by Tawny Weber
Darby blinked. Before she could decide if she was flattered or not—and why even wondering made her feel so weird—he continued.
“Even yesterday in that courtroom, you showed style. Take-charge power. From those skyscraper shoes to the way your skirt fits to that gold chain, you embrace your femininity. The colors, the unapologetic black and in-your-face red? They make it clear that you’re a force to be reckoned with.”
Okay, she actually was flattered. And a little disturbed that he saw so clearly into the very deliberate choices she made about her image. But he didn’t need to know that.
Darby shrugged.
“So?”
“So. Given that you know what style is and you have a firm handle on yours, I’d have thought your space would have some.” He glanced around again, shook his head. “Did you rent this furnished or something? Do you rent your space to strangers when you’re not around, so you keep it as bland as white bread?”
A little offended, Darby looked around.
The entry, only big enough for a small table she used to hold her purse and keys, opened into the living area. It was flanked on one wall by a sliding glass door, the four-foot patio beyond overlooking a spit of emerald grass and carefully manicured bushes. A short, white counter jutted between the living room and her kitchen. It was spotless but a light coat of dust shadowed everything but the coffee maker and sink.
The walls were beige, the couch and matching chairs tan. The wood coffee and end tables were a few shades darker, completing the monochromatic theme. The only shift in color was the flat-screen TV on the wall over the never-used—it was California for crying out loud—fireplace.
So what? She wasn’t a homebody, had the cooking skills of a college freshman and if her mother was to be believed, all the decorating sense of a teenage boy. Added to that, given Southern California’s high cost of living and the fact that she spent very little time here, a bigger space would be a waste of money. As it was, rent was high enough to limit how much she could send her mom each month and, worse, how many pairs of shoes she could afford.
Still, she couldn’t deny that she felt a little insulted by his words.
“White-bread bland?” she countered with a frown. “Really?”
“You disagree?”
She wanted to, if for no other reason than on principle.
But all she could offer was a shrug.
“It suits my needs.”
“If you say so.” He nodded slowly. “I suppose it works pretty well at fighting insomnia.”
“Now that’s just mean,” Darby said, trying not to laugh. Then, upset with herself for letting him put even the smallest hole in her defenses, she reached for irritation. Not anger—she couldn’t afford anything that passionate. But she could make irritation work. “Did you add poking through my bedroom to your little B-and-E visit tonight? What’s next? Peeking into my underwear drawer?”
Nic gave her a long look, those dark eyes moving from the sassily flipped ends of her hair where they skimmed her jaw and down her throat to rest on her breasts.
She was covered. Her jacket, her blouse, hell, her bra. There was no way he could see through to flesh. But Darby felt as if he was running his fingers over her skin. Her nipples tightened as if he’d rubbed them with his thumbs, circling and swirling and teasing her into higher and higher levels of excitement.
Darby barely resisted crossing her arms over her breasts to stop the sensations. She did manage a scowl, though.
It only made his smile widen.
“You know me better than that, Darby. I don’t visit a lady’s bedroom without an invitation.”
“I don’t know you,” she countered. She knew the words sounded defensive, she knew they were fueled by guilt as much as her work ethic. But she needed some distance from the intimacy that seemed to arc between them like shimmering beams of light.
“Does it help to tell yourself that?” he mused, his expression showing nothing more than mild curiosity. “I’ve never had to attack someone I’ve slept with. I’d imagine it goes down a little easier if you deny there was anything other than random sex.”
“You consider the charges against you an attack?”
“Is this where we get into the semantics of lawyer speak? I should warn you, I’ve attended numerous SOC courses at the Naval Justice School over the years. Senior officers courses come in handy, both in commanding SEALs and in leading Poseidon.”
Did he do this on purpose? she wondered. Give her these openings to poke and prod, to dig for details she could use against him? She thought back to that talk on the beach, to the way he bared his heart in the moonlight. Didn’t he realize she was using his confession of guilt already? Why would he give her more?
Unless he was up to something.
Darby might not be military, but she knew strategy. And smart strategy, at this moment, was to find out what he was up to, then counter it.
So she made a show of giving a deep sigh, hoping it seemed she was ready to relax as she dropped into the chair. She gave him a smile, keeping it on the edge between agreeable and friendly, but not crossing into invitation.
That was going to be even harder than getting any usable information out of him. The pretending she wasn’t affected, that she didn’t want to invite him into her bedroom, strip them both naked and relive a little island paradise? It was going to take a lot of work.
But she’d never been one to shy from work. Not even when the outcome seemed impossible.
She made a show of looking around, pulled on a disgruntled expression and shrugged.
“My place has more personality than any barracks,” she claimed, pretending the chair cushion wasn’t as stiff as a brand-new board.
“And you would know this, how? Spent much time in barracks, have you?”
“It’s just a place. Where I sleep, store my stuff. I suppose it has that in common with barracks,” she said, sidestepping his question. “Is that where you live now? In the barracks? I’d think an officer would merit something a little fancier.”
“Just a place? Because your job, your work, it’s your priority?” He stretched one arm out across the back of her couch and gave her that long, deep look of his. “You’re a driven workaholic, completely focused on career success at the expense of everything else. Not that you care about much else, right? Friendships are low on your priority scale and easy to ignore or sidestep most of the time.”
Talk about sidestepping. Darby clenched her teeth against the urge to snap out a few curses and tell him just exactly what she thought of his clever insights.
A mistake, she realized, since he took her silence as permission to keep spouting those insights.
“My family inspires me to be better, to excel. But I’m guessing your family is, what? A burden? A demand?”
A curse, dragging her down even as it pushed her forward.
Darby pressed her lips together instead of sharing that. Instead she pushed to her feet. To hell with strategy. She wanted him gone.
“You don’t know me,” she snapped. “A few nights rolling around naked together, a few meals and some water play doesn’t give you any special knowledge of who I am.”
“You don’t think so?”
Nic slowly shifted, rolling to his feet in a gracefully sinuous move. Because she was barefoot, he towered over her, his uniform only adding to the impression of power.
“I’d say I know you pretty well. Not everything,” he said with a contemplative tilt of his head. “Not nearly everything. Yet. But enough.”
Enough for what?
“Is that why you’re here? To intimidate me with what you see as clever insights?” Or did he think he could scare her into recusing herself from the case? No, she realized looking at the calm composure on his face. He wasn’t afraid she was a threat.
His mistake.
“Is that what you think? That what we had between us was intimidating?” Nic’s smile was somewhere between smug and challenging.
Darby knew she should ignore it. She was too smart to step into such an obvious verbal trap.
But she couldn’t resist that smile.
“Please, do you think I’m scared of a little moonlight romance and hot sex?” she said with a wave of her hand, ignoring the flare of heat in her belly reminding her that yes, she was a little scared of romance and hot sex when it was unforgettable.
“I don’t think you’re scared of much. Truth be told, I don’t think it matters if you’re scared—you don’t back down from anything.”
Darby hadn’t been raised to expect praise—why bother when she’d never been as good as her brother? But she was damn good at what she did, so praise rarely shocked her.
So why did it now?
“What’s your point?” she asked, trying to shake off the discomfort as she shifted from one bare foot to the other.
“My point? I don’t know that I have one. What I do have is a curiosity.” His lips twitched at her stubborn silence. After a dozen or so seconds, he inclined his head. “We spent a lot of time together that week. Despite your mandate that we keep the details of our actual identities secret, you fished for plenty of intel in those supposedly innocent little chats.”
She should have. If she’d known who he was, she would have. But damn if she wouldn’t have been smarter about it. She’d have asked better, specific questions that would have gotten her solid, indictable information.
But she’d been too busy with that romance and hot sex.
“What are you accusing me of?”
“Accusing you of? Nothing. Actually, I’m only here to get the answer to a single question.”
“Just one?”
“Just one. Did you know who I was on Hanalei? Were you already building your case against me? Was that the why for what happened between us?”
She wanted to say yes.
God, she wanted to pretend that everything had been a clever plot. A carefully orchestrated plan to gather insight and information for the case. She wished she was that good. She wanted him to believe she was that good.
But lawyer jokes aside, she just wasn’t that good of a liar.
“No.” Darby pressed her lips together, the lie bitter in her throat. So bitter, she had to admit the truth. “Not at first. Not until that last night.”
“When I was called away.” His eyes still locked on her, he walked closer and gave a stiff nod. “So the rest, that was just us. No client confidentiality at stake, of course. But still, everything I told you, I told in confidence.”
He skirted around her. Close enough that she could feel the heat from his body, smell his scent teasing her memories.
Darby turned to watch as he strode to the door. One hand on the knob, he glanced back and arched one brow.
“Something to think about.”
For a long time after he left, Darby stood next to that stiff, unbroken-in chair. She stared at the closed front door, her thoughts a tangled mess of confusion and doubt.
He’d broken into her apartment with the casual ease of a cat burglar.
He’d waited. Confronted her. Taunted her decorating style—or lack thereof.
He’d put his defense at risk. And with it, his commission. His team. His reputation. His freedom.
Why?
To find out if she’d known who he was on the island?
To ask if she’d slept with him for information?
To... What? Discern whether the feelings—whatever they might be—between them were real or not?
Darby rubbed her thumb against the pain throbbing between her brows and sighed.
Now just what the hell was she supposed to make of all of that?
* * *
NIC HAD FIGURED the unending repercussions of someone trying to torpedo his career had hit total crap when he’d buried one of his best men.
Oh, how wrong he’d been.
And it only took getting kicked in the gut by the reality that one of the attorneys prosecuting him was the woman he’d thought he was falling for to make him realize just how wrong he’d been.
So he did exactly what he’d been trained to do as a SEAL.
He embraced the shit.
He learned from it. Measured his weaknesses, shored up his defenses and strategized the best way to win this damn war.
He was done with defense.
It was time to launch his own attack.
With that in mind, he strode through the brig the next morning, focused on clearing his mind. He set aside the fury, shifted the memories into a box, sidelined the knife-in-the-back feeling of betrayal.
He put it all aside. He was here for one reason and one reason only.
To look the enemy in the eye.
He silently made his way through a series of security checkpoints, each requiring a higher clearance than the last. The final set of steel doors required a retinal scan, a thumb scan and one of the two guards calling in a verification while the other stood with one finger on the trigger of his rifle.
“You have the green light, Lieutenant Commander,” the first guard said once he disconnected the secured phone line. “Fifteen minutes. Master at Arms Quinn will accompany and observe.”
Savino nodded. He’d expected no less.
So he waited for Quinn’s scan, then for the heavy doors to slide open. He followed the beefy man through the security point and down the steel hallway, their boots clanging dully in the silence. Nic hadn’t spent a lot of time in prisons, civilian or military, so he couldn’t be sure if this level of quiet was the norm or if Navy prisoners were simply well-behaved.
“Sir.” Quinn gestured to the door at the end of a short hallway. “The comm link is now open. Please be advised that your conversation will be recorded. Your fifteen minutes begins now.”
Nic nodded his thanks. Eyeing the communications system, he made a mental note to request access, then he stepped up to the barred door. A glance through the reinforced glass showed a sparse metal cell. A cot, a sink, a toilet and a chair were the extent of the furnishings, all made of the same cold steel as the walls.
The only things that weren’t metal were the thin blanket-covered mattress and the man lying on it. Unlike the last time Nic had seen him, Ramsey’s hair was once again military-short, his gray digies a few shades darker than the walls of his cell. Instead of spit-and-polish boots, his bare feet were planted on the mattress.
Since the guy had one arm crossed over his face, Nic could watch unobserved for a moment. And he liked what he saw.
He could have had Ramsey pulled into interrogation. He could have had him pulled into an interview room.
But he’d wanted to see him here.
In prison.
Behind bars.
Locked away.
Not caring that the satisfaction in his gut was unprofessional, Nic took a long moment to look over the man.
Lieutenant Brandon Ramsey had served under him for ten months. A golden boy, in looks and reputation, the guy had built a reputation as one of the best. His problem was he couldn’t settle for “one of.” In Ramsey’s mind, there could only be “the one.”
And he figured he was it.
But ego was no match for training.
Arrogance couldn’t top teamwork.
And nothing could beat Poseidon.
But this motherfucker sure had tried.
In doing so, this man had betrayed his commission. He’d deceived the Navy. He’d sold out his fellow SEALs. He’d committed treason against his country.
And he’d tried to set up Poseidon for all of it.
Nic worked to cont
ain his fury. This man, this conniving asshole, had killed a good man in cold blood.
Nic would be damned if he’d get away with ruining the rest of the team, too.
He punched the button to engage the comm.
“Ramsey.”
The other man dropped his arm to his side. Contempt obvious in his stance, Ramsey didn’t sit up. He didn’t stand, he didn’t come to attention. He simply turned his head. And gave Nic a cold stare.
Knowing the guy had taken as much pride in his looks as his skills, Nic made a show of looking him up and down. Then, letting his expression fall somewhere between pity and disdain, he shook his head.
“You’re not looking so good,” Nic observed, eyeing the puckered scar bisecting the pretty boy’s cheek. Bitterness had etched lines on his face and the once tough and toned build was sagging without the intense workout regime that turned SEALs into weapons.
“No worries. I’ll be looking fine again when I get out of here,” Ramsey said. His tone was mocking, but Nic could see the fury in his eyes.
“You keep telling yourself that.”
“Facts are facts, man. You know them as well as I do. Why else would the revered leader of Poseidon be paying me a visit? I hear your kingdom is crumbling, Savino. And you’re going to be crushed in the rubble.”
“Is that what you hear?” Nic made a note to find out who the guy had been talking to. Solitary confinement should be keeping his intel limited to the weather. But they already knew Ramsey wasn’t working alone.
Beyond the personal satisfaction of seeing this rat caged, that was why Nic was here. To keep digging. To find out who Ramsey worked for, who he worked with. Then bring them down.
“I hear you’re facing charges.” Grinning now, Ramsey sat up and swung his feet to the floor as he rested his back against the wall. “How’s that feel? Knowing your ass is being investigated. That people see you as a criminal? Bet it irks the hell out of your high and mighty ass, doesn’t it?”
“What infuriates me is knowing scum like you once wore a uniform. Knowing that you served next to honorable men while betraying everything you’d sworn to protect.” Nic gave him a cold stare. “But irked? That’s like bothered, isn’t it? A mild irritation? That’s about all you are, Ramsey. Not even impressive enough to warrant pissed off.”