her head as they all turned to look at her, as they all rose to their feet in a unison display of chivalry.

She looked at them, scanning their faces, looking for someone, anyone familiar. The best she could do was count heads—fourteen—and sort through the various ranks on their uniforms.

“Please,” she said, with her best professional smile. “Gentlemen. No need to stand on my account.”

There were two enlisted men, four lieutenants, one senior chief, two commanders, a captain, a rear admiral lower grade and three—count ’em, three—full-grade admirals, complete with scrambled eggs on the hats that were on the table in front of them.

Seven of the men were active-duty SEALs. Two of the admirals wore budweisers, as well—the SEAL pin with an anchor and an eagle in flight gripping Poseidon’s pitchfork in one talon and a stylized gun in the other—which meant they’d been SEALs at one time during their long military careers.

One of the SEALs—a blond lieutenant with an even, white-toothed smile and a much too handsome face, who looked as if he might’ve come straight from the set of Baywatch—pulled out a chair for her. Nodding her thanks, she sat next to him.

“Name’s Luke O’Donlon,” he whispered, holding out his hand.

She shook it quickly, absently, smiling briefly at both O’Donlon and the SEAL on her other side, an enormous African-American man with a shaved head, a diamond stud in his left ear, and a wide gold wedding band on his ring finger. As she set her bag down in front of her, her attention was held by the men on the other side of the big table.

Three admirals. Holy Mike. Whatever this assignment was, it required this spy-proof room and three full-grade admirals to launch it.

The admiral without the budweiser had snow-white hair and a face set in a permanent expression of disgust—as if he carried bad fish in his inside jacket pocket. Stonegate, that was his name. Zoe recognized him from his newspaper picture. He was always showing up in The Washington Post. He was part politician, something she didn’t quite approve of in a man of his rank and standing.

Beside her, O’Donlon cleared his throat and gave her his most winsome smile. He was just too cute, and he knew it, too. “I’m sorry, miss, I didn’t catch your name.”

“I’m afraid that info’s need-to-know,” she whispered back, “and probably beyond your security clearance level. Sorry, sailor.”

The senior chief next to her overheard and deftly covered his laughter with a cough.

The admiral who had reclaimed his seat next to Stonegate had a thick head of salt and pepper hair. Admiral Mac Forrest. Definitely a cool guy. She’d met him at least twice in the Middle East, the last time just a few months ago. He nodded and smiled as she met his eyes.

The admiral on Mac’s left—the man directly across the table from her—was still standing, his face hidden as he quickly rifled through a file. “Now that we’re all here,” he said, “why don’t we get started.”

He looked up then, and Zoe found herself looking into eyes that were amazingly, impossibly blue, into a face she would’ve recognized anywhere.

Jake Robinson.

The one and only Admiral Jake Robinson.

Zoe knew he was in his early fifties—he had to be unless he’d performed his heroics in Vietnam as a twelve-year-old. Still, his hair was thick and dark, and the lines around his eyes and mouth only served to give his handsome face strength and maturity.

And handsome was a complete understatement. Jake Robinson was way beyond handsome. He needed a completely new word invented to describe the sheer beauty of his face. His mouth was elegant, gracefully shaped and ready to quirk up into a smile. His nose was masculine perfection, his cheekbones exquisite, his forehead strong. His chin was just the right amount of stubborn, his jawline still sharp.

Lieutenant Cutie-Pie sitting next to her—now he was merely handsome. Jake Robinson, on the other hand, was the Real Deal.

He was looking around the table, quickly making introductions that Zoe knew were mostly for her benefit. Everyone else here knew each other. She tried to listen. The two enlisted SEALs were Skelly and Taylor. One was built like a pro football linebacker, the other looked like Popeye the sailor man. Which was which, she didn’t have a clue. The African-American senior chief was named Becker. She’d met O’Donlon. Hawken, Shaw, Jones. Try as she might to memorize names, to attach them permanently to faces, she couldn’t do it.

She was too busy flashing hot and cold.

Jake Robinson.

Great glorious God, she was being given a chance to work a long-term assignment under the command of a living legend. His exploits nearly thirty years ago in Vietnam were legendary—along with his more recent creation of the Gray Group. Robinson’s Gray Group was so highly classified, so top secret, she could only guess the type of assignments he handed out. But she could guess. Dangerous. Covert. Intensely important to national security.

And she was going to be part of one.

Zoe’s heart was pounding as if she had just run five miles. She took a deep breath, calming herself as the admiral introduced her to the rest of the room. By the time fourteen pairs of very male eyes focused on her, she was completely back in control. Calm. Cool. Collected. Positively serene.

Except thirteen of those fourteen pairs of very male eyes didn’t seem to notice how absolutely serene she was. Instead, they all focused on her ponytail and her little blue flowers. She could read their speculation quite clearly. She was the secretary, right? Sent in to take notes while the big strong men talked.

Guess again, boys.

“Dr. Zoe Lange is one of the top experts in the country—possibly in the world—in biological and chemical weapons,” Jake Robinson told them in his husky baritone voice.

Around the room, eyebrows went up. Zoe could almost smell the skepticism. Across the table, the admiral’s eyes were sparkling with amusement. Clearly, the skepticism’s stench was strong enough for him to smell it, as well.

“Dr. Lange works for Pat Sullivan,” he added matter-of-factly, and the mood in the room instantly changed. The Agency. He didn’t even need to say the name of the organization. They all knew what it was—and what she did for a living. Admiral Robinson had known exactly what to say to make them all sit up and take notice of her, little blue flowers or not. She sent him a smile of thanks.

“I truly appreciate your being able to join us here today, Doctor.” The admiral smiled at her, and it was all Zoe could do not to melt at his feet.

It was true. Everything she’d ever read or heard about Jake Robinson’s smile was absolutely true. It was warm and genuine. It was completely inclusive. It lit him from within, made his eyes even more blue. It made her want to follow him anywhere. Anywhere.

“It’s my pleasure, Admiral,” she murmured. “I’m honored that you invited me. I hope I can be of assistance.”

“Actually—” his face sobered “—it’s unfortunate that we need your assistance.” He looked around the table, all amusement gone from his eyes. “Two weeks ago, there was a break-in at the Arches military testing lab just outside of Boulder, Colorado.”

Zoe stopped watching the man’s eyes and started paying attention to his words. A break-in. At Arches. Holy Mike.

She wasn’t the only one shifting uneasily in her seat. Beside her, Senior Chief Becker was downright uncomfortable, as were most of the other SEALs. Like Zoe, they all knew what was tested at Arches. They all knew what was stored there, as well. Anthrax. Botulinum toxin. Sarin. The lethal nerve gas VX. And the newest man-made tool of death and chemical destruction, Triple X.

The last time Zoe had been in Arches, she’d written a hundred-and-fifty-page report on the weaknesses in their security system. She wondered now if anyone at all had bothered to read it.

“The break-in was done without force, without forced entry, even,” the admiral continued. “Six canisters of a deadly nerve agent were removed and replaced—it was only by dumb luck we discovered the switch.”

Zoe couldn’t stand it a minute longer. “Admiral, what exactly was taken?”

Stonegate and several of the other high-ranking officers were looking at her as if she deserved to get her mouth washed for speaking out of order. But she didn’t give a damn. She needed to know. And Jake Robinson didn’t seem to mind.

He met her gaze steadily, and she saw the answer in his eyes even before he opened his mouth to speak. It was the worst possible scenario she could imagine.

Trip X. Six canisters? Oh, God.

She realized she’d said the words aloud as he nodded. “Oh, God is right,” he agreed with rather grim humor. “Dr. Lange, perhaps I could impose upon you to explain exactly what Triple X is, as well as our options for dealing with this little problem.”

Little problem? Holy Mike, this was no little problem. “Our options for dealing with it are extremely simple, sir,” she said. “We have only one option—there are no choices here. We need to find and regain possession of the missing canisters. Believe me, gentlemen, Triple X is not something we want floating around out there. And particularly not six canisters’ worth.” She looked at the admiral. “How in God’s name did this happen?”

“How’s not important right now,” he told her almost gently. “Right now we need to focus on what. Please continue, Doctor.”

Zoe nodded. The thought of six canisters of Triple X set loose on the unsuspecting world made her blood feel like ice water as it flowed through her veins. It was terrifying. And she wasn’t used to feeling terrified, even though her job was a frightening one most of the time. She spent hours upon hours learning the awful details of all the different weapons of mass destruction that were out there, ready to wreak havoc on the planet. But she’d learned to sleep dreamlessly at night, untouched by nightmares. She’d learned to sit impassively while reading reports of countries that tested chemical weapons on prisoners and the infirm. Women and children.

But six missing canisters of Trip X…

That scared her to death.

Still, she took a deep breath and stood up, because she’d also learned how to give tight, to-the-point, emotionless information even when she was badly shaken.

“Triple X is currently the nastiest chemical weapon in the world,” she reported. “It’s twenty times more potent than the nerve agent VX, and like VX, it kills by paralysis. Get a noseful of Triple X, gentlemen, and you choke to death, because your lungs, like the other muscles in your body, slowly seize up. Trip X or Tri X or T-X. It’s all the same thing—airborne death.”

Zoe moved around the table to the white board that was on the wall behind Admiral Robinson. She picked up a marker and scribbled the two chemical components on the board, labeling them A and B.

“Trip X is a triple compound, which makes it far more stable to store and transport. It also makes it far more adaptable as a weapon.” She pointed to the board. “These two compounds are stored dry, in powder forms that are, on their own, relatively harmless. But just like Betty Crocker’s dromedary gingerbread mix, just add water. And then it’s time to put your gas mask on. Instant poison. It’s that easy, boys. You get me two balloons, about a teaspoonful each of Trip X compounds A and B, both harmless in dried form, remember, and a little H₂O laced with some acid or lye, and I can make a weapon that will take out this entire building—the entire Pentagon—as well as a good number of people on the street. Water sealed in one balloon, which is tucked inside of the other, which is also filled with air and that little bit of compounds A and B. A little acid or lye in the water eats through the rubber. Balloon springs a leak, water hits old A and B. It causes a chemical reaction that creates both a liquid and a gaseous form of Triple X, sending it out into the air, and eventually through the building’s ventilation system, killing everyone who comes into contact with it.”

The room was dead silent as she put the marker down.

Jake Robinson had taken his seat as she’d started her little lecture, turning to face her as she’d stood in front of the white board. She was directly in front of him now. He was close enough to reach out and touch. And smell. He wore a subtle amount of Polo Sport—just enough to smell completely delicious.

She drew in a deep breath to steady herself—and to remind herself that although her world was fraught with evil, there was good in it, too. It held men like Jake Robinson.

“That’s what two teaspoons of Trip X can do, gentlemen,” she said. “As for six canisters…” She shook her head.

“I know it’s hard to imagine a disaster of this magnitude,” the admiral said quietly, “but in your opinion, how many thermos-size canisters would it take to wipe out this city?”

“Washington, D.C.?” Zoe chewed her lower lip. “Rough guess? Four? Depending on which way the wind was blowing.”

He nodded. Clearly he’d already known that. And six were missing.

She looked around the room. “Any other questions?”

Senior Chief Becker lifted his hand. “You said our only option was to find the Triple X and regain possession of it. Is there any way to destroy it?”

“The two powders can be burned,” she told him with a tight smile. “Just don’t put the fire out with water.”

Lieutenant O’Donlon raised his hand. “I have a question for Admiral Robinson. After two weeks, sir, you must have some idea who was behind the theft.”

The admiral stood up. He towered over her by a solid six inches. She started toward her seat, but he caught her elbow, his fingers warm against her bare skin. “Stay,” he commanded softly.

She nodded. “Of course, sir.”

“We have identified the terrorist group that stole the Trip X,” Jake told them, “and we also believe we’ve found the location of the missing canisters.”

Everyone started talking at once.

“That’s great,” Zoe said.

“Yeah, well, it’s not as great as it sounds,” the admiral told her in a low voice. “Nothing’s ever that easy.”

“When do we ship out?” she asked just as quietly. “I’m guessing our destination is somewhere in the Middle East.”

“Guess again, Doctor. And maybe you should wait for all the facts and details before you agree to sign on. I’ve got a feeling you’re not going to like this assignment very much.”

Zoe met his steady gaze with an equal air of calm. “I don’t need to know the details. I’m all yours—if you’ll have me.”

It wasn’t until the words left her mouth that she realized how dreadfully suggestive they were.

But then she thought, why not? She was attracted to this man on virtually every level. Why not let him know it?

But something shifted in his eyes, something unidentifiable flitted across his face, and she realized in another flash that he wore a wedding band on his left hand.

“I’m sorry, sir,” she said swiftly. “I didn’t mean for that to sound—”

His smile was crooked. “It’s okay, I know what you meant. It’s a juicy assignment. But you won’t be going to the Middle East.” He turned and knocked on the table to regain the room’s attention. “The terrorists who took the Triple X live right here in the United States. We’ve traced the canisters to their stronghold in Montana. They’re U.S. citizens, although they’re trying hard to secede from the union. They’re led by a man named Christopher Vincent, and they call themselves the CRO, or the Chosen Race Organization.”

The CRO.

The admiral glanced at her, and Zoe nodded. She knew all about the CRO. And this was what he’d meant about waiting to find out the details. The CRO was mysogynistic as well as being neo-Nazi, antigovernment and downright vicious. If Jake Robinson’s plan was to send her into the CRO fortress as part of an undercover team assigned to retrieve the Trip X, it wasn’t going to be fun. Women were treated little better than slaves in the CRO. They served, silently, tirelessly, unquestioningly. They were treated as possessions by their husbands and fathers. And they frequently were physically abused.

Jake was passing around satellite photos of the CRO headquarters—a former factory nestled in the hills about two miles outside of the tiny town of Belle, Montana. Zoe was familiar with the pictures, and with the extensive high-tech security the independently wealthy CRO leader, Christopher Vincent, had set up around the place.

If the lab in Arches had had even half the security of the CRO headquarters, this wouldn’t have happened.

“We don’t want to get in by force,” the admiral was saying. “That’s not even an option worth considering at this point.”

Admiral Stonegate spoke up. “Why not simply evacuate the surrounding towns and bomb the hell out of the bastards?”

Admiral Forrest rolled his eyes. “Yeah, Jake,” he said. “That worked so well at Waco.”

“Surround ’em, then,” Stonegate suggested, un-thwarted and possibly even unaware of Mac Forrest’s sarcasm. “Give our soldiers gas masks and let the CRO use the Triple X to wipe themselves out.”

Admiral Robinson turned to Zoe as if he’d sensed her desire to respond.

“There are a number of reasons we wouldn’t want to risk that,” Zoe explained. “For one, if they waited for the right weather conditions—strong winds or even rain—the amount of Trip X they’ve got could take out more than just the immediately surrounding area. And then there’s the matter of runoff. We don’t know what would happen if that much Trip X got into the groundwater. We don’t have enough data to know the dilution point—or, to be perfectly honest, if there even is a dilution point.” The room was silent, and Zoe knew they were all imagining a lethal poison spreading through the groundwater of the country, making its way down to the Colorado River…. She took a deep breath. “I’ll say it again, gentlemen, our sole option in this situation is to retrieve—or destroy—the six canisters of Triple X in its powder form.”

“My plan is to continue surveillance,” Admiral Robinson said. “I’ve already got teams in place, watching the CRO fort, trailing everyone who goes outside of their gates. We’ll continue to do that, but we’ll also be sending someone inside to track down the exact whereabouts of the Triple X. That’s not going to be easy. Only CRO members are allowed in.”

Senior Chief Becker lifted his hand. “Permission to speak, sir?”

“Please. If we’re going to work together as a team, let’s not stand on formality.”

Becker nodded, but when he spoke, it was clear he chose his words carefully. “I think it’s obvious that I’m not likely to be accepted as a member of the CRO any time in the near future. Seaman Taylor, here, either. And as for Crash—Lieutenant Hawken—his face may be the right shade of pale, but it’s only been a year since he was on the national news. He’s got to be too well-known. And while my intent is not to suggest that lieutenants O’Donlon, Jones and Shaw aren’t capable of a mission of this magnitude, sir, it seems to me we might want to have a team leader with more experience. I’m sure either Captain Catalanotto or Lieutenant Commander McCoy of Alpha Squad would appreciate the chance to be included in this op.”

The admiral listened carefully, waiting courteously until the senior chief had finished, despite the fact that Zoe could tell from his body language that everyone he wanted to be part of this operation was already right here in this room.

“I appreciate your thoughts, Senior Chief. And I’m aware of both Joe Cat and Blue McCoy’s well-deserved reputations.” He paused, glancing around the room before he casually dropped his bomb. “But I’ll be leading this team, hands-on, from out in the field. And I’ll be the one gaining entry into the CRO fort.”

Chapter 2

Jake lifted his hands, halting the words of outrage, doubt and concern. He was too old to go into the field. He was too out of touch. It had been years since he’d last been in the real world. It was too dangerous. What if he were killed? What if, what if, what if?

“Here’s the deal,” he said. “I know Christopher Vincent. I met him about five years ago—he had a book published by the same company who released my wife’s art books. We met at a party in New York, and I talked to him for a very long time. He’s extremely dangerous, a complete megalomaniac. And it just so happens that he liked me. I know with a little help and the right cover story, I can get us inside.”

“Admiral, this is highly irregular and—”

Jake cut Stonegate off. “And six missing canisters of T-X isn’t?” He looked around the room. “I didn’t call you here to ask your permission. I run the Gray Group. I call the shots. And this is a Gray Group mission. The president gave me this assignment with a direct order not to fail. Those of you who haven’t worked for the Gray Group before need to know that I don’t take that order lightly. What I need right now from the SEALs and from Dr. Lange is to know whether or not you want to be part of my team.”

He hadn’t even put the final “m” on team before Zoe Lange spoke up, her clear alto voice ringing out into the room. “I’m in and I’m behind you one hundred percent, Admiral.”

She was just too cute, standing there in her blue jeans and blue-flowered T-shirt. She looked like a college student, but Jake knew better. She was Pat Sullivan’s top operative. She’d come highly recommended. She was bright, she was beautiful and she was so freshly young it almost hurt to look at her.

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 onto 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 3

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.

Day two. Oh-three-hundred.

Jake had been out most of the night, silently creeping along the perimeter of the CRO compound with Cowboy Jones. Lieutenant Jones’s father was a rear admiral. Jake had figured that out of everyone on the team, Jones would be most at ease with buddying up with a man of his rank.

He’d been wrong.

Ever since they’d inserted in Montana, his entire team had been treating him with kid gloves. Let me carry that for you, Admiral. I’ll take care of that, Admiral. Why don’t you just stand aside and let me handle that, Admiral. Sit down, Admiral. You’re getting in the way.

Well, okay. No one had said that last bit, but Jake knew they’d been thinking it.

Even Billy Hawken, the closest thing to a son Jake had ever been blessed with, had pulled Jake aside to tell him in a low voice that the technological advances in the surveillance gear in just the past few years had changed both the hardware and the software completely. If Jake needed any help understanding the readouts or if he needed any assistance with the equipment, Billy was standing by.

And no doubt if Jake needed helped cutting his food, Billy would do that for him, too.

What, was he suddenly ninety years old? And hell, even if he was ninety years old, that didn’t automatically mean his brain had turned to oatmeal.

As they’d done the sneak and peek, Jones kept asking him if he’d seen enough, if he’d wanted to turn around and head back to camp.

The night had been crisply cold, but Jake had wanted to examine every square inch of the CRO compound he could see from the outer fence. He’d squinted through his night-vision glasses until his head had ached, and then he’d squinted some more. He’d done a complete circuit, and he’d lingered longer than he otherwise might have at the main gate, simply to show Jones he was capable of doing a complete, thorough job.

Except Lucky and Wes had been sent after them, to see what was holding them up. Jake and Cowboy had run into the pair on the trail. It was obvious that his team had sent them out as a search-and-rescue party to drag the old admiral in from wherever he’d gotten himself entangled in barbed wire.

It was discouraging, to say the least.

Jake needed these men to trust him. He needed their support, one hundred percent.

Because he was going in there. He’d figured out a plan—and Zoe Lange’s somewhat different surveillance tonight had given him cause to believe it would work.

She sat across from him now, in the main trailer.

Bobby and Wes had gotten hold of four beat-up old recreational vehicles that afternoon, and the SEALs had already outfitted them with enough surveillance equipment to make a destroyer sit low in the water. They were parked in a KOA campground fifteen miles south of Belle—just a group of happy campers, in town to do some hunting.

Zoe stood up and opened the refrigerator, helping herself to a can of soda. Something without caffeine. She didn’t look tired despite the late hour, but then again, he hadn’t expected her to.

Jake had been taking care to keep his distance from her from the moment he’d stepped on the plane at Andrews. He hadn’t gotten too close, had barely let himself look at her. But he allowed himself to watch her now as she spoke.

“The name of the bar is Mel’s, and it’s owned by Hal—Harold—Francke, spelled with a c-k-e. I didn’t meet him. Apparently he doesn’t come in often on Wednesday nights. The waitress I did meet was named Cindy Allora. She said Hal’s always looking for new hired help.” She smiled. “I guess he’s a dirty old man with a wandering pair of hands, and the turnover rate of waitresses at Mel’s is high.”

A dirty old man. Jake tried not to wince visibly as she sat at the table.

Zoe looked different tonight. The flower-print T-shirt was gone. She was dressed all in black. Slim black flares, black boots, black hooded sweatshirt that slipped off one shoulder to reveal her smooth tanned skin and a body-hugging black tank top, its thin straps unable to hide the straps of her black bra.

She was wearing quite a bit of makeup, too. Dark liner around her eyes, thick mascara, deep red on her lips. She wore her hair down, loose and windswept around her shoulders.

She looked dangerous. Wild. Completely capable. And sexy as hell. Hal Francke would hire her on the spot. And then he’d be all over her.

“Maybe this isn’t such a good idea,” Jake said. “Maybe you could get a job working checkout at the supermarket.”

She lifted an eyebrow lazily. “And I could communicate with you by semaphore flags when you came into town?” She leaned forward slightly. “You know as well as I do the CRO men come to town and go to the bar. Only the women go into the supermarket.”

Jake refused to let himself look down her shirt. He kept his gaze staunchly focused on her dark brown eyes. “It just…it seems unfair. A scientist of your knowledge and ability. I’m not only asking you to wait tables, but virtually guaranteeing you’re going to get groped as well.”

She laughed. “You haven’t worked with women much, have you, sir?”

“Not as team leader, no.”

“Let’s just say if it happens, it won’t be the first time I’ve been groped while on assignment. And if letting Hal Francke cop a feel in the back alley helps keep me where I’ll be of most assistance to you…” She spread her hands in a shrug.

Jake laughed in dismay. “God. You’re serious.”

“It’s no big deal.” She took a sip of her soda. “You know, Jake, I just don’t take sex as seriously as I think you do.”

Sex. God. How did their conversation get onto that topic? She was more than just dressed differently tonight, she was looking at him differently, too. Just a few days ago he’d felt bad because there hadn’t been a bit of attraction in her eyes. Now she was holding his gaze rather pointedly. Now she was smiling just a little bit too warmly.

It made him nervous as hell.

And they were talking about sex. But he couldn’t steer the conversation in a safer direction. Not yet. First he had to ask. “Are you telling me you’d sleep with this guy?”

“I think of my body as just another of my assets,” she told him, a small smile playing about the corners of her lips. “I don’t mind showing it off if it gets me closer to my goal. It’s amusing, actually, to see the way men can be manipulated—” she leaned closer again and lowered her voice “—just by the whispered suggestion of sex.” She laughed, and her eyes seemed to sparkle. “Look at you. Even you aren’t immune.”

“Me? I’m…I’m…” His face was heating in a blush, as if he were fourteen again. How did she know? He’d been purposely playing it super cool. Mr. Extra Laid Back. It had required superhuman effort, but he hadn’t looked down her shirt. His gaze slid there now, and he quickly shut his eyes. “I’m only human.” Damn, and he’d been trying so hard not to be.

“Try human male,” she said, laughter in her voice. “I swear, men fall into one of two categories. You have the men who are totally controlled by sex, and you have the men—like you—who spend all their time trying to protect women from the men who are totally controlled by sex. Either way, it’s a complete manipulation.”

She stood up, peeling off her sweatshirt. “I walk into Mel’s bar dressed in my little tank top. You’re sitting at the bar, and maybe you’re not controlled by sex per se. Maybe you don’t catch sight of me in the mirror and try to imagine me naked.”

Jake did his best not to react. How could she know? There was no way she could have read his mind.

She sat next to him, sliding onto the bench beside him. “Maybe I sit down next to you and you glance over, and you think, gee, what’s that nice woman doing in here alone? Maybe you don’t notice what I’m wearing, maybe it has no effect on you, and you think, gee, she has pretty eyes.” Her smile clearly said, yeah, right. “And you look up, and you notice about five big drunk guys getting ready to approach me, and you think, she’s not going to like it when those clowns put their hands all over her. And you stand up, you move closer. You’re ready to save the day.”

She smiled. “Like it or not, notice ’em or not, babe, you’ve just been manipulated by my breasts.”

Jake had to laugh. He put his head in his hands.

“God, the awful thing is that you’re absolutely right. I just never thought of it that way.” He looked at her from between his fingers. “Look, we need to focus on how you’re going to get that waitressing job at Mel’s, and what’s going to happen after you’re established there.”

She stood up, slipping her sweatshirt over her shoulders. “Cindy invited me to a party at her friend Monica’s house on Saturday afternoon. Hal Francke is going to be there. I thought it would be smart to manipulate him into approaching and asking me to work for him. That way if anyone in the CRO gets suspicious and starts checking into me, they’ll find out I’m just another girl Hal found at some party. It’s a little less suspect than if I go into Mel’s and fill out a job application.”

“It’s also a little less certain,” Jake pointed out. “I mean, you don’t know for sure he’s going to offer you the job.”

Zoe gave him a look. “It’s a hot tub party, Jake. He’ll offer me the job.”

Hot tub. Jake cleared his throat. Hot tub.

“Don’t worry, I’ll keep my bathing suit on,” she assured him with a smile.

Somehow that didn’t make him feel any better.

“So after I get this job waitressing at Mel’s, what then?” she asked. “I mean, obviously, I’ll be in place to act as a go-between for any communication between you and the rest of the team.”

He nodded. “It might be a while before I can come into town. I know the CRO rules are pretty complicated—I might have to pass some sort of loyalty test before I have free run of the place. But once I do come into the bar, I’ll, um…” He managed a weak smile. “Well, I’ll hit on you. I’m sorry—but I think that’s the cleanest way to explain why we’re going to spend so much time whispering into each other’s ears. If you could set it up—tell people you’re a little older than you really are, they might believe there could be something between us.”

Zoe’s heartbeat tripled in time. Jake Robinson was going to hit on her. They were going to spend time cozied up together. True, it was only to pass information, but she could go far on a fantasy like that. She kept her voice low and controlled. “I think we can make them believe we’re attracted to each other. Our difference in ages is not that big a deal.”

“I’m old enough to be your father.”

“So what? You can pretend you’re going through some kind of midlife crisis, and I’ll let everyone know I prefer more mature men. Experienced men.” Gorgeous, incredibly buff, blue-eyed, heroic men…

“I just don’t want it to come off as such an obvious setup. You know, the first time I come into the bar…A beautiful young woman like you…”

“Jake, the first time you go into that bar, the women are going to be lining up to meet you. I’ll have to fight to get to the front of that line.” She laughed in disbelief at the look on his face. “You’d think after fifty-three years of looking into the bathroom mirror every morning, you might’ve noticed you’re the most handsome man on the planet.”

His laughter was tinged with embarrassment. God, he really didn’t know what he looked like, did he?

“Well, thanks for your vote of confidence, but—”

Zoe wanted to reach for his hand to squeeze it, to reassure him that this would work, but she didn’t dare touch him.

“I’ll set everything up,” she said. “I’ll set up the fact that I’m looking to have a fling, too.”

“Not just a fling,” he corrected her almost apologetically. “I’m going to need a way to get you into the CRO compound. I’ll need your expertise in there to help me find the missing canisters of T-X. And the only way for a woman to get inside is…”

“Through marriage.”

Her laughter sounded almost giddy to her ears. This assignment was a dream assignment to start with, Hal Francke’s anticipated groping aside. She was working with Jake Robinson, the man who had always been her own personal poster model for the word hero. Whenever she’d imagined her perfect man, he’d always had Jake’s steely nerve, his long list of achievements, and yes, his deep blue eyes.

And now this dream assignment was going to have her pretend she was marrying her hero. He was going to have to kiss her, hold her in his arms. To marry her. Could it possibly get any better?

Yes, he could kiss her, and mean it. And maybe, just maybe she could make that happen.

“It won’t be real,” he told her hastily, misreading her laughter. “The way I understand it, Christopher Vincent performs any wedding ceremonies among his followers. There’s no paperwork or licenses filled out. They don’t believe in state intervention when it comes to marriage.”

He looked at his hands, at the wedding ring he wore.

“It won’t be real,” he said again, as if he were trying to convince himself of that fact.

Zoe sat across from him, her elation instantly subdued. “Are you sure you want to do this?” she asked him quietly. “You’ll have to take off your wedding ring.”

Jake looked at his left hand again. “I know.” He fingered it with his thumb. “That’s okay. It doesn’t really mean anything anyway. We were only married a few days before she died.”

Wait a minute…“Crash told me you and Daisy were together for just short of forever.”

“Daisy didn’t believe in marriage,” he told her simply. “She only married me at the end, because it was the only thing she had left to give me.” He took off the ring, letting it spin on the table in front of him.

“You must really miss her.”

“Yeah. She was pretty incredible.” He caught the ring deftly, midspin, and slipped it into his pants pocket. “I should probably get used to not wearing this.”

He looked so sad, Zoe ached for him. “You know, Jake—we could think of another way to do this.”

He met her eyes. “I suppose I could call Pat Sullivan and see if Gregor Winston’s available to take over for you.”

Zoe reacted. “Gregor’s not half as qualified as—”

Jake was smiling at her. “As you are,” he finished for her. “Yeah, that’s why I requested you.”

“But he’s a man,” she pointed out unnecessarily. “He could get into the CRO without having to marry you.”

“Thank goodness.” Jake’s smile faded as he gazed at her. “Look, I’m all right with this, Zoe. But if it makes you feel uncomfortable…”

She looked at his hands, now ringless. He had big hands, with neat nails and broad, strong fingers. She even found his hands outrageously attractive.

Uncomfortable was not the word to describe the way she felt about this assignment.

She tried to make a joke. “Are you kidding? I have no problem letting Hal Francke grope me. Why should it bother me if I have to let you do the same?”

It wasn’t true. The part about Hal. Despite what she’d told Jake, she hated it when men touched her, when she had to use her body in any way while on the job. But there were times when dressing seductively got her further. And as for letting men touch her…

She’d learned to pretend it was nothing, to be flip about it. She was a tough, professional Agency operative. She shouldn’t give a damn about something as meaningless as that. And although she also pretended her casualness extended all the way to the act of sex, she’d always drawn the line well before that. Always.

“Are you telling me you’d sleep with this guy?” Jake had asked about Hal Francke.

She’d purposely sidestepped his question, avoiding a direct answer. It wouldn’t do her a bit of good to make her team leader believe she needed to be protected. As nice as it might be in some fantasy to have Jake ready to rush to her side, to protect her from the Hal Franckes of the world, this was reality.

And if he thought she was weak—in any way—she’d spend this entire mission inside the safety of the surveillance van.

“I’m going to have to make it look real,” he told her. “You know, when I come into the bar.”

“I will, too,” she told him. “So don’t freak out when I grab your butt, all right?”

He laughed, but it was decidedly halfhearted, and she knew what he was thinking. The last woman to grab his butt had been his wife.

Zoe pushed herself up and out of the booth, tossing her empty soda can into the recycling bin. “Do you want…” She stopped. It seemed so forward of her to ask—and that wasn’t even considering her suggestion implied a lack of ability on the admiral’s part.

But he could read her mind. “You’re afraid I’m going to get stiff,” he said, then winced realizing his poor word choice. “Tense up,” he quickly corrected himself. “You’re afraid I’m going to tense up.”

Zoe couldn’t keep from laughing, and Jake joined in, shaking his head. “Jeez,” he said. “This is awkward, isn’t it?”

She held out her hand to him. “Come here.”

He hesitated, just looking at her, a curious mix of emotions in his eyes. He shook his head. “Zoe, I don’t think…”

“Just come here.”

With a sigh, he slid from the booth, the powerful muscles in his arms standing out in sharp relief as he pushed himself up. Dressed the way he was in a body-hugging black T-shirt and black BDU pants, she could see he was in better shape than most men half his age. He looked like some kind of dream come true. Why couldn’t he see that?

“I don’t need to, you know, practice this,” he said, even as he took her hand. “It’s not like it’s something I’ve forgotten how to do.”

“But this way, the mystery’s gone,” she told him. “This way you don’t have to spend any time in the bar thinking about the fact that Daisy was the last woman you held in your arms. This way you’ll be able to concentrate on making it look real, on getting the job done.”

She slipped her arms around him, but he just stood there, arms at his side, swearing very, very softly.

“Come on, Jake,” she said. “This is just make-believe.” She said it as much to remind herself of that fact.

He smelled too good. He felt too good. His body fit too perfectly with hers.

And slowly, very slowly, he put his arms around her.

Zoe rested her head on his shoulder, aware of the solidness of his chest against her breasts, the tautness of his thighs against hers, the complete warmth of his arms.

He slowly rested his cheek against her head, and she felt him sigh.

“You all right?” she whispered.

“Yeah.” He pulled back, away from her, forcing a smile. “Thank you. This was a…smart idea. Because I am a little tense, aren’t I?”

“You should probably kiss me.”

He looked as if she’d suggested he use the neighbor’s cat for target practice. “Oh, I don’t think—”

“Jake, I’m sorry, but you are not a little tense, you are so tense. If you come into that bar and hold me so politely like that, as if I’m your grandmother…”

He couldn’t argue, because he knew it was true. “I’m not sure I’m ready to—”

“Then maybe we better come up with another plan. Maybe we should be trying to figure out a way to get Cowboy or Lucky into the CRO compound. If you can’t handle this—”

Something sparked in his eyes. “I didn’t say I couldn’t handle this. I meant that I wasn’t ready to deal with this right now.”

“If you can’t do it now, how’re you going to do it in a week or two?” she asked. “Come on, Jake. Try again. And this time hold me like you want to be inside me.”

The something that had sparked in his eyes flared into fire. “Well, hell, that shouldn’t be too hard to do.”

He pulled her to him almost roughly and held her tightly, his thigh between her legs, her body anchored against him by his hand on her rear end.

She felt almost faint. “Much better,” she said weakly. “Now kiss me.”

He didn’t move. He just gazed at her, that hypnotizing heat smoldering in his eyes.

After several long moments, he still didn’t move, so she kissed him.

It was a small kiss, a delicate caress of his beautiful mouth with her lips. And he still didn’t move.

But he was breathing hard as she pulled back to look at him, as if he’d just run a five-mile race. His eyes were the most brilliant shade of blue she’d ever seen in her life.

She kissed him again, and this time he finally moved.

He lowered his head and caught her mouth with his and then, God, he was kissing her. Really kissing her. Soul kissing her.

She angled her head to kiss him even more deeply, pulling his tongue hard into her mouth, wanting more, more.

He tasted like sweetened coffee, like everything she’d ever wanted, like a lifetime of fantasies finally coming true.

He pressed her even more tightly against him as she clung to him, as still he kissed her, harder, deeper, endlessly, his passion—like hers—skyrocketing completely off the scale, his hands skimming her body as she strained to get closer, closer….

And then Jake finally tore his mouth away from hers. “My God.” He looked completely shocked, thoroughly stunned.

Zoe still held onto him tightly, her knees too weak to support her weight. “That was…very believable.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, breathing hard. “Very believable.”

“Good to know we can make that seem…so believable.”

He pulled free from her embrace and turned away. “Yeah. That’s good to know.”

She had to lean against the counter.

“Look,” he said, his back to her, “it’s really late and I have some things I need to do before morning, so…”

He wanted her to leave. Zoe moved carefully toward the door. “I hope sleep is on that list.” She tried to sound lighthearted, tried to sound as if her entire world hadn’t just tilted on its axis.

He laughed quietly. “Yeah, well, sleep’s pretty low priority these days. If I don’t get to it tonight, there’s always tomorrow.”

She paused with her hand on the doorknob. “Jake, that kiss—it wasn’t real. We just made it look real.”

He turned and gazed at her then, the expression in his eyes completely unreadable.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I know that.”

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.