The Poseidon team are hard-bodied, fiercely competitive Navy SEALs. But when a sensitive mission goes disastrously wrong, three of the team’s finest will have to trust their hearts and instincts to uncover the truth...

Lieutenant Elijah Prescott should be spending his precious leave somewhere with sun, surf and scantily clad women. Instead, he’s heading home with two goals in mind. Figure out exactly how his last assignment went to hell and almost killed him—and reconnect with the woman who might offer salvation.

Ava Monroe has streamlined her life, eliminating every source of pain—including a marriage touched by tragedy. One glimpse of her ex and those good intentions turn to bad-girl desires. Her strategy: get over Elijah by getting under him again, sating herself until she can finally let go. But as betrayal within the rank of the SEALs turns deadly, there’s no denying that her heart and her life are on the line. Elijah is the only man who can protect both...

Praise for New York Times bestselling author Tawny Weber

“A sexy, hot SEAL undercover in more ways than one...Tawny Weber nails this steamy suspense.”

—New York Times bestselling author Cristin Harber

“Tawny Weber...has created the perfect hero for our time and a sizzling page-turner! What an awesome start to her Team Poseidon series.”

—New York Times bestselling author Vicki Lewis Thompson

“I love a good SEAL romance and Tawny Weber knocked this one out of the park. Don’t miss it!”

—USA TODAY bestselling author Karen Fenech

“This hot and sexy adventure takes readers on a thrilling ride of romance, secrets and SEALs.”

—RT Book Reviews

“Reminiscent of Suzanne Brockmann’s Troubleshooters series, Weber’s latest will appeal to her fans as well as other military-romance readers. Diego personifies the honor and strength of a SEAL warrior in a good read with an engaging heroine and child.”

—Booklist

“Call to Honor is a tightly plotted story with a few startling turns of events, the characters are all credible and...the pace never falters.”

—Fresh Fiction

Call to Engage

Tawny Weber

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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To my daughters, with love and thanks.

You changed my life.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Praise

Title Page

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Extract

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

THE SHADOWS WERE closing in. Dark and silent, they smothered the light. Sucked up every ounce of air, ripping it from the very atoms of his body.

Then there was the pain.

Vicious. Cutting. Fire deep in the bones, exploding outward. Tearing inward. Flesh shredding as flames engulfed his body.

Cries of terror rang out, circling his head. He tried to move, tried to force himself to ignore the agony. He had to rescue the caller. Had to. The screams continued. Sharp at first, calling for help. Then weaker. Then nothing. Just the crackling roar of fire, the hideous thunder of a heart struggling to keep its beat.

Just as the struggle became too much, a hand reached into the fire. Cool, liberating, extricating him from hell. Long, slender fingers soothed the misery, eased the terror.

Even as he grasped salvation, desperate for respite, a part of him—a remote particle of his brain—recognized the hand. He knew the scar that bisected the index finger had come from a broken bottle. The ring, a twist of gold and silver with tiny copper beads, had been bought at a county fair.

For a heartbeat he was free of the pain. But even as he escaped the fire, the hand disappeared. Leaving him in the aftermath.

The pain.

Soul-ripping pain.

The bitter taste of failure.

Trapped in the heavy silence, the reminder circled, spiraling tighter. Closing in.

The pained cries from his teammate. His brother. His friend.

Everything went black. Soulless and empty as reality clenched around him in a tight fist, forcing him to face the inescapable. That instead of rescuing his teammate, instead of doing the job he’d been trained to do, he’d let the man die in a miserable inferno.

He would pay for that forever.

If only here in the silence.

“Yo, Rembrandt.”

Lieutenant Elijah Prescott woke drenched in sweat that felt like ice on his skin, his mind—his heart—still gripped by the sharp teeth of the dream. His breath came in guttural pants. His body flashed hot, then cold, then hot again as his pulse whipped furiously through his battered system.

Still spiraling through a hideous slide show of mental images, he pried his eyelids open and hoped like hell it really had been just a dream. No. Memories, he realized as he blinked in the dim light.

Half dreams, half memories. It didn’t matter.

He pushed himself upright, rubbing both hands over his face to scrub away the sticky layer of dried sweat.

“Rembrandt?”

“Yeah?” Face still buried in his hands, Elijah turned his head toward the voice in the shadowy dark of his doorway.

“Supposed to report for duty in less than an hour,” Lansky said, the shrug clear in his tone. “Figured you might not have heard your alarm.”

Was that the shrieking siren that had been blaring through his dream? His alarm clock? He glanced at the numbers glowing red and noted that it was already 5:08 a.m.

“Thanks, ” he said. For the wake-up, and for letting it go at that.

Waiting until Lansky melted back into the darkness, Elijah dropped his face back into his hands and breathed, shaking off the nasty dregs of the nightmare.

They had fifty-two minutes until they reported for duty. There’d been a time that he could go from waking to duty in ten. Three if he was stationed in a hot zone.

That was then.

Now?

Now he was rolling out of bed feeling like a goddamn eighty-year-old arthritic on a wet, cold night.

Or, worse, an invalid.

Elijah gave his face one last scrub before shoving to his feet. Ignoring the pain ripping down his side, tearing into his thigh, he stretched.

Katas, chaturangas.

His body was a machine.

He dropped to the floor for his customary one hundred push-ups.

His body was well honed and built for power.

By the time he’d finished his morning trifecta with sit-ups and pull-ups, he was ready to admit that his well-honed, powerful body hurt like hell.

Bare skin covered in a layer of sweat and boxers, he ignored the trembling muscles and moved back to his bed. A part of him wanted to drop down, face-first, into the pillow, wanted to burrow under the covers and find the sweet oblivion of dreamless sleep.

Instead, with the military precision honed by a dozen years served in the Navy, he tucked and stretched the bedding into place with a couple of practiced moves. He didn’t have to think about what to wear, just grabbed the neatly pressed digies—blue camo multipocketed pants and tee—on their mutual hanger, snapped up boxers and socks and headed for the shower. He didn’t bother with the lights. He had vision like a cat, and the dark was easier on the burning behind his eyes.

He stepped into the shower, letting the brutally hot water pound away the ache of a restless night. Letting it wash away the nagging pain he couldn’t explain. Or, rather, chose to ignore. Elijah rubbed his thigh, running soap over the glossy, puckered flesh as if it didn’t bother him. But the water, comforting a second before, felt like shards of glass. Instead of stepping out from under the water, he turned up the heat.

He refused to be a wimp.

It took him under ten minutes to shower, shave, dress and get ready for the day. He’d spent a couple of years serving on a submarine, so he could have done it in three, but he kept finding himself frowning at the wall, trying to recall what he’d dreamed that had left such a hollow feeling in his gut.

Following the scent of coffee through the living area of the apartment-style barracks he shared with Lansky and into the postage-stamp-size kitchen, Elijah took the mug his new roomie held out and gulped the caffeinated elixir with a grunt of appreciation.

By the time he’d drained it, Lansky had eggs scrambled into a tortilla, covered with a couple of slices of bacon and a tidy sprinkling of cheese.

“Living with you is going to be one sweet pleasure,” Elijah stated, nodding his thanks as he eyed his teammate. Both SEALs, he’d served with Jared Lansky for a decade now. Elijah had never realized the guy could cook like this. Goes to show you could know someone for years, train and serve and bleed with them, drink until sick together, but they could still surprise you.

Elijah used to like surprises.

“I figured you could use a hot breakfast today,” Lansky said, his words light and friendly. But there was a deep well of concern in the man’s eyes. “First day back and all that.”

Elijah’s shoulders jerked, his spine stiffening. He knew the concern was heartfelt, brother to brother. Just as he knew it was justified. But damned if he wanted it. Concern like that, it was a heartbeat from pity. And he’d had enough of that in the past few months to last a lifetime.

Enough to put doubts in the corners of his mind. Doubts that tried to creep out in his dreams. Doubts that, if left unchecked, could destroy him.

“All I need is a great breakfast to kick today’s ass,” he said, biting into the burrito and grinning as the heat and spice hit his tongue. “This is damned good.”

“You need anything else? Fruit or oatmeal or something?”

Oatmeal? Elijah had to swallow quickly to avoid choking on the second half of the burrito.

“Dude, you think I’m so pathetic that you need to stick me with oatmeal?”

“Sorry. It was my mom’s go-to for big mornings. You know, first day of school, finals week, the day I enlisted, the day of my dad’s funeral.” Looking embarrassed—something Lansky never was—the other man gave a good-natured shrug. “Guess it’s one of those crazy kid things that we never lose, ya know?”

“Yeah. I know.”

And he appreciated it. The offer. That Lansky cared enough to make it. And the guy’s insight. The idea of oatmeal itself? That he didn’t appreciate so much.

“Pretty sure this burrito and coffee are all I need to handle going back on duty.”

He’d handle it.

He would. He had to.

Because he was a SEAL.

Being a SEAL, it’s all he had. It’s all he was. He’d protect that, hold that, to his dying breath.

While Lansky scooped up another burrito for each of them, Elijah poured coffee and pondered how he’d gone from the classic skinny kid growing up in a small town outside Napa to become a supposedly badass SEAL.

He’d spent his childhood in Yountville, a dreamer more interested in drawing pictures and scoring with girls than taking on bad guys. When he’d learned that bad guys—or rather, the hard-ass jocks who’d run the school like gangs ran the streets—didn’t check interest before they kicked ass, he’d figured he’d better reconsider his thinking.

He’d joined the service fresh out of high school, eager to serve, sure he could make a difference. That choice had taken him the world over, had shown him man’s highs and lows and had netted him a fistful of commendations. Trained first in linguistics, then in cryptology, he’d put his skill with words and his talent with puzzles to good use.

He’d learned to fight. He’d developed strategic skills. He’d found himself.

But true credit for making him the man he was came down to his being a SEAL. A SEAL and, more to the point, a member of the elite group of SEALs that formed Poseidon.

Twelve men had come out of BUD/S together ten years back, and thanks to Admiral Cree, all twelve served among SEAL Team 7’s various platoons. That meant they were able to continue training together, studying together, excelling together.

And when called up, to serve together. They were an elite force of warriors, all focused on one purpose: to be the best of the best. They trained longer, they pushed further, they fought harder than anyone else. They focused on strategy; they specialized in everything.

They were, Elijah knew, the reason he was the man he was, and they were the reason he was alive today. They’d pulled him from the flaming bowels of hell, he admitted to himself as he and Lansky finished their breakfast.

“I cook—you clean. Since I hate dishpan hands, I figure this works fine,” the other man said with an easy smile at odds with his bloodshot eyes. As the sun rose, washing color into the jut of space deemed the kitchen, Elijah studied his roommate. You’d think Lansky’d been the one having the crap dreams from the drawn-out lines on his narrow face.

“Works for me. Don’t wanna do anything to hurt your pretty looks.” Elijah gave him another once-over. The guy resembled one of those cherubs his mother had painted on little china dishes, only all grown up. Blond hair, blue eyes and a sweet-cheeked innocence combined with a body sculpted by military training were just a few of the many tools Lansky put to use in his never-ending quest to bag as many chicks as he could.

And speaking of...

“I didn’t figure I’d see you this morning,” Elijah said, dumping the pans into the sink with a squirt of soap before adding hot water. “Thought you had plans last night that’d keep you in someone else’s bed until reveille. What happened? You strike out?”

“I never strike out, my man. I simply move on.”

Didn’t look like he’d moved on. Looked more like he’d spent the night suffering, brooding and hating life.

But as members of Poseidon, Elijah and Lansky had worked enough missions together, and yeah, cruised enough bars, that he knew the other man’s style. Lansky would give a friend—hell, an enemy—the shirt off his back if he needed it, but he didn’t share diddly unless he wanted to. And the man hated giving up to the point where stubborn tiptoed toward stupidity.

Come to think of it, they probably had all those things in common.

“What’s her name?”

Lansky’s scowl deepened as he refilled his own mug; the way the rich brown liquid sloshed against the white crockery made it clear this wasn’t a breakfast conversation he wanted to have.

“Her, who? It’d be a waste to limit myself to just one woman, Rembrandt. You know that.”

“Right.”

That was Lansky’s usual MO. Love ’em and leave ’em smiling was his motto. But if Elijah wasn’t mistaken, that motto had taken a nosedive since the other man had met a sexy brunette a few months back. With the skill of a man who enjoyed beauty in all its forms, Elijah brought the face to mind. A lush brunette with the face of a Greek goddess and the body to match.

Although Lansky had gotten to know her a lot better—along the lines of biblical knowing—they’d both met Andrianna Stamos months ago on a covert op run by Poseidon in search of a rogue SEAL. One who’d dirtied the team, who’d betrayed his country, who’d jeopardized a critical mission. A man who’d hidden treason behind a friendly smile and lied his way up the ranks about who he was, about what he’d done, about everything from deserting his child to where he’d hidden the riches reaped from treason.

They hadn’t found Brandon Ramsey. Still didn’t know if he was dead or alive. All they knew for sure was that he’d stolen classified information under the guise of an explosion.

Elijah rubbed his fingers over the puckered scars discernible even through the fabric of his slacks and hid his grimace with his cup.

“You ever had it hot for a woman who didn’t want jack to do with you?” Lansky asked with a shrug. “You know, the kind of woman you can’t shake from your mind?”

The swallow of coffee turned to vinegar in Elijah’s mouth.

Damn.

The memory of big brown eyes and the sexiest smile ever to curve a Cupid’s-bow mouth flashed through his mind. Just as quickly as that memory appeared, it was followed by those eyes filled with tears, brimming with accusation, and that mouth trembling as it said goodbye.

The vicious, cutting pain hit all the harder because it was unexpected. He knew exactly how it felt to have a woman rip his heart out of his chest and crush it to dust while he watched, helpless on the sidelines. Recovery in the burn ward was easier, and it hurt a hell of a lot less.

Elijah dumped what was left of his coffee in the sink. Looked like the scars on his leg weren’t the only ones being poked at this morning.

“Yeah. I know what it’s like. Rejection is fucked, my friend. Rejection when the heart’s involved? Fucked beyond words.” Wanting to put it from his mind, he started on another dish.

“Pretty much the worst,” Lansky muttered, his tone making it clear he was looking for assurance that he was wrong. But Elijah didn’t have any to give him. Not when it came to heartache and women.

“I’m pretty sure I’d rather take on a dirty bomb and a cell of urban terrorists single-handed than give a woman my heart again,” Elijah confessed, naming two of the threats the team hated most. Urban environments usually meant higher collateral damage, bigger rebuilding costs and, worse, playing nice with locals. “I figure there’s a better chance of beating the terrorists. Women? That’s a no-win game.”

“That is not a comfort,” Lansky said with a bitter laugh, holding out his empty cup for Elijah to add to KP.

“Even at the best of times, relationships are never easy, ” Elijah shot back. He didn’t know if it mattered if the relationship had lasted two weeks, two years or two decades. The other party ending it sucked hard.

“Good thing we’re not in the business of easy,” he added as he stacked the dishes in the cupboard, hoping to make up for the dismal morning pep talk.

“So why do we play?”

“Best game in town.”

“True that,” Lansky agreed, grabbing his cap from the closet before tossing Elijah his own.

They both gave one last, automatic look around before stepping outside. They lived on base in the apartment, and while an inspection might be unlikely, it could still happen. But it was habit more than concern that had both men tidying on their way out the door.

Even as he welcomed the cool air of a Southern California morning, Elijah’s gut tightened. Excitement, he figured. He’d been on inactive duty for way too long. This was his first day back in the trenches, his first op since the mission gone wrong.

He was ready, he vowed, ignoring the twinge in his thigh as they made their way down the stairs.

More than ready, dammit.

As if reading his mind, Lansky slid a glance sideways and asked, “You looking forward to getting back to it?”

“Yep. Nothing like a few hours of ass-breaking PT, target shooting and some dive practice to let me know I’m alive.” He grinned.

“You know, most guys go for kinky sex as proof of life. Gotta wonder at one who’s looking forward to physical training, which’ll consist of a crapload of push-ups, pull-ups and sit-ups, followed by a sweaty run and ice-cold swim.”

“Did all that yesterday, and every day last week,” Elijah said with a shrug. At Lansky’s look, he admitted, “I had to make sure I could.”

“Of course you could. You’re a SEAL, man. More than that, you’re Poseidon.”

The men who served as SEALs were diverse, their reasons and motivations as varied as they were. But their goal, as one, was to be the best and to serve their country, the Navy, their team.

Poseidon, on the other hand, was a group of twelve men whose numbers and names never varied. Their team was built on years of trust. The men knew one another inside out, knew what made the others tick, how each man’s tick meshed with their own. Their goal was bigger than to simply be the best. Their goal was stronger than one man’s hopes. They trained beyond what the others did; they studied further than the rest. Every man on the Poseidon team held multiple ratings—including Special Ops Combat Medic—each qualified to handle everything from EODs to aviation to intelligence.

They did it because they knew that’s what it’d take to achieve their mission of absolute cohesion. They did it because their leader asked them to.

“Just remember... We are Poseidon, king of the sea. Better than best is what we be. We rule by day, we rule by night. We kick every ass that’s in our sight.”

“My favorite cadence. By the time I was done with the workouts, I was grunting it,” Elijah confessed with a laugh as they continued toward a series of low-slung buildings. There were more bodies here, uniforms crisp and faces fresh as the base made ready for the day.

He’d missed this, Elijah realized. The never-changing change that was life on a military base.

“You know you could have tapped me to work out with you. I don’t mind the extra PT, and there’s no reason you had to go it alone.”

Just like that. Chest burning with words he couldn’t say, Elijah’s laugh faded. “I appreciate it, man.”

Then, because he could see Lansky was just as uncomfortable as he at the sentiment in the air, he shrugged. “Wouldn’t have mattered if I did, though. You were on leave last week and nowhere to be seen. What’d you do? Fall off the face of the earth? Torres said he tried to reach you a couple of times to no avail.”

Something flashed over Lansky’s face—a different kind of discomfort—before the guy offered his own shrug. “I had things to do, my friend.”

“Female things?”

“Always.” With that and a shake of his head to indicate he didn’t want to talk about it, Lansky changed the subject. “Hell of a long break between missions. You looking forward to getting back in the game?”

“Ready and able.” To serve, and to prove himself.

Elijah had never been big on caring what other people thought about him. He’d lived his life pretty much on his terms. They were easygoing, go-with-the-flow terms that fit with the credo his father had handed down.

If he lived life to the fullest, he could live with his regrets. If he listened to his heart, he could overcome any doubts. If he walked the honest line, he could always hold his head high.

He had to admit, he’d racked up a few regrets in his thirty years. He’d lived through pain, heartbreak and a loss he didn’t expect to ever recover from. He’d listened to his heart, and, yeah, it had ended up crushed like a week-old cookie left in someone’s pocket. But had no doubt that he’d done his best.

He knew a few people—CIA, Naval Investigation, even other SEALs—wondered if Brandon Ramsey had tried to blow Elijah to hell in a clean-sweep effort to eliminate his cohorts. But the people who mattered knew better.

At least that was what he told himself.

He’d taken a hit and he’d gone down in the line of duty. But now he was back in shape. He was back on duty. And, dammit, he’d get his reputation back on track.

He wanted to believe that.

He needed to believe that.

But it wasn’t easy. Not when he had to take a slower pace than the usual double-time to cross the base. Not when he saw the looks cast his way. The speculation in people’s eyes. Without comment, Lansky matched his steps, chatting instead about random crap like box scores and the hot blonde working the PX. When they stepped into the sparse briefing room five minutes later, Elijah breathed the familiar in deeply.

Shoving both hands into the front pockets of his digies, he ignored the sudden tightness across his shoulders, the raw feeling in his gut.

It was time to report for duty.

There was no room for any of that other crap.

CHAPTER TWO

“YOU BOYS ARE LATE.”

Neither Elijah nor Lansky bothered checking the time. They knew it was T minus five. If they were late, Savino would already be there. And instead of milling about the room, the men would be in their seats.

Captain Milt Jarrett was the military version of a worrywart, though. It was his job to keep them on track, to keep things tidy and—something beyond Elijah’s ken—to keep their missions on budget.

“My fault. I was whining about heartbreak,” Lansky said, pulling a face. “You know how that is, right, Jarrett? The way I hear it, every woman you’ve been with has dumped you.”

Jarrett laughed along with the rest of the room. Lansky just grinned. Since the ribbing had put him at ease, Elijah started to pull his hands from his pockets and noticed a slip of paper in one. Weird. He hadn’t been in uniform in months. He pulled it out to see what he’d left there that’d made it through laundry detail while Jarrett returned fire.

“The way I heard it, Lansky, you don’t have a heart to break. Bummer, that. The rest of you, if you’ve finished gossiping and aren’t planning to do each other’s nails, maybe we can get down to business,” Captain Jarrett called as he strode to the front of the room. He had an equal-opportunity scowl, spreading it among everyone whether they’d been late or not, were simply standing or already seated at their desks.

The men still on their feet began moving at a leisurely pace toward the remaining empty seats. Nobody rushed. Jarrett had asshole tendencies that rubbed most of the team wrong. The only thing saving the guy was his rank and the fact that he was a brilliant strategist.

Elijah noted that his accustomed seat to the right front of the podium was available. Whether by design or luck, he didn’t know, but he made his way over, sinking gratefully into the questionable comfort of the wooden chair. As Lansky started chatting with Diego Torres, another teammate, Elijah unfolded the paper to see what’d been left in his pocket. Scrawled in black ink over the torn corner of college-ruled notepaper was a handwritten note.

A real friend listens until he hears the truth.

Shit.

What was with this morning and painful reminders? If Elijah was a man who believed in omens—and he constantly told himself that he definitely was not—he’d be having some serious worries.

Because he recognized the handwriting as that of a former—and supposedly dead—teammate. One who’d caused intense pain to a lot of people, himself included. Jaw clenched against the memories, Elijah started to crush the paper in his fist, then thought better of it. How the hell had it gotten into his pocket? He’d roomed with Ramsey before the mission that had sent Elijah to the burn ward and Ramsey into an ash can. But he’d never seen that paper before, and he and Ramsey had never been note-sharing, or pants-sharing, kind of guys.

Pulling his sketch pad out of his satchel, Elijah tucked the paper into the back of the pad and snagged a pencil. Then, in his usual way of working through something that puzzled him, he ran his fingers over the thick blank page, letting his mind clear and his pencil fly.

The sounds, the chatter, the varied scents of colognes and soap all faded into the background as he sketched. Impressions, memories, imagined scenarios.

“Dude, I missed breakfast,” Diego muttered next to him. “That’s a whole lot of ugly to offer up to an empty stomach.”

Elijah glanced at his tablemate, then back at the sketch pad and grimaced. It was a page full of Ramsey. Full face, side view, body shots, action images. In some he’d drawn the guy to look like a movie star, in others like the devil himself. Which was the true face of the man? Did any of them show the lies? The hideous betrayal?

Elijah would have to look closer later. For now...

“Sorry.” He flipped to a blank page.

Yeah. Brandon Ramsey had given the entire team a gut ache, but Diego had special reason to hate the guy. Before he could explain the drawings, the room went silent.

“Gentlemen.”

Commander Nic Savino’s single word was quiet, his steps easy as he strode into the room. Tall and lean despite the powerful breadth of his shoulders, Savino was a man who demanded attention without ever having to force the issue. Elijah had seen him bloody; he’d seen him drunk. He’d seen him pissed, and he’d seen him thrilled. What he’d never seen was Savino out of control.

Savino didn’t command the entire SEAL Team 7, but he was in charge of this unit. And he was the leader of Poseidon.

As soon as he reached the front of the room, Savino slanted Jarrett a nod. With automatic deference, the other man stepped away from the podium and took his own seat. The captain booted up his computer, the information on it flashing on the screen behind the podium with the familiar trident insignia.

“If everyone’s ready?” Savino’s dark eyes scanned the room. Knowing he was taking in every detail, Elijah wouldn’t be surprised to find out the guy was checking their souls along with inspecting the team. “We have a mission.”

As one the men came to attention, each using his own method of recording data. To Elijah’s right, Lansky whipped out a computer tablet and gave it a snap to release its keyboard. To his left, Torres pulled out an encrypted recording device and, being a big believer in backup, a notebook. Elijah’s own notebook was actually a sketch pad. It was filled with drawings, encrypted notes and, if he did say so himself, clever doodles.

As he listened to his commander outline the objective, detail the plan and delineate strategy, Elijah drew. He sketched his impressions from the buildings Savino showed on the view screen. He added a helicopter in the sky, then as he considered, a few bodies in the water. Savino hadn’t mentioned a water approach yet, but given that the water was there, he would.

That’s how Savino preferred to work his missions. He outlined, he detailed and he delineated. Then he opened the floor for input. It was one of the many reasons the man was a great leader. He inspired trust and elicited loyalty because he offered his team exactly that.

So it was a piss-off that that trust had been betrayed by one of their own. That the team had landed under investigation because a decorated SEAL played dirty, faking his own death after stealing top secret intel to sell to enemy militants.

Elijah jabbed the paper hard enough to snap his pencil lead. He drew air through his teeth, but it didn’t much cool the fury of his thoughts, so he tried a couple more.

A few months back, Savino had led a small covert team in an attempt to locate and detail the traitor. They’d apprehended his coconspirator, but as far as Elijah knew, the target was still in the wind.

Fucker.

“Yo,” Lansky murmured, rapping Elijah on the arm with a fresh pencil. He lifted it and one brow, warning Elijah to pull his head out and focus.

With a grimace and a nod of thanks, Elijah took the pencil and a deep breath. Using every iota of training garnered in his years of service and the determined focus that’d gotten him out of the hospital and back on duty eight months ahead of schedule, he gave all his concentration to the briefing.

Though his specialty was cryptology, or deciphering code, Elijah had still taken part in dozens of similar missions in his ten years as a SEAL, so the basics were ingrained and as familiar as his own name.

However, hostage extraction was always a delicate undertaking, and he’d been out of the game for a few months, so he took special care in his notes. He crafted suggestions, backup scenarios. After eyeing the schematics of the embassy they’d be infiltrating, he sketched alternate escape routes.

Chances were he’d be on the copter, monitoring communications. He knew the wisdom of such an assignment. He’d been sidelined for a while; others had earned the privilege of boots on the ground. And his specialty was, after all, communications.

Still, he chafed at the restriction.

He wanted—needed—action.

He had to prove he had what it took. That he was still a SEAL in top form. One of the elite. The best, dammit. He needed to prove it to the team. To Savino.

And, yeah, to himself.

Elijah’s pencil flew over the page, lead scratching out a list of reasons to offer his commander to convince the man that Elijah should be part of the ground team. Then Savino began assigning roles.

“Lansky, Torres, Prescott, Loudon, Masters, Rengel. You’re on the extraction. Lansky and Masters will enter here and here.” He tapped the blueprint of the embassy with his stylus so the screen lit with red dots. Then he tapped again to light four green dots near the delivery docks. “Prescott, Torres, Rengel and Loudon, you’ll come in from the water.”

He finished with, “Danby, Ward, Powers, you’re in the air with Jarrett.”

He was on the ground? Not in the air? Hell, yeah, his mind celebrated. His first mission back on active duty since he’d damn near exploded into a few hundred painful pieces, and he wasn’t holed up in the back seat. Nope, he’d be right there in the thick of the action. Right there, where it was all going down, he thought, rubbing a hand over his thigh.

Elijah’s other hand gripped his pencil so tightly that he flattened the wood, destroying it with a resounding crack. Yeah, he’d smile. Just as soon as his gut unclenched.

“Any questions?”

A few men shook their heads. Others silently gathered their notes. A couple simply waited.

“Torres, Lansky, Loudon, Prescott and Ward, remain. Everyone else, dismissed,” Savino barked, releasing all the men except the members of Poseidon.

* * *

NIC SAVINO GLANCED at the clock, confirming that he was right on schedule. He patiently waited for the room to clear of everyone but his elite team. Even as some men moved out, others moved in until there were thirteen of them in all.

He glanced at Jarrett, who clung to the chair as if he knew they all wanted him gone. He looked like a grumpy bulldog guarding his favorite bone.

“Comfy, Captain?” Savino asked, his words calm and his expression pleasant.

“Orders are orders, Savino,” Jarrett said, rising to speak in Savino’s ear. The man kept his words pitched low, as if trying to keep them from the rest of the room. Ridiculous, since Poseidon heard everything.

From the expression on the men’s faces, they definitely heard. And didn’t like. Savino could relate.

But, as Jarrett said, orders were orders. And Admiral Cree had decreed that until Ramsey was in the brig and Poseidon in the clear, they’d have company. So Savino gestured to the chair and suggested the man sit back down. After all, it wasn’t Jarrett’s fault that the team was under supervision.

Savino was a man who epitomized control. Some would say it was his trademark. He’d used it, and rigid focus, to form a team of special operatives, skilled assets, into even more. Poseidon was the elite among the elite. Unlike DEVGRU, the Navy’s Special Warfare Development Group, Poseidon wasn’t open for applications. It was composed of men he’d handpicked ten years before. Men who had, over the course of a decade, trained together, fought together, bled together, until they were, essentially, one.

And now that one was threatened.

“Gentlemen, in case you didn’t notice, we’ve earned ourselves a babysitter.” The room buzzed with mutters and complaints. Savino waited for it to ebb before inclining his head in agreement. “Captain Jarrett will be monitoring missions for the next little while. The team and Poseidon have been officially cleared of wrongdoing in the Ramsey situation, but there are some in Naval Investigation who don’t accept the official stand.”

“I’m not here to interfere or horn in on the workings of Poseidon,” Jarrett said, addressing the entire room. “I’ll do whatever I can to help clear the team, to get you guys back to business as usual.”

Wanting to believe that, Savino nodded. Then, skilled at moving past pain—even when it was a pain in his ass—he got back to the duty at hand.

“To bring everyone up to speed, I’ll recap the details of our current situation. These details are for Poseidon ears only,” he said as the men prepared to take mental notes. Everyone put away their papers, pens and electronics. They’d work from memory on this one.

“As you all know, we encountered an incident last February on a routine mission. During the extraction of a kidnapped scientist, a militant base exploded, the fire severely injuring a SEAL.” He inclined his head toward Prescott, who, according to the doctors, was lucky to be alive. “The explosion was said to destroy the formula for a potential chemical weapon and killed numerous militants, including the jihad leader and, to all appearances, one of our own.”

The words to all appearances caused a stir. Nobody spoke; nobody even moved. But the room came to attention.

“Under CIA orders and pursuant to NI protocols an investigation was launched on SEAL Team 7 and, more specifically, on Poseidon.”

Savino laid it all out. The chemical formula had been coded with a time stamp that’d put its theft at the exact time of their mission, implicating the team when its sale was discovered.

“Sir,” Loudon interrupted. “Why would Naval Investigation be looking at us for the theft? It’d make more sense to look to the militants themselves for the theft and sale of that formula.”

“It would, if not for the fact that the sale was to a tribe that group has been at war with for centuries.” Savino named the tribe, which elicited grimaces from most of his men. Because there was ugly, and there was ugly. And this group of militants had one goal and one goal only: world annihilation.

“To date, five more incidents have been traced back to SEAL missions in which weapons, information or technology was sold. Of those, three missions were led by Poseidon.”

The tension was so tight it was as if the room had turned into a vise. Savino didn’t need to look around to see the men’s reactions. He could feel them. Hell, he had them.

Fury, betrayal and just a hint of worry.

Only a stupid man thought he was invincible. Only an arrogant man thought his mantle of right protected him from persecution. Even Jarrett grimaced, his jowls tight as he shook his head in disgust.

“I don’t have to tell you the ramifications of an NI investigation.” Savino slid a sideways glance at Jarrett. Babysitters were only the beginning, he knew. “The damage that it can cause to a career, or in this case, to the very existence of Poseidon.”

Giving up his spot behind the podium, Savino paced in front of it as he continued the briefing.

“Funds for the chemical weapons sale were traced to an account under Ramsey’s name as well as a civilian. The account is still in active use despite his supposed death. Further investigation cleared the civilian.” His gaze cut to Torres, who’d led that investigation and was now engaged to marry the civilian. “But it resulted in the kidnapping of Ramsey’s son. A team retrieved the child and detained Petty Officer Dane Adams, who while implicating himself and Ramsey, indicates that there are others still involved.”

Who?

Savino’s fists clenched behind his back as he paced, wondering for the hundredth time since this had begun what the hell NI had on Poseidon that made them so sure his team was dirty. He’d dug deep himself, but he hadn’t come up with a damned thing.

“While we do not have confirmation that Ramsey is still alive, NI assumes that he is.” Savino paused, taking the time to look from man to man, meeting each of their eyes, deepening their connection.

“I want him found. I want him taken down and made answerable for his crimes. Crimes against his country, against his uniform and, yes, against this team. He tried to set up one of our own. He tried to take down Poseidon.” He leaned back against the podium now, his usually unreadable face a study of icy fury. “Somehow, he got past us. He not only carried out treasonous actions under our very noses, but he thinks that he got away with them. We need to correct that, gentlemen.”

“What’s the plan?” Torres asked. Rightfully, as far as Savino was concerned, since he was the one who’d been specifically framed to take the fall a few months back.

“In addition to continuing with your current assignment, each of you will be taking on additional tasks. These tasks are Code Red, gentlemen.” Meaning they didn’t disclose them, not even to one another. They reported directly to Savino, and everything was done in person. No emails, no phone calls, no handwritten notes. “Poseidon has one goal now, gentlemen. To take down Ramsey and whoever else is involved. As of now, Operation Fuck Up is in effect.”

* * *

ONE THING ABOUT SEALS, they were hell on multitasking. Operation Fuck Up might be in effect, but members of Poseidon and SEAL Team 7 had other missions to carry out. So while time was devoted to tracking their treasonous teammate, the rest of their focus was on the current assignment.

When breaking into another country’s embassy on foreign soil, stealth was the keyword. When breaking in with the objective of covertly extracting a man slated for execution, a sticky layer of diplomacy was wrapped around the stealth. The priority was retrieving the hostage. Secondary was doing so without taking lives.

Using the moonless sky to their advantage, six men rappelled down from the roof. Infrared confirmed the hostage was held on the eighth floor, two guards in the room with him, four more stationed outside the door. Bars on the windows, men stationed at the end of each hallway and on the exits.

So they went in through one of the empty offices two doors down from where the hostage was being held. Working in concert, their moves as coordinated as they were automatic, the team used a silent explosive on the window bars, sliding inside as quietly as smoke.

They stunned the guards outside the door just as quietly, tucking them into the empty office, neatly bound and gagged. Elijah and Torres took their place outside the door while the other four slid into the hostage’s room.

Eyes sharp, senses on full alert, even as he kept watch, Elijah wanted to grin. Stupid reaction, but, man, it felt good to be back on track. To do what he was trained to do.

Not that he’d worried about it. Much. But he was glad to see it wasn’t an issue. Sure, his leg was a little tight, the puckered skin protesting over screaming muscles. But that wasn’t slowing him down.

As if proving his point, the signal came from inside the room. He moved with easy stealth down the hall to the left, Torres to the right, then returned the all clear.

Powers’s voice came through the comm in Elijah’s helmet, giving them the green light that he’d shut down operation of the security cameras on the rest of their floor.

Ready to rock and roll.

They moved exactly as planned. Two on point, two escorting the hostage—a Humpty Dumpty–looking guy in a three-piece suit and little round glasses—Elijah and Torres at the rear. The guy wasn’t in any shape to take out the window, but they just had to get him down one hall and over to the next to make their escape route.

Elijah scanned, his gaze always moving, his ears on full alert as he tapped into their surroundings, listening, watching as they proceeded down the antiques-filled hall, their booted feet silent on the glossy marble floor.

Quite a step-up given that his last mission had taken place in a desert cave.

Then it all went to hell.

Elijah saw it going down a second before it actually did. The ambassador slipped, his slick dress shoes losing traction on the marble floor. Despite Lansky’s hold on him, the man still flailed out, his hand slapping the wall. Just a tap.

And he screamed like a scared little girl. He might as well have sounded a Klaxon.

The team angled to the right, taking the secondary, longer route just before they heard the sound of boots quick-marching down the hall. A shout of alarm went up, voices called out, running footsteps of what sounded like an entire platoon ricocheted off the walls.

The team tightened their circle around the hostage, stepping up their pace to an easy run. Torres and Elijah automatically slowed, covering the rear as Loudon signaled a warning to the men in the air.

The voices came closer. This way, Elijah translated the Arabic shouts. “They know where we are,” he warned the others calmly. “Company’s coming.”

Then company was there.

The bullets didn’t dent his calm. Not until one of them ripped through an ornately framed painting on the wall next to him.

“The sonovabitch shot a Monet,” he swore. “What the fuck is wrong with some people?”

“Guess they aren’t much for flowers,” Torres returned, grinning even as he ran. “Too bad we don’t have time to educate them on art appreciation.”

As he marveled at the sacrilege, hoping like hell it had been a reproduction, Elijah moved. A small metal canister flew from his hand, landing smack-dab between the feet of the lead guard with a loud clang. A heartbeat later, the end of the hall exploded in smoke.

A quick glance assured him that Lansky and Loudon had the hostage covered. As sweat poured off the man’s pale, bald head, they angled him into the air duct. As soon as the ornate, man-size grill was back in place, Masters and Rengel cocked their heads to the left, indicating they’d lead the guards that way while Elijah and Torres waited ten seconds, then took the right to distract the guards on the other side.

“I’ve been ordered to remind you of the preference that your ammo stays in your rifle,” Powers said through the comm, his tight voice making it clear just how he felt about being ordered to share Jarrett’s preferences.

Hard to blame him. Elijah couldn’t say he much like hearing it, either. Obviously the guards weren’t so particular because they just kept on shooting.

“Out and on our way,” came through the comm as Lansky let them know they’d safely cleared the building with the hostage and were en route to the pickup site.

With the hostage secured, Elijah and Torres moved fast, angling out the doors and into a small garden they knew led to the sea. Torres shifted to the left, heading for the cliffs to secure the lines for their escape while Elijah provided cover.

Something exploded with a jarring crash, sending pieces of a statue flying every which way. Fire flashed, hot and blinding. The roar engulfed him, pulling Elijah into its unspeakable hell. He hit the ground, his leg eaten away by pain as the cries of the dying filled his head. He waited for the flames to eat at his body, to tear at his soul.

“Prescott!”

The dead faces came riding on the flames. Elijah gripped his weapon, finger on the trigger as he tried to aim, tried to stop them from taking his teammate. From killing them both.

“Prescott, snap out of it.”

Strong arms gripped his shoulders with a jarring shake. The flames were gone. The fire out. The dead still circled, though, round and round in his head.

Chest heaving, sweat burning his eyes, Elijah tried to bring the man in front of him into focus.

“Rembrandt? You okay?”

Elijah blinked again.

“Yeah.” He tried to breathe past the constriction in his chest, but the air barely wheezed through. He managed to nod. “Yeah. I’m okay.”

“Guess they weren’t big on flowers outside, either,” Torres joked, gesturing with his chin to gutted landscape. Trees were splintered, statuary rubble, bushes leveled.

Elijah caught sight of the hole on Torres’s flak jacket. “You’re hit.” Alive, not burned to a crisp, was Elijah’s next thought. Then fury rode a wild wave of guilt inside him, overriding that thought with reality. His job had been to cover Torres. Because Elijah had let his personal nightmare distract him, he’d blown his job.

“Nah, bullet grazed my body armor. C’mon, rendezvous in thirty seconds.”

Elijah wanted to protest. He wanted to check Torres, to make sure there was no real damage. He wanted to howl at the fucking moon, then go back and kill the already-dead man who’d detonated the bomb.

But instincts and training, or maybe it was Torres’s steady gaze, did the trick of getting Elijah on his feet and, limping only a little, back on track.

Twenty minutes later, they were in the helicopter with the hostage secured. Loudon, the medic, sedated the ambassador before he shook to pieces. Jarrett entertained them during takeoff with his version of wringing his hands over their inability to tiptoe their way out of the embassy. The guy looked as if he was going to cry when he mentioned reparation and damage costs.

Elijah, along with the rest of the team, ignored him. After all, it wasn’t like it was coming out of his pocket.

“Rembrandt?”

He lifted tired eyes to Torres.

“You okay?”

Was he okay? He wanted to say no. He wanted to know what the hell was wrong with him, why he couldn’t shake the monkey off his back. He wanted to beat the hell against the walls of the helicopter until he punched his way through the metal and out to freedom.

As he glanced down the line of men leaning against the bulwark of the bird, he saw the same concern reflected in their eyes that was gleaming in Torres’s. Concern for him? a little voice wondered. Or about him?

Elijah gave up, simply closing his eyes and letting his head drop back against the steel wall. It didn’t shut out those questions, didn’t erase the doubt he saw on the squad’s faces. But after a few seconds focusing on steadying his breath, lowering his heart rate, he could shove that aside.

He drew a picture in his head, a landscape. The sun setting over water that stretched as far as the eye could see. Add a sandy beach in the back, some trees and scrub for texture and interest. And maybe a rickety hut off to the side, the driftwood walls leaning in on themselves. Yeah. He sighed as peace washed through him. A hut, with a hammock lashed between two palms.

The sun would be hot and the beach quiet but for the sound of the surf beating its song. Deserted. Away from everyone and everything.

Except the woman.

He didn’t picture her face. He wouldn’t let himself. But a part of him recognized her. Knew her body, knew the ring of twisted metal she wore on her finger. A part of him knew she was it.

Salvation.

What he didn’t know was whether she’d grant it to him or not. Whether she’d deem his life worth saving.

Or if she’d simply walk away, leaving him to drown in fiery misery.

CHAPTER THREE

TO AVA MONROE, life was all about the simple choices.

Cardio or strength training.

Yoga pants or fleece.

A jog or a bike ride.

An egg white omelet or a fresh fruit protein shake.

She’d worked hard to simplify, to bring it down to choices as clean and easy as those.

She liked it that way.

Liked, too, that she’d structured her life so that she was answerable pretty much only to herself. She lived alone, with a month-to-month rent. She worked for herself. And she trained for herself—for her own goals, her own purposes.

It kept her responsibilities to a minimum.

And it meant that she didn’t need or depend on anyone else’s approval.

That concept had become her mantra when she’d escaped her old life in Mendocino to start over in Napa three years ago. Not only did Napa offer gorgeous views of green and gold, elegant wineries and ageless architecture; Northern California was familiar enough that she’d felt safe. Best of all, it was far enough away from Ava’s smothering parents that she could breathe easily, yet not so far away that they’d pack up their high-society life and follow her.

Not that she didn’t love her family. But she’d never again be the princess they expected, and she’d learned the hard way proximity didn’t mean dependability.

So Ava had simplified. And her life was great. So great that even she was surprised at how many people valued her skills enough to pay good money to attend a kick-ass workout class at seven in the morning.

Focusing on those people, Ava let the heavy beat of old-fashioned rock and roll pound through her system as she guided a group through a warm-up. She thought they’d use the gym’s smallest workout room for this session, assuming there would be a limited interest in a six-week Hard Rocking Bods course. But ten minutes before they’d kicked off the initial session, she’d had to move it to the largest room and offer sign-ups for a second course at a yet-to-be-determined time.

“Let’s step it up, folks,” she called out as she assessed the progress of thirty people finishing their warm-up. “Knees high, backs straight. Double time.”

“How much longer?” gasped one already sweating guy with an enviable tan, tight body and pathetic muscle tone.

“Warm-up? Another two minutes.” She flashed a wicked smile. “Then the fun starts.”

The groans filling the room warmed her heart. She figured if they weren’t moaning, she wasn’t doing her job. And that job was to build the best bodies. Through exercise classes, through training, through bodywork and massage.

It didn’t matter what shape they were in when she started, she had no doubt that if the person was willing, they’d end up with a better body in the end.

Ava firmly believed that with hard work, if you just gave it long enough, anything could change. She was proof positive of that.

Heavy on results, light on believing in anything that relied on others. The complete opposite of how she’d once lived—with her eye always on that fabled happily-ever-after so dependent on Prince Charming. Now she took one day at a time.

Today included hitch kicks, butt lifts and, oh yes, the dreaded burpees.

“Okay, people, let’s rock and roll.” Already warmed after her morning run and a round of intense circuit training, she took her students through their first set. “Grab your medium weight and begin with bicep curls. Squat on the curl, side kick on the release.”

After a brief demonstration, including modifications, she gestured for them to join in and began the count. Twelve reps, rest, three times.

By the time they’d hit the three-quarters mark, the heavy beat of rock and roll couldn’t disguise the heavy breathing and pained grunts of exertion sounding through the room. No matter how cool the air-conditioning was set, it didn’t prevent the sweat streaming off the bodies doing that panting and grunting.

Ava prized every bitch, moan and aching groan as a sign of success. Her own breath might be a little short, but her voice was clear as she called out instructions.

“Come on, ladies, lift those butts,” she called out, fully aware that half her class was men. But she’d learned that some things better motivated women—encouragement, commiseration, results. And some things motivated men—insults and questioning their virility. “Nobody walks out of here comfortably. I want you moaning, groaning, huffing and puffing. I want those muscles screaming because you pushed them to the max. Lift, release. Lift, release.”

She finished with a series of stretches.

“Arch, higher, higher, people. Stretch those muscles. Release the burn, let it go. You don’t want those babies locking up. At least not before you all make it to your cars.”

That snared a round of breathless laughter. Ava rode it out pulling them through the rest of the cooldown, ending with a little light meditation and a few body affirmations.

“Breathe, people. Pull that cooling air into your belly. Let it fill your body with soothing light. Repeat after me. I’m strong. I’m capable. I kicked butt today. I’ll kick butt tomorrow.”

And with that, she pushed to her feet. Ignoring the sweat that drizzled down her collarbone into the wicking fabric of her turquoise tank, she clapped her hands.

“Great job. You all kicked butt today.”

As always, Ava moved through the room making contact with students. A form correct here, a congratulations there. There were enough newbies in the class that she didn’t know everyone’s name, but thanks to years of what she called extreme socialite training, she was able to make everyone feel as if they were a friend.

“Ava, you’re the best.”

“So are you, Terri. You’re really mastering those burpees.” She patted the red-faced woman’s arm, smiling as she noted the developing muscle tone. “By the end of this course, I’ll bet you’re in that pair of jeans you bought.”

Like a lot of people who hit the gym, Terri had come with a goal to lose weight for an event—in her case, a high school reunion. Once she’d hit that goal, Ava encouraged her to reach for another one, so the woman was now fixated on fitting into a size-nine jeans.

Some people worked out for the love of it. But Ava knew the other 95 percent of the world needed incentive. She figured tapping into that was as much a part of her job as modifying a workout to fit a variety of needs.

“Thanks to you and this class, I bet I’m in them two months ahead of schedule,” Terri said, patting her hip as she headed out the door.

“You are the kick-ass woman, aren’t you,” rumbled a voice as big as the man framed in the doorway. As always, Ava smiled a little as she noted that Mack had to duck to get through without banging his shaved head. You’d think the guy would have built taller doors given that it was his gym.

“There’s a reason the phrase no pain, no gain is popular,” she pointed out, taking the towel he offered. Mack Prescott was a man the size of a bulldozer with a face to match, with the personality on par with a bear. Grumbly and gruff with most, but cuddly sweet with some.

“If the whining moans from your students are anything to go by, they’re gaining more than they bargained for.”

“Too much?”

“They sing your praises right along with those moans,” Mack said with a shrug as he moved through the room. She could see him doing a mental check of the inventory, assessing the state of the mats, the chill of the A/C and the quality of the speakers still beating with music. “You’ve got a way about you, Ava—that’s for sure.”

“I plan to make the world stronger, one hard body at a time.” Ava dabbed the towel at her throat, sopping up the beads of sweat still pooling there. “Resistance makes strength, my friend. You know that as well as I do.”

“I do, indeed. From the looks of it, all those resisting students are going to be in a whole lot of pain later,” Mack observed with a smirk. “Pretty smart, actually. First you pummel them in workout class so they’re so sore their muscles are crying. Then you lure them in for a massage so you can pummel them on the table, work the knots out of those muscles so they’re ready for your next workout class.”

“Perfect, right?” Ava laughed. “I even have Chloe handing out massage flyers at the door.”

She was only half joking. Chloe James, the receptionist for the gym, was perched at her desk right outside the door. And she did have flyers advertising Ava’s massage services. But she wasn’t waving them in the air.

Ava slanted a look through the glass walls and smiled.

Probably because the bubbly woman was otherwise occupied.

“Have you thought about my little proposition?” Mack asked as he straddled one of the workout benches lining the wall.

“You know, the propositions I get usually involve booty calls, naked workouts and offers to show off a guy’s most impressive muscle.”

Mack snorted.

“Sorry, sweets. You’re not my type.”

And that was the sad, sad truth for womankind. Ava had lost count of the number of complaints she’d heard over Mack’s preference for hard bodies of the male variety.

“Only one of the reasons I love you, Mack,” she said, at ease with him as she was with few men. “Another is your impeccable taste, of course.”

“You mean in wanting you to come on board as a partner? I’m serious about it, Ava. I need someone I can trust, and you’re my top pick.”

But she didn’t know if she ever wanted to be a man’s top pick at anything. Or if she wanted the responsibilities and stresses of being part owner of anything, even a business she loved. So she simply shrugged.

“I haven’t given it much thought yet,” she said.

“Well, I told you I’d give you until the end of the week before I asked anyone else—so take as much time as you need.” He got to his feet with a grace at odds with his size and offered a smile so reminiscent of his cousin’s that her heart squeezed for a second.

“I don’t think—”

“Don’t answer yet,” he interrupted. “Just think about it. If it’s the money, we can figure that out. If it’s the workload, we’ll hash that out. If it’s because you don’t want to make another commitment to a Prescott, well, that would make you a wimp. And we both know you’re not a wimp.”

Ava angled her chin, pretending she wasn’t insulted at the idea of returning to wimpiness after so many years of wallowing under the weight of her wimp crown. But she couldn’t ignore the tight knot in her gut at his reference to Elijah. She spent so much of her life acting as if Elijah didn’t exist that being reminded of him twice in as many seconds was a little much.

“I’m a good trainer, and excellent massage therapist. But I don’t I know that I want to be a businesswoman,” she said stiffly. Then, with a roll of her eyes at his sharp expression—God, the man could nag without saying a word—she lifted one hand in surrender. “But I’ll think about it, and we’ll talk next week.”

“Atta girl. You’ve done good, Ava.” Laying one beefy hand on her shoulder, Mack gave it a quick squeeze. “You should put some of that energy into your personal life now. You know, give one of those propositions a chance. Go on a date or something.”

She almost laughed. But knowing it’d be hysterical laughter tinged with horror, Ava managed to keep her response to a shake of her head.

The answer to that’d be a no.

Actually, that’d be a hell, no. Or even a hell, no, never, no way, not a chance.

But she didn’t say any of that aloud. Not because she wanted to encourage Mack, but because she didn’t want to hurt his feelings. The poor guy had strong family loyalties, and her reasons for the multiple forms of no would slam right up against that devotion.

So Ava cleared her expression and gave him her best upbeat smile.

“I’m much too busy for dating, my friend. And from the sound of this plan of yours, just considering it will keep me even busier.”

“Maybe I should rescind the offer.”

“No way,” Ava objected, punching him in the arm. Since she knew it would be like ramming her knuckles into solid steel, she pulled the punch so it was more a graze of skin on skin. Still, her forearm sang at the impact. “Not if it means I have to rescind my no-dating rule.”

“Maybe I should make that a part of the deal. You know, all gym owners are required to have an active social life.”

Her social life was as active as she wanted. It revolved around work, fitness, hanging out with a few friends and... Hmm. Ava stopped to consider, but she couldn’t think of anything else. Which was absolutely perfect.

“That kind of talk will be factored into my considerations,” she warned.

“Forget I said it,” Mack shot over his shoulder as he headed out the door.

Ava was still laughing as she started cleaning the room for the next class. But she wasn’t changing her mind. Dating led to relationships. Relationships meant commitment. Commitment guaranteed heartache. She’d done her time, had her share. She was finished.

It was only after accepting that that she’d created the perfect life. It wasn’t the life her parents had outlined for her, it wasn’t the one her large, opinionated extended family expected of her. It wasn’t even close to the one she’d envisioned for herself when she’d been a country-club princess/society bride with no higher goal than planning the perfect party, obsessing over whether the whites were white enough and making sure all her husband’s needs were met.

But her life now? It worked for her. Why mess with something that was going well?

On the other hand, she loved Mack’s gym. It had an excellent reputation, a savvy owner, an ever-growing clientele and the perfect location for what she wanted to build. With all the traveling he was doing now for fitness competitions and training, she could see his need to take on a partner.

And she’d be good at it. She understood their clientele, she could step into almost any role. Personal training, massage, teaching classes, scheduling, bookkeeping, even advertising. She’d helped with all of that over the last couple of years, so she definitely had the experience.

What she didn’t have was money. At least, not readily available. Lips pursed, Ava finished wiping down the last mat. She had plenty in trust. But she couldn’t access the funds until her thirtieth birthday unless her parents okayed it.

Something to think about, she decided as she moved around the room gathering abandoned towels and empty water bottles.

Of bigger importance than finding the funds was the idea of working for someone besides Mack. The large bodybuilder was the perfect boss. He let Ava choose her own hours, design her own classes, come and go as she pleased. But if he brought in a new partner, that could change.

Ava strode out of the classroom into the gym’s reception area. At the chest-high desk, perched on a stool and writing in her planner sat Chloe. Probably the only woman in the world who could pull off the cat-eyed makeup with flaxen-blond dreadlocks, her tie-dye tee proclaimed her belief that Love Is the Ultimate Trip.

Part-time receptionist, all-round party girl and, much to the surprise of both, one of Ava’s best friends.

“You whipped some butts, girlfriend. I’ve rarely seen such a sweaty, bedraggled bunch limping out of that classroom as those students today,” Chloe said, her expression somewhere between impressed and amused. “And look at you, fresh as a daisy.”

“Maybe not quite daisy fresh,” Ava denied with a grin, gratefully unbraiding her hair and running her fingers through the long tresses. “I definitely need to hit the showers before my next class.”

“Half those students were hobbling,” Chloe said, giving Ava a quick up-and-down inspection. Sure, Ava’s workout bra was soaked and the tank she wore over it spotted with sweat. But her face was pain-free, her gait easy and her smile bright.

“Bet they loved it, though,” Ava shot back with a smile, angling her head to look at the latest page of art in Chloe’s planner. The double-page spread was decorated with colorful butterflies and a flourish of sharp-edged flowers bordering her weekly to-do list.

More than once Ava had suggested that her friend keep track of all her goals, appointments and scheduling on her phone or computer, but Chloe argued that the left brain was engaged by the act of handwriting. She sometimes threw in things like creativity fostering energy or a pretty planner lowering stress, but the bottom line was, Chloe detested technology. Still, her method worked great for her.

Chloe’s obsessions with planning every second of her life had started a few months back when her boyfriend had snuck out of her bed to run after his dream of being an archeologist. Or, considering that he didn’t have a degree, any plans to go back to school or any money, to dig in the dirt.

She’d accepted Ava’s shoulder at the time, but as soon as she was through crying on it, Chloe was sure her man would be back. Ava had talked herself blue in the face, but the woman wouldn’t budge.

Chloe had complete faith that Bones would be back.

To make ends meet, in addition to working part-time at the gym, Chloe worked the counter of the health-food store up the street, led bike tours through Napa Valley and ran her own dog-walking business.

“Does this mean you’re double booked tomorrow morning?” Ava asked with a frown, pointing to the sketch of a cute pair of Yorkies.

“My bike tour finishes at the Wine Train, so Mrs. Burns is dropping off Dinky and Winky for their walk and picking them up later.”

Ava’s brows arched. Apparently filling every moment of every day wasn’t enough to keep Chloe too busy to think about Bones—or Derek Herringbone to some people. Now she was double booking herself.

It was crazy. The curvy blonde had a way with people that Ava envied. Her combination of pinup girl looks, good-natured flirting and friendliness put everyone at ease. She had guys lining up to date her, but she said her heart belonged to Bones. So instead of dating, she played matchmaker to any guy who asked her out.

“I’d try to talk you into joining me on the bike tour since you could use the fresh air and the vines are gorgeous this time of year. But you have a pile of new massage appointments that I’m sure you’ll use as an excuse to avoid socializing,” Chloe said with a friendly eye roll as she handed Ava a clipboard.

“I socialize enough,” Ava replied, flipping through the list of names and client information, along with her appointment schedule. It would all be better logged into a computer with a central booking system, but like Chloe, Mack was a technophobe who preferred paper.

Silly, Ava thought. It was one thing she’d definitely want to change if she ever did partner up.

“Two of these are new,” she said, reading one of the names listed on the next day’s schedule. “Did they fill out an input form?”

“Nope. Mack added them to your schedule and said it was all good,” Chloe replied, flicking her fingers to dismiss things like client identity, health backgrounds and pertinent information.

Ava wrinkled her nose but didn’t object. She appreciated Mack’s support and all the clients he sent her way. She’d have to buy him one of those big green, filled-with-so-much-healthy-stuff-they-tasted-gross drinks as a thank-you.

He’d brush it off, she knew. A few years back, Mack had taken it upon himself to look out for her. Or as he put it, to watch her ass. He liked to think she couldn’t manage her life without him. Ava’s smile flickered, since she wasn’t sure he hadn’t been right.

Then.

Now, though, she was stronger. She’d learned to stand on her own feet, to defend herself and, yes, to watch her own ass if necessary. But Mack wasn’t ready to give up his role as her overprotective caretaker. He was stubborn that way.

“If you won’t join the tour, how about a hike through Glass Beach this weekend? I’m free Saturday morning.”

“Just us, or are you educating a bunch of strangers on the beauty of the Napa River and the history and ecosystem of the wetlands?”

“Just us,” Chloe promised before her smile winked out. “Unless Bones makes it home for the weekend.”

“Have you heard from him?” Ava asked cautiously.

“No. But I’m sure I will any day now.” Frowning at Ava’s doubtful look, Chloe shook her head. “We’ve been together since we were fourteen. You don’t spend a decade with a person and not know them. This is just a phase. Something he has to get out of his system. Believe me—he will be back.”

“Okay. Just, you know, don’t get your hopes up too high,” Ava warned before heading for the locker room.

She knew there was no point in saying more than that. Any lecture she offered would fall on deaf ears. But she knew for a fact that men didn’t change. But women did, as Ava had proven. All it’d taken was a hideous bout of depression, a couple of exercise classes and a pulled muscle to completely change her life.

Spinning had led to kettlebells, which led to yoga, then to weight lifting. Next thing she knew, she was teaching kickboxing, certified in Pilates and attending weeklong training camps in exercise instruction. One of those camps had hooked her on the benefits of massage for training the body, inspiring her to get licensed. Now, after another year of training, she’d added a rehabilitation massage certification to her roster.

Not bad for a woman who, until the age of twenty, had been convinced that the sum total of her ambitions were to hold the crown of socialite princess, to be a perfect wife and to always look pretty.

Thank God she’d escaped that life. It would have been pure hell.

* * *

ESCAPE COULD ONLY last for so long.

Experience and familiarity got Elijah through the team debriefing without a problem, but by the time they got to his individual round, he was feeling raw.

But, again, experience and familiarity got him through.

Still, he was damned glad to hear, “Dismissed, Prescott.”

Gut churning and his throat hot from keeping his voice at an even keel, Elijah nodded to the two Naval Intelligence officers and Admiral Cree. He offered his salute, turned on his heel and strode out. And he didn’t breathe fully until he’d cleared the room.

“You okay? Damn, Prescott, you look rough.”

Ignoring that, Elijah nodded to the ensign manning the desk and continued into the hallway. He wasn’t surprised when Jarrett joined him, matching his pace as they passed both military and civilian personnel until they’d reached the end of the hall.

“Debriefing can be rough, but I’ve never seen you come out looking this worn. Seriously,” Jarrett said, sounding concerned, “are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” Like Jarrett, Elijah stopped at the double doors. The sun filtered through the small windows, dust motes dancing between them. “I finished debriefing. I’m cleared.”

“Hey, I just wanted to give you a heads-up.” Jarrett made a show of glancing to the left, then to the right before leaning closer. “Watch your six.”

“Why? Someone coming down on my ass?”

“I’m hearing a lot of buzz. Worry, doubts, that sort of thing. Some are saying Poseidon is, and I quote, a ‘fancy-ass clique rallying around a loser in the name of protecting their own.’” Jarrett rolled his eyes as if to say it was ridiculous. But if it was ridiculous, why bother with the warning? “Just wanted you to know.”

Elijah met Jarrett’s frown with a look of calm. Not because that’s how he was feeling—hell, no. The warning, on top of a brutal debriefing, had his gut twisted with a miserable sort of fury. But there was no point confirming the gossip that he was a mess. “I’m good,” he lied.

“I know you’re clean, Prescott. I just want to make sure you watch your back. People get ugly when they’re under suspicion.” Jarrett snapped his teeth together, his eyes worried. “You don’t need more dirt thrown your way. Not after everything you’ve been through. So if you need anything, I’m here for you.”

His own jaw tight enough to snap his teeth off, Elijah nodded. “Yes, sir. But Commander Savino is my commanding officer, and I report to him.” Elijah pulled his cap out of his back pocket and tugged it onto his head. “If there are any issues, I’m sure I’ll hear it from him.”

“If he’s brought into it,” Jarrett said quietly, stepping forward until the tips of his boots knocked against Elijah’s. “Someone wants Poseidon brought down. How long can Savino stop that? People higher up are watching. It’s making everyone nervous. They’re wondering who’s involved, who’s clean and who’s not.”

“Are they looking at me?” Elijah asked.

“They’re looking at everyone. You roomed with Ramsey. You’ve had some shit going on, and your psych eval says you have reason to resent the Navy. Some people worry about serving with a guy with your issues. And then there’s the question of who really sold the chemical formula. Do you think everyone believes it was some dead guy?” Jarrett shook his head, as if disgusted by the chatter. “Just watch your back.”

Elijah refused to reply. All he could do was nod. Then, shoulders stiff, he watched the captain shove through the doors and saunter away. He wished like hell he could claim the man was full of crap. But Elijah had seen the looks.

The warning was legit.

* * *

TWO DAYS LATER, Elijah strode down the hallway toward Savino’s office. He didn’t know if he was making the right choice. He just knew he couldn’t make a different one.

So when he strode through the door, his chin was high, his eyes direct and his expression clear.

His commander was at his desk, papers stacked in two neat piles on the dingy metal surface. Elijah wouldn’t mind the rank, but damned if he’d want the paperwork that went with it.

“Reporting as ordered, sir.”

“You want to explain this?” Savino invited, lifting one of the papers from the stack on the left.

His face blank, Elijah looked from his commander to the paper the man held and back again. It seemed pretty self-explanatory to him. But he knew Savino wasn’t asking him to clarify the request for leave. He wanted to know why. He wanted details; he wanted insights. As always, he wanted every damned thing.

Savino was a hard-ass. He was a tough commander, a man with a wicked sense of humor held under tight control and razor-sharp lines in the sand when it came to right and wrong. He was the first man to reach out his hand and the last to walk away.

He was a friend.

They’d trained together. They’d sat watch in a cave over a village beset by terrorists together. They’d gotten drunk together. They’d been through a million experiences in the near-decade they’d known each other.

So Elijah couldn’t hold back. “I’m not one hundred percent. I thought I was, pushed the medics to release me and ignored their concerns,” he said quietly. Then, in case Savino suspected he meant the head shrink as well as the physicians, he drummed his fingertips over his thigh. “I’d rather take a few weeks’ leave before I do irreparable damage.”

He knew that excuse would hold. His medical records said as much. But Savino knew him too well. So the question was, would he accept face value or would he push for the truth?

“And this has nothing to do with the heap of crap chickenshit gossips are trying to pile on you?”

Had he thought that wouldn’t get back to Savino? Elijah almost smiled. “Someone wants to take down Poseidon,” he said, sidestepping. “They’re using the convenience of gossip to accelerate that mission.”

“That doesn’t answer my question. Do you believe that anyone on the team doesn’t trust you? Do you believe anyone thinks you’re dirty?”

Yeah. He did believe that. “I believe there are some that might have questions,” he said carefully instead. “Since our job is not to follow blindly but to think outside the box, I don’t blame them for wondering.”

Savino frowned, but simply folded his hands on his desk instead of saying anything.

“At the very least, they’ve got to wonder why I hadn’t seen anything. Why I didn’t realize that Ramsey was dirty, that he was a psychotic traitor with a taste for greed and a hard-on to take down Poseidon.” Elijah rubbed his hand over his face, feeling stained, as if he’d never be clean. “I served with him and Adams. I partied with them. I roomed with them for eight fucking months. How could I miss something that ugly?”

“By that train of thought, you’d think I should have realized it, too,” Savino countered quietly, looking tired. “I served with Ramsey myself. I trained him, commanded him. Hell, Rembrandt, I signed his fucking DEVGRU recommendation.”

Knowing Savino’s use of the word fucking was permission to fall out, Elijah dropped to the empty chair in front of the desk, his boots clunking against the metal.

“I can’t get past it,” Elijah admitted. “The weight of it. The feeling of failure.”

“You’re going to have to. You’ve got enough weighing you down already. Don’t haul someone else’s crap, too.”

Made sense. Elijah knew it made sense. He’d told himself the same thing already, hadn’t he? But he’d seen the expressions on some people’s faces. He’d read the question in their eyes, the wondering. Was he in league with Ramsey? Was that how he’d survived the explosion? Did they think he’d missed that sniper last week because he’d meant to? That he’d fallen back on the command not to fire, had used it as an excuse to let his partner take a bullet? The questions swirled, ugly and sharp, scraping at his composure, tearing at his resolve.

“I need a break. I need to get away from it all,” Elijah murmured, finally meeting Savino’s eyes. “I thought I was ready to come back. I’m not.”

“I could order a psych eval, another round of physical therapy,” Savino said. “That’s what I should do. For your own good and for the good of the team.”

“You could. But I’m hoping you won’t. I just need a break. A real break. Away.”

A dumb-ass move, his brain warned.

Walking away now would only add fuel to Jarrett’s insinuations. To those who thought him guilty, it’d look like a retreat. Even to himself—who knew he was clean—it would feel like he was running.

“You’d be smarter to stay on base, take light duty until you’re ready to face fire again,” Savino advised, reading Elijah’s mind with his usual savvy.

“Yeah. I know.” He’d been going on eight months without leave when he’d been blown to hell. After that had been a couple of months in and out of the base hospital, a month easing back into training. For the last year he’d lived and breathed the Navy, SEAL Team 7, Poseidon.

Once he’d thrived on immersing himself in this world.

Now?

He didn’t know if he could live or breathe it any longer. He didn’t know how much longer he could before he simply cracked. And what would be revealed through the fractured pieces could break him beyond repair.

Savino must have seen some hint of that on his face because he rubbed a hand over his hair and sighed. “Okay. Yeah. I’ll green-light leave. But three weeks. No more.” Not a man to waste time, he snagged the request for leave again and scrawled his signature.

But he didn’t hand it over. “I’m temporarily relieving you from active duty, but as long as Operation Fuck Up is in effect, you’re still serving Poseidon. Clear?”

In other words, until they’d determined once and for all if Ramsey was dead or not, every member of Poseidon was on alert. “Is there something you want me working on while I’m away?”

Savino tapped his fingers on the desk once. Twice. After a third rat-a-tat-tat, he opened a drawer and pulled out a sheet of paper. “Codes, log-ins to access certain files that need to be decrypted. You going to have access to a secured computer where you’re going?”

“I’ll make sure of it,” Elijah promised, knowing as he reached for the paper that Savino was giving him more than an assignment.

He was handing over his trust. A show of faith that damn near changed Elijah’s mind about getting away.

Damn near. But not quite.

“Where will you go?”

Elijah hesitated, then shrugged. “Not sure yet. Just... Away.”

“You need somewhere to chill? My place in Monterey is sitting there empty.”

God. Elijah gritted his teeth against the wave of guilt pounding over him. “Thanks, but I think your castle is a little out of my league.” Trying on a grin, Elijah rolled his eyes at the idea of a middle-class guy like him chugging beer in that glass tower of a place that Savino called his home away from base.

“I expect you back here in three weeks. Excuses won’t be tolerated.”

“Yes, sir.” No problem. He could figure out the rest of his life in three weeks. Elijah headed for the door.

“Rembrandt?”

Hand on the knob and escape just a twist away, Elijah looked over his shoulder.

“You need anything, you let me know.” Savino’s brow creased for a moment, the shield dropping to show his concern. “Anything. We’re a team. We’re here for you.”

Not trusting his voice, Elijah nodded on his way out the door. Maybe that was the problem. They were a team. They were there for him. But did they trust him to be there for them?

Did he—could he—trust himself? No.

That was the bottom line.

Elijah couldn’t trust himself—or ask anyone else to—when his entire world was crashing down around him. His life—starting with his mind—was simply falling apart.

Until he figured it out, until he fixed whatever in the hell was going on, he simply had to accept the hard truth.

His life sucked.

CHAPTER FOUR

JEREMY PRESCOTT HAD been a man of great responsibility, deep pride and a quirky sense of humor. When he’d died, he’d left behind a devastated family, a tidy nest egg and a few special bequests to his only son, Elijah. Among them were sage bits of advice, mostly in the form of clichés handed down with a wink and a smile; the responsibility for an emotionally fragile widow with a propensity for drama outmatched only by her gift for nagging; and a cherry ’53 Corvette.

Chevrolet’s first attempt at what would become an icon. The red body was a rough testament to fiberglass, the white leather interior almost flawless with some wear and tear along the edges of the driver’s seat. Granted, at ten years old, Elijah had been too young to drive—hell, his feet had barely reached the pedals—but nobody challenged his right to the car. For a while, especially when he’d been deployed overseas, he’d kept the vehicle garaged at his mother’s. But two years ago a friend had convinced him to live a little, to bring it down to Coronado, take it out for a ride once in a while.

Given the cost of gas, he’d often joked that cruising the car was his guilty pleasure. The pleasure was dimming as he was cruising past hour seven on the drive from Coronado to his hometown of Yountville. Nestled in the heart of the gorgeous Napa Valley, the charming town was known for its fine dining, with restaurants like the French Laundry pulling in locals and tourists alike. Less well-known was the meddling prowess of the Prescott women. Elijah’s mother and sisters specialized in forming, sharing and debating their opinions on the lives of others. He loved them all, but damn, the idea of facing that after a long drive while his body ached was a lot to take.

So when he came up on the exit to Napa, he debated for all of two seconds whether to continue another handful of miles to his mom’s before pulling off the freeway and heading to his cousin’s instead. He’d rather bunk on Mack’s couch, eat wheat germ and drink lemongrass. Parking the ’Vette in the gravel lot behind a three-story building, he leaned one arm on the steering wheel and contemplated the gym his cousin had built.

Scarred gray stucco walls were framed in crisp white. Through the wall of plate glass fronting the building chrome flashed, highlighting row after row of cardio equipment. Treadmills, ellipticals, rowers and spin bikes were filled with bodies.

He knew they were positioned there to give the exercisers a view as much as they were to advertise the gym, and he wondered if Mack still seeded the machines with ringers. A handful of men and women who sweated for free and made it look as if they’d built those perfectly sculpted bodies on those machines, luring in the gullible to think that three twenty-minute sessions each week would give them the same.

Mack Prescott was a canny businessman.

When Elijah stepped into the gym, he could see that canniness was paying off. Hard rock pumped out a heavy beat and instead of the sweat he was used to at the base gym, the air was fresh with something that smelled like clean air.

About thirty of the forty cardio machines were occupied, with the same number of people on strength equipment or using free weights. There were two more rooms enclosed in glass, one filled with women in spandex and the other empty.

Even through the milling, sweating and grunting bodies—and the temptation of those spandex-draped babes, Elijah only had eyes for one person. He grinned when he saw the guy manning the desk next to what appeared to be locker rooms.

At six-two and SEAL fit, Elijah wasn’t a small man. Standing tall at six-four and a comfortable 230 of muscle, Mack Prescott lived by the motto that fitness was king. And it ruled his body with an iron fist. Bald as an eight ball and just as crazy, Mack had spent his early twenties on the fitness circuit, competing and collecting trophies that paid ode to his ripped body. Seven years ago, he’d decided to turn his expertise to training others and opened a gym. Something Elijah appreciated on so many levels.

A wide grin spread over his homely face when Mack saw Elijah weaving his way through the gym rats.

“Well, if it ain’t my favorite sailor. Elijah, how the hell are you doing, man?” Not waiting for an answer, Mack grabbed Elijah close and smothered him tight enough to make a man grateful for good deodorant. “You just passing through?”

“I’m on leave,” Elijah mumbled into Mack’s armpit. “Needed some time to rest and recoup.”

As if testing that assessment, Mack gripped Elijah’s shoulders and pushed him out arm’s distance for an inspection. If his scowl was any indication, he didn’t much like what he saw.

“You said the injury was minor,” Mack growled, accusation clear in the deep rumble.

“It was.” Compared to death. But Elijah didn’t figure sharing his yardstick was going to do much to wipe that look of worry from his cousin’s eyes. He shrugged. “I was cleared for active duty. That means a US of A doctor said I was in good enough shape to serve my country. That should be good enough for you.”

From the slow shake of his head, Mack wasn’t buying it. But while his eyes took another inventory up and down Elijah’s frame, the bigger man didn’t argue. He tilted his head toward the car visible through the windows fronting the gym.

“You staying with your mom?”

“Only if I have to.”

“She know you’re here?”

“You telling her?”

Elijah’s two sisters were still in Yountville with his mom, while most of Mack’s family was scattered over the Napa Valley. So unless one of them had recently gottten into the fitness craze, there was no reason for any of them to notice he was here.

“Should I keep your company a secret?”

Elijah puffed out a breath. He could evade. He could even lie. He was trained to do both. But he was tired. So damned tired. “I could use a break, some downtime,” he murmured, rubbing a hand over his hair with a worn sigh.

“How long you got?”

“Three weeks, thereabouts.” Or forever. “Long enough to rest up, get in fighting shape and show you up in the gym and the bar.” A worthy challenge, actually, and one Elijah figured would be fun.

Apparently Mack agreed. “Now that’s what I’m talking about,” he said, slapping Elijah on the back and damned near sending his face through the chest-high service desk. “You’ll stay at my place.”

“Thanks, man.” That was just what he’d hoped for. “I won’t be any trouble.”

As if he’d heard something Elijah hadn’t intended to let slip, Mack’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t say anything, though. Just gave a long hum, then inclined his head toward the elevator.

“You’ve had a long drive. Bet that leg is stiff. We’ll go up this way—save the stairs for tomorrow. Better yet, I’ll set you up for a massage in the morning. I’ve got a couple of solid massage and rehab therapists attached to the place now.”

As if his body knew it was finally home—or as close to a home as Elijah had—it gave up all pretense of energy and drooped like a used condom. In a fog of exhaustion, he followed his cousin through the gym, vaguely aware of Mack pointing out his new weight-lifting equipment before they settled into a glass tube for the ride to the third floor.

“That’s the dojo,” Mack said as they slid past the second floor, a study of white on white with rich wood accents. Diamond tuck padded walls were visible beyond two groups of students following the instructors and a dozen or so others practicing kicks and punches solos.

One stood out. Slender yet curvy in the white gi, a woman with dark hair pulled back in a ponytail performed a series of running jump kicks. There was something familiar about the move, but Elijah couldn’t pinpoint it. His eyes narrowed. But before he could focus, the elevator’s ascent blocked his view.

“Guest room is all yours for as long as you want it. I’m busy tomorrow, but I’ll book you a massage first thing. Then we’ll spend some time getting that leg back into shape,” his cousin promised as he opened the door to his third-floor apartment and waved Elijah inside.

“You’ve redecorated,” Elijah noted, looking around.

Mack’s living space reflected the man. Big, intense and comfortable. A television covered a wall opposite a deep purple leather sectional. There was art, most of it nudes, and a chrome-and-glass table plus leather chairs straight out of the 1970s. Instead of the slew of trophies that had once crowded the far wall, there were now a trio of abstracts that, if Elijah tilted his head to one side, appeared to be a ménage à trois.

“Sit, be comfortable. I’ll get us a beer, and you can catch me up. Start with your sex life,” Mack instructed, heading for the kitchen as Elijah dropped onto the couch, sinking into the soft leather.

“Nothing there to catch up on. Between the hospital time, recovery and my regular duties I’ve been pretty busy.”

To say nothing of the random flashback onslaught, the nightly retrospectives through the terrors of his subconscious and the nagging feeling that after sacrificing everything that mattered for his career, that career was spinning wildly out of control.

“Too busy for sex?” Mack had a pitying expression when he returned with a tray carrying two chilled pilsners of beer, a bowl of mixed nuts and a plate of what looked like a cross between potato chips and green beans. “Sounds like your leg isn’t the only thing we need to work on while you’re here.”

Call it exhaustion. Call it instinct that had the little hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. Whatever it was, Elijah vowed then and there to step carefully. Because that matchmaking gleam in Mack’s eyes could mean only one thing.

Trouble.

And the last thing Elijah needed right now was more trouble. Even if it came in the form of a naked woman. He didn’t care how hot she was. He didn’t care how willing. He didn’t even care if she came wrapped in a bow holding a list of kinky preferences.

“No work necessary. I’m here to rest and recuperate, nothing more,” he said, taking his beer. As he swallowed down a healthy gulp and shifted the conversation into safer realms, Elijah changed that vow.

Not about avoiding trouble or needing to rest. That vow was rock solid. But the naked woman part? No point making any hasty decisions on that subject until he saw what Mack came up with.

Because, after all, who could resist a bow?

* * *

MY LIFE ROCKS.

My life is right on track.

My life kicks serious butt, and I love every minute of it.

Ava repeated the affirmations on each exhalation, the soothing tones of bells and chimes ringing softly in time with the words. The gentle scents of sandalwood, vetiver and neroli wrapped around her bare shoulders, as soft as the raw-silk fabric of the lush, oversize pillow she sat on.

As the music slowly faded, so did her words. But her breath stayed even, slow and easy. After a few seconds of silence, she scanned her body for any tension, but she found no tightness, no stress. She felt great.

She let herself grin as she opened her eyes. She knew from experience to give herself a few moments to find her balance before pushing to her feet.

It never failed to make her smile that she felt as if she were opening her eyes to a rainbow. Colors glinted from every corner. The walls were a soothing teal, the low-slung couch sapphire blue. Drapes framed the floor-to-ceiling window in shimmering shades of emerald and amethyst. Pillows in a myriad of shapes, sizes and colors scattered like jewels over the couch, pouring onto the floor. A couple of topaz beanbags rounded out the seating around the low, surfboard-shaped ebony table.

On the far side of the room, partitioned off by a curtain of beads, was a hanging bed covered in white, with more pillows strewn over the surface so it looked like a fluffy cloud amid all the rest of the color. She had a few antique pieces here and there, a tiny kitchenette opposite the bed, with the only door other than the front one opening to a dollhouse-size bath.

The studio was unquestionably small. Cozy, she liked to call the space. It was actually the attic level of a renovated three-story Victorian. The polished wood floors creaked, and the plaster walls tended to let in the cold in the winter and the heat of summer.

Ava loved it.

Her mother hated it. It’d taken Ava a year or so to decide whether she loved it out of spite, a bit of rebellion against a domineering mother who considered her own opinions pure gold. Eventually, though, Ava had come to accept that the space simply suited her, and the whys didn’t matter. She considered that a sign of maturity.

Rising with a lithe move, Ava stretched her arms high overhead. Grasping each hand around the opposite wrist, she twisted from one side, then the other, pulling air all the way into her toes and greeting the sun rising outside her window.

She prepared for her day with Mack’s offer playing through her now-clear mind. It was tempting—so tempting—to say nope, she didn’t want commitments and responsibilities cluttering up her life. But the fact that she was automatically angling for the easy route told her that she shouldn’t.

She needed to consider the partnership seriously. Beyond the money, what it would cost? Was it worth the risk? How big of a difference would it make in her life, and could she be just as happy without it?

Ava gathered her gear for the day. Her duffel, with street clothes and a change of workout gear. Her iPhone, earbuds, charger, wallet. A new bottle of shampoo to replace the almost-empty one in her locker. Car keys, although she walked to work in good weather.

She capped the protein smoothie in her insulated mug and added it to the duffel, then crossed to the door. Hanging there on the wall by the heavy polished oak was a oval silver beveled frame, not more than three inches tall.

It didn’t hold a photo, but instead a swatch of pale blue fabric and a tiny lock of hair, shades deeper than her own nutmeg brown.

Ava kept most of her previous life exactly where it belonged—in the past. She’d locked away the memories, buried the emotions, let go of the reminders.

Except for this.

Her talisman. To remind her that while things might be simple now, she’d once held a life that made every complication worthwhile.

Dominic Prescott.

Her darling baby.

There was no buffer that could dim the pain of waking up one morning, surprised that the four-month-old had slept through the night. Riding high on her first full night’s sleep since his birth, breasts full to aching, she’d all but danced into the nursery to nurse her baby.

But he wouldn’t wake. He wasn’t breathing. He’d never opened those gorgeous eyes again. Other than the hysteria, Ava didn’t remember much after that. Not her husband finally coming home after three frantic days of trying to reach him. Not the doctor’s pronouncement. Not the funeral. Not the multiple people who’d tried to comfort her through a pain that couldn’t be assuaged.

SIDS. Sudden infant death syndrome. A clean, tidy term for the end of her world. A hideous loss that had blown her already-fractured marriage all to hell.

The only way she’d been able to survive was to leave it all behind. The perfect home she hadn’t chosen. The smothering attention of her controlling parents. Her charming prince of a husband who’d been too busy battling the world’s dragons to give a damn.

It had taken months of therapy to pull her out of the depths of depression enough to function, and another year to work through the guilt and hatred and self-blame. But, eventually, she’d accepted that her old life was over. Gone in a blaze of misery.

From those ashes, her new life had formed. The only thing she allowed herself to bring was her love for Dominic. Her sweet boy.

Ava pressed her fingers to her lips, transferred the kiss to the frame.

Then, chin high, she pulled her bright mood around her once again, grabbed the bag of granola she’d made the night before and headed out the door.

Five minutes later she stepped through a rustic grapevine arch into the lush bounty of greens and golds. Not as big as the Napa Community Garden, this plot served Chloe’s small neighborhood.

“Good morning,” Ava called when she spotted the blonde crouched low between rows of flowering tomato vines.

“We’re having fresh strawberries for breakfast,” Chloe declared in lieu of a greeting. She rose with a smile, tipping the basket to show off the bright red fruit. “And a couple of nectarines, a sprig of grapes and, mmm, the first pears of the season.”

Her stomach growling in appreciation, Ava gestured to the rest of the bounty. “And the cabbage, beets and cucumbers?”

“Juice bar,” Chloe declared, stuffing the vegetables into a cotton bag. “I’m trying a couple of new recipes. Want to be my tester?”

Ava eyed the sad-looking spears of asparagus and, remembering how long it had taken to rinse away the bitter coating of the last recipe she’d tested, shook her head. “Not even a little bit.”

Ava pulled the granola out of her tote while she waited for Chloe to gather the rest of her ingredients, her bullet journal and a fist-size ring of keys.

Nibbling on the oat-and-almond mixture as her friend turned off the hose, Ava checked the time on her cell phone. Six forty. Leave it to Chloe to be right on schedule.

Granola in the summer, bran muffins in the winter, fruit year-round. Thanks to the near perfection of Northern California’s weather, they shared this routine of breakfast to-go and a morning walk to the gym whenever their schedules meshed.

Chatting about everything and nothing between bites, the two women strolled along the riverside promenade that fronted downtown Napa on their way to the gym.

“The guy would have been irritating if it wasn’t so funny watching him try to stay on the yoga ball during planks,” Ava said as she wound up her story about a know-it-all first timer who’d tried to take over her core class the night before. “He finally quit trying to instruct the rest of the class on proper form the third time he went down on his head.”

“Bet all that giggling gave everyone some extra core work, too.” Chloe laughed. “But, hey, speaking of irritating? That creepy guy, Rob? The one who drives that gas-guzzling monster truck and calls every woman he meets a doll? I heard he’s given up trying to hire you as a personal trainer. He’s decided to go the massage route instead. He’s one of those guys that think getting naked on your table will turn the tide. Like you’re gonna see a woody and jump on. You know, to ride it like a pogo stick.”

Ava wrinkled her nose. “And yet I manage to resist.”

“Speaking of pogo sticks...” The blonde gave Ava a playful look. “I have the perfect guy for you. He’s a banker, which is like, totally uptight sounding. But he’s not, really. He used to jam with Bones in this jazz band, and he’s pretty fit. Not gym fit, but he plays B-ball with the guys every weekend so he’s not a slob, ya know?”

“Nope.” Ava breathed in the cool morning air, reveling in the simplicity of it all.

“Don’t say no. Just listen—he’s a nice guy. He drives a BMW, has good personal hygiene and likes Bourne movies. He mows his mom’s lawn even.”

“Nope.” Wondering if she could get an extra yoga session in before her afternoon classes, Ava tried to remember her massage schedule. She knew she had morning clients but wasn’t sure if she had someone booked at eight or at nine. She wished Mack would move to a computerized system. Then she could sync it to her phone, change it on the go. It might be worth considering the partnership offer for that reason alone.

“Ava, you’re not listening,” Chloe complained as they left the riverfront promenade, crossing the street toward a row of redbrick shops.

When they passed the bakery, Ava breathed in the yeasty scent of fresh-baked bread and promised herself she’d stop on the way home for a small round of sourdough.

“I listened. You want me to date a lawn-mowing, mother-loving, BMW-driving banker. Why, I’m not sure, so if you mentioned that part you’re right—I wasn’t listening.”

“Because he’s hot. He’s nice. And you need to date. If you don’t, you’re going to dry up inside. You know the rule about muscles. Use them or lose them.” Chloe added an arch look at Ava’s hips just in case she missed the point about which muscles were in question.

“I’ve got a Bikram yoga class this evening. Don’t worry—I’ve got it covered.” She offered a sassy smile. “Moist, hot air and a lot of Kegals. See, that way nothing dries out or withers away.”

“You’re killing me.” Chloe sighed before stepping into the small health-food store. She came out again, adding a bag of flaxseed and tube of honey to the vegetables in her bag, and picked up the conversation as if it had never stopped. “So, are you going out with this guy or not?”

“Not. I’d rather spend the time figuring out what I want to do about Mack’s proposition.”

“Proposition? Do tell,” Chloe insisted, leaning closer with a naughty smile.

“Not that kind of proposition.” Ava rolled her eyes at Chloe’s lash-fluttering attempt at innocence. “As if you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

“Well, I’ll admit to hearing a thing or two about Mack’s plans to take on a partner.” With her usual exuberance, Chloe waved to shopkeepers and tourists alike as they picked up their pace. “With his travel schedule heating up and all those competition guys wanting him as a trainer, he’s gone as much as he’s here. So having someone he trusts on board would take a lot of worries off his big ol’ shoulders.”

“Uh-huh.” Giving Chloe a narrow look, Ava waggled her fingers in a tell-all gesture. “Spill it. What else have you heard?”

“Rumor is that you’re top of the list, but I think he’d consider Joe Peters or Con Barton if you turn him down.”

Oh. He had names lined up? Ava’s teeth snapped together at the realization that she didn’t have a lot of thinking room with those guys on the list. They were both solid trainers, and Con used to own a gym back east before following his wife to California.

“Hmm,” was all she said.

Chloe pursed red lips and considered Ava carefully. “I think you’d be a great boss, if that matters. Are you considering it? I mean, seriously considering. Not just pacifying Mack by thinking about it but planning to say no.”

Good question. “I don’t know.” Ava tapped her fingers on her thigh a few times, watching the river as a pair of kayakers found their rhythm. “It’s a big commitment, and it’d mean I have to get serious about things like schedules and time frames and budgeting my energy.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“I don’t know,” Ava said again. “I guess that’s what I have to figure out. I teach enough classes and have enough massage clients to cover my bills, and I can pick up extra classes here and there if I feel like it. Commitment is a big step. Right now I can just go with the flow.”

Of course, she kept throwing commitments into the flow, things like class competitions, black belt testing and new massage classes to increase the range of treatments she could offer clients. But those were all on her terms. It would be different if the schedule were etched in stone. Or at least carved in wood.

Wouldn’t it?

“Only dead fish go with the flow,” Chloe pointed out, her face perfectly serious.

Ava had to laugh. Leave it to Chloe to sum it up perfectly. “Well, I guess I’m still swimming, so I might as well consider it.”

By the time they strode into the gym, Ava realized she wasn’t just considering it. She was seriously considering it. She loved this place, she thought as they worked their way through the early gym rats toward the locker room. She really did. She appreciated the scent of exertion, the pounding music accompanied by swearing grunts and easy chatter.

“Are you sure you don’t want to meet the banker?” Chloe asked, eating the last of the strawberries while Ava stashed her bag in her locker. “He really is cute.”

“Nope. My schedule is full,” Ava replied. “Tonight I’m trying that new Bikram yoga class. Right now I’m heading to the supply closet for a dozen nunchakus for weapons training in this afternoon’s taekwondo class. And at some point I have Mack’s proposition to consider, remember?”

Chloe shook her head, her dreadlocks sweeping over the hemp straps of her beige tunic. “I tell you about the hottest guy you could ever meet, and you turn down a date because you claim you’re going to be busy stretching yourself into a pretzel in an oven filled with sweaty people. Then you receive a career-changing offer and you’re going to count out a bunch of sticks on chains so you can teach pajama-clad Bruce Lee wannabes?”

“Don’t be silly,” Ava shot back with a delighted smile. “I’m going to put my gi on first.”

* * *

WHETHER IT WAS twelve hours down, or simply getting his first dreamless night in months, Elijah woke feeling great.

Rested. Refreshed. Alive.

One way or another, Mack had always been there for him. He’d taught Elijah to drive in his Honda, had stood by him when Elijah had pissed off the family with his choice to join the Navy and had given him the sex talk at the tender age of twelve. Of course, Mack’s version had been more along the lines of birds and birds than birds and bees, but Elijah had been a smart kid. He’d made the translation without too much trouble. Mack had helped guide Elijah after his dad had died, then a dozen years later had gotten him through the darkest time in his life.

Elijah didn’t expect his cousin to fix his problems now; he was a big boy. He’d fix them himself. But it would be nice fixing them here.

With that in mind and ready to get started, Elijah rolled out of bed. He snagged his jeans from the floor, fishing out his cell phone to check the time: 8:05 a.m.

Elijah tugged on his pants, then strode out of the room in search of hot coffee and his cousin. He found neither. But as he wandered the apartment, he did find a note propped against the coffeepot.

Sorry! Got called away to step in as referee for a big match. Gotta follow the money. You chill here, take it easy, rest up. We’ll talk when I get back. I know I got things to explain. Get your massage—you’re booked for 8:30. I’ll be back in a few hours. In the meantime, coffee is ready to go, just push the red button.

Elijah read it twice, but no amount of cryptology training was making Mack-speak any clearer. So he took the last part to heart, pushed the red button and noted he had enough time for coffee and a shower.

He was still feeling good when he stepped out of the apartment. Damned good.

It wasn’t pride that made Elijah take the stairs down to the Fit Wellness Clinic. It was a desperate attempt to work the stiffness out of his leg before someone started pummeling it.

Located in the same building, the clinic was as unisex and comfortable as the rest of the gym, with wide glass doors opening to the street and a juice bar along one wall. The narrow hallway leading to the treatment rooms was guarded by a display counter showcasing fitness gear, energy bars and insulated bottles. Sitting behind the counter was a pretty blonde who looked like she’d gotten lost somewhere between deciding if she wanted to be a hippie or a sex symbol. Her dreadlocks were tied back from her face with a wide magenta hairband, her shirt appeared to be made from hemp and her lips were painted bloodred.

Elijah approached her with a wary smile. “Hi. I’m booked for an eight-thirty massage.”

“You must be Bruce Banner.” Her smile was appreciative. “Mack said you were a big boy.”

“Is that what Mack said?” Not as big as the Hulk, though. Figuring there was no point trying to explain his cousin’s joke, Elijah shrugged.

“You’re in room one. Go ahead and go on in. Strip down naked and get comfy on the table.” She inclined her head toward the first door on the left. “You let me know if you need any help.”

“You the one who’s going to come work the kinks out?” he asked.

“I wish. But you’re down for an injury rehabilitation massage, and we only have one person qualified for that.” Her sigh said that person wasn’t her. “Your therapist will be with you in a few minutes.”

Therapist. Elijah grimaced. He’d had enough of that. But he didn’t figure anyone rubbing his burn-scarred flesh was going to ask what was going through his head. They’d be too busy holding back their gasps of horror.

He stepped into the massage room, letting the door close behind him as he checked it out. The therapists must have free rein on their decorating choices, because this was not a room done by Mack.

The colors were soothing, cream and tan with splashes of black and red to keep it from being boring. There was an Asian feel to the art and statuary, with delicate coins on a red string hanging in one corner and chimes in another. But the star of it all was the massage table. Bigger than most, it looked sturdy enough to hold an elephant and was set at its lowest height, telling Elijah that the massage therapist was probably a woman.

Cool, he grinned.

He wouldn’t mind being rubbed down by female hands. Something that his recovery had put on the no-fly list for the last few months.

He stripped down, neatly folding his clothes and stacking them on the chair. Comfortable with his nudity, he reached for the ceiling, stretching out muscles still tight from yesterday’s drive, then climbed under the sheet.

Maybe that was his problem, Elijah considered as he propped his chin on his fists and began systematically relaxing his muscles. He started with his toes, breathing deep, relaxing each digit before moving on to his ankles and calves.

Maybe all he needed was a good lay. A hot ride to clear his pipes, knock loose the kinks and get him back in fighting condition.

His eyes drifted closed as he felt a few of the tighter knots loosen in his thigh. Seemed like his body was all for that idea.

About the time he’d breathed relaxation into his shoulders, he heard the door open. A familiar scent tickled his awareness, teased his senses with both desire and dread.

“Sorry I’m running late, Mr. Banner. Bruce, is it?” There was humor in the friendly words and a hint of doubt. “I hope my delay didn’t upset you.”

Elijah didn’t have to turn his head to know who had just walked in. Like her scent, he’d know her voice anywhere.

Fuck.

He was going to kick Mack’s ass sideways.

He forced his expression to clear before he turned on the massage bed, propping himself on one elbow and offering as close to a friendly smile as he could manage.

“Hello, Ava.”

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