Tall, Dark and Dangerous Vol 1: Tall, Dark and FearlessTall, Dark and Devastating

by Suzanne Brockmann

  She was wonderful. And he was crazy in love with her.

  Her smile faded and there was only warmth in her eyes, warmth and that ever-present flame of desire. She moved back into his arms, and lifted her mouth to his and…

  God, he was kissing her. He was actually kissing her.

  He took her lips hungrily, pulling her lithe body closer to him. He wanted to inhale her, devour her, become one with her. He kissed her again and again, his tongue sweeping fiercely past any pretense of civility, as he savagely claimed her mouth.

  He could feel her arms around his neck, feel her pressing herself even tighter against him as she kissed him with equal abandon.

  It was so right. It was so utterly, perfectly right. This woman, his arms around her, their two hearts beating—pounding—in unison. Two souls intertwined. Two minds so different, yet alike.

  Joe knew with sudden frightening clarity what he’d been fighting and denying to himself for days now.

  He wanted.

  Ronnie St. John.

  Permanently.

  As in “till death do us part.”

  He wanted to make love to her, to possess her, to own her heart as completely as she owned his. He wanted to see her eyes widen in pleasure, hear her cry his name as he filled her, totally, absolutely, in a perfect act of total and binding love.

  For the first time in his life, Joe understood the concept of happily ever after. It was a promise he’d never allowed himself before, an impossible rank he’d never thought to achieve.

  But it was right there, staring him in the face whenever Veronica walked into the room. It was in the way she stood, the way she tilted her head very slightly as she listened to him talk, the way she tried so ineffectually to tuck her wild curls back up into her bun, the way her blue eyes danced as she laughed. And it was in the way she was kissing him, as if she, too, wanted to wrap her gorgeous mile-long legs around his waist and feel him inside her forever and ever and ever and ever.

  But then, as suddenly as the kiss had started, it stopped.

  Veronica pulled away, as if she suddenly realized that they were standing in the middle of the hospice chapel, surrounded by stained glass and soothing dark wood and candles, with a FInCOM agent watching them from the doorway. A nun knelt quietly before the altar. They’d been standing there, kissing, in front of a nun, for crying out loud….

  Veronica’s cheeks flushed pink as Joe looked into her eyes, trying to see what she was thinking. Was this just another “mistake”? Or was this simply a more emotional thank-you? Or was it more than that? Please, God, he wanted it to be more. He wanted it to mean she was feeling all of the things that he felt. But they weren’t alone, and he couldn’t ask. He couldn’t even speak. All he could do was hope.

  She looked away from him, the expression in her eyes unreadable as she murmured an apology.

  An apology. Mistakes and accidents required apologies.

  Joe’s heart sank as the FInCOM agents quickly led them both back to the waiting limos. And when Kevin Laughton hustled Veronica into a different limousine and she didn’t even glance in Joe’s direction before getting inside, his heart shattered.

  He had his answer. That kiss had been another mistake.

  * * *

  Joe was quiet on the charter flight to Boston. Even his friends from the Alpha Squad knew enough to stay away from him.

  Veronica slipped into the seat next to his, and he glanced up, his eyes wary.

  “Are you all right?” she asked quietly.

  He smiled tightly. “Why wouldn’t I be all right?”

  Veronica wasn’t sure how to answer that question. Because you just spent time with a dying child. Because you talked to her and you didn’t try to pretend that she had a future, that she wasn’t dying. Because it hurts like hell to know that there’s nothing you or anyone else can do for that little girl, except make her smile a few more times….

  And because you kissed me as if your world were crumbling beneath your very feet, and when I pulled away, you looked at me as if I were ripping the heart from your chest….

  Joe shook his head. “You know, that’s the problem when big, mean guys like me show we actually have a soul,” he complained. “Everyone gets all worried, like, he lost it once, now he’s gonna burst into tears every time someone says ‘Boo.’ Well, forget about it. I’m fine.”

  Veronica nodded, not daring to comment, certainly not daring to mention the kiss. Not yet. They sat for a moment in silence, and then she turned back to look at him. “I had no idea you spoke French,” she said, tackling a much safer subject, hoping he’d be the one to bring up the topic of the kiss they’d shared. “And Russian?”

  Joe shrugged. “I’m a language specialist,” he said, shortly. “It’s no big deal.”

  “How many languages do you speak?”

  “Eight,” he said.

  “Eight,” Veronica repeated. The way he said it, it was nothing. She spoke English and French and a very small bit of Spanish, and that hadn’t been nothing. In fact, it had been a great deal of work.

  “Someone in the team has to be able to communicate with the locals,” he said, as if that explained everything. His SEAL Team needed him to speak eight different languages, so he’d learned eight different languages.

  “What else do you specialize in?” she asked.

  Joe shrugged. “The usual SEAL tricks.”

  “Balancing beach balls on your nose and barking like a dog?”

  He finally smiled. “Not quite,” he said.

  “I assume some kind of swimming is involved,” Veronica said. “Or else you wouldn’t be called SEALs.”

  “Yeah, swimming,” he said. “And scuba diving. Skydiving. Parasailing.” He started ticking the list off on his fingers. “Explosives, underwater and on land. Weapons and other high-tech war toys. Martial arts and some less conventional hand-to-hand techniques. Computers. Locks. Alarm systems. And so on.”

  “Admiral Forrest said you were a sharpshooter,” Veronica said. “An expert marksman.”

  “Everyone in SEAL Team Ten is,” he replied, shrugging it off.

  “Besides languages, what else do you specialize in?” Veronica asked.

  He gazed at her for several long seconds. “I know a little more than the other guys when it comes to the high-tech war toys,” he finally said. “I’m also a classified expert in jungle, desert and arctic survival. You know about the languages and my…ability to mimic. Comes in handy at times. I can fly any type of aircraft, from a chopper to a Stealth.” He smiled, but it lacked the wattage of his usual grins. “Hell, I could probably handle the space shuttle if I had to. And I’m an expert mechanic. I could fix it if it breaks. There’s some other stuff that you don’t want to know, and some that I can’t tell you.”

  Veronica nodded slowly. Admiral Forrest had told her much of this before, but she hadn’t believed it. She probably still wouldn’t believe it if she hadn’t heard Joe speaking perfect French. He could do all those incredible things, superhuman things, and yet it was his humanity—his compassion and kindness for a dying child—that had moved her the most. Moved her profoundly.

  She looked down at her hands, folded nervously in her lap. “Joe, about this morning,” she started to say.

  “It’s okay, Ronnie. You can forget about it,” he interrupted, knowing that she was talking about their kiss. His eyes were guarded as he glanced at her again. He looked away, out the window of the jet. “It was…something we both needed right then. But, it…didn’t mean anything, and I know you’re not going to let it happen again. No more mistakes, right? So we don’t need to talk about it. In fact, I’d rather not talk about it.”

  “But…”

  “Please,” he said, turning to look at her again.

  It didn’t mean anything. His words suddenly penetrated, and Veronica stared at him, her mouth slightly open. She closed her mouth, and looked back down at her hands.

  She sat there in silence, afraid to move, afraid to breathe,
afraid to think, because she was afraid of what she’d feel.

  It didn’t mean anything.

  That kiss had been more than a kiss. It had been an exchange of emotions, a joining of souls. It had been filled with feelings she didn’t want to feel, powerful feelings for a man who scared her more than she wanted to admit. A man who specialized in making war. A man who risked his life as a matter of course. A man she’d tried to keep her distance from. Tried and failed.

  She’d kissed him. In public. And he thought it didn’t mean anything?

  The seat-belt light flashed on, and the pilot’s voice came over the loudspeaker.

  “We’re approaching Boston. Please return to your seats.”

  Joe stared out the window as if he’d never seen Boston before, as if the aerial view was infinitely more interesting than anything he could see inside the jet.

  Veronica forced her voice to sound even and controlled. “We’ll be arriving in Boston in a few minutes,” she said. Joe lifted his head in acknowledgment, but still didn’t look in her direction. “From the airport, it’s only about a fifteen-minute drive downtown to the hotel where the charity luncheon is being held. Your speech will be on a TelePrompTer. It’ll be brief and all you’ll have to do is read it.

  “This evening, there’s a private party on Beacon Hill,” she said, wishing she felt as cool and detached as she sounded. Wishing she didn’t feel like crying. It didn’t mean anything. “The host and hostess are friends of Wila’s. And mine. So I won’t be in the surveillance van tonight.”

  He turned and frowned at her, his dark eyes piercing. “What? Why not?”

  “Ambassador Freder will be in the van,” Veronica said, purposely not meeting the intensity of Joe’s gaze. “I’ll be attending my friends’ party. There’ll be virtually no risk for you. Consider this another one of Tedric’s obligations that couldn’t be gotten out of.”

  She could feel him watching her, giving her a long, measuring look. “There’s never no risk,” he said. “I’d feel much better if you were in the van.”

  “We won’t stay long,” she said, glancing up at him.

  “Just long enough to get shot, maybe, huh?” Joe said. He forced a smile. “Relax, Ronnie, I was kidding.”

  “I don’t think getting shot is ever funny,” Veronica said tightly.

  “Sorry,” he said. God, she was strung as tight as he was. Probably the tension from worrying about his reaction to this morning’s kiss. No doubt the relief hadn’t set in yet.

  Sitting next to her like this was torture. Joe jerked his thumb toward the window. “It’s been a while since I’ve been in New England,” he said. “Mind if I…?”

  Veronica shook her head. “No, that’s…Go right ahead and…”

  He’d already turned to look out the window.

  She’d been dismissed.

  Rather than stare at the back of Joe’s head, agonizing over his impersonal words, Veronica ignored the seat-belt sign and stood, moving toward the front of the plane where there were several empty seats.

  It didn’t mean anything.

  Maybe not to Joe, but that kiss had meant something to Veronica.

  It meant she’d been a real fool.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  SALUSTIANO VARGAS, THE former right hand of the man known by most of the world only as Diosdado, stared at the telephone in his cheap motel room as it rang. It was hotter than hell in there and the air conditioner chugged away to no avail.

  He had told no one, no one, where he would be staying. Still, he knew damn well who was on the other end of the line. There was nowhere he could run where Diosdado couldn’t find him.

  He picked it up after the seventeenth ring, unable to stand it any longer. “Yes?”

  Diosdado said only one word. “When?”

  “Soon,” Vargas replied, closing his eyes. “You have my word.”

  “Good.” The line was cut without a goodbye.

  Vargas sat in the heat for several moments, not moving.

  It truly was hotter than hell in this cheap room.

  When he stood, it took him only a few minutes to pack up his things. He carried his suitcase to his rented car and headed across town—toward a fancy, expensive resort. He couldn’t afford to stay there, but he would put it on his credit card. He wanted luxury. He wanted clean sheets, a firm bed. He wanted room service and a view of a sparkling swimming pool with young girls lounging around it. He wanted the cool, sweet, fresh air of a fancy hotel room.

  He didn’t want hell. He’d be there soon enough.

  * * *

  As the applause died down, Joe smiled in the direction of the TV news cameras. “Good afternoon,” he said. “It is an honor and a pleasure to be here today.”

  Veronica couldn’t concentrate on his words. All her attention was on Blue and Cowboy and Harvard’s voices as they kept a constant lookout for danger.

  This was the perfect setting for an assassination attempt. There were TV cameras here from every network, including cable news, and the event was political—a hundred-dollars-a-plate fund-raiser for a well-known senator’s reelection campaign.

  But if the terrorists were going to try to shoot the prince—Joe—they hadn’t set up in any of the obvious vantage points. If they were here, they were in with the crowd, sitting in the rows of banquet tables.

  FInCOM agents were everywhere. Veronica could see them on her video screens, their eyes sweeping the crowd, watchful for any sign of danger or trouble.

  Please, Lord, protect Joe and keep him safe—

  There was a sudden commotion at one of the tables in the back, and Veronica’s heart lodged in her throat.

  She could hear the SEALs shouting and see the FIn-COM agents running, all converging on one table, and one man.

  “I have my rights!” the man was shouting as he was wrestled to the floor. “I’ve done nothing wrong! I’m a Vietnam veteran and I want to know—”

  Noise erupted as people tried to get away from the commotion, and the FInCOM agents tried to get the man out of the room. And Joe…Joe was still standing at the podium, watching. Why didn’t he get down, out of harm’s way?

  “Joe,” Veronica said into her microphone. “Take cover!”

  But he didn’t move.

  “Joe!” she said again. “Damn it, get down!”

  He wasn’t listening. He was watching as the man was dragged toward the door.

  “Wait,” he said sharply, his commanding voice echoing over the PA system, cutting through hubbub, through the sound of eight hundred voices all talking at once. “I said, wait!”

  Blue froze. They all froze—the FInCOM agents and their prisoner, looking up toward Joe. A hush fell over the crowd.

  “Is he armed?” Joe asked, more quietly now.

  Blue shook his head. “No, sir.”

  “I only wanted to ask a question, Your Highness,” the man called out, his voice ringing clearly across the room.

  Veronica sat on the edge of her seat, watching. She could see the TV cameras catching every bit of the drama.

  “He only wanted to ask a question,” Joe repeated mildly. He turned to Kevin Laughton, who now stood on the stage next to him. “Has it become illegal in this country to ask a question?”

  “No, sir,” Laughton said. “But—”

  Joe turned pointedly away from Laughton. “He would like to ask a question,” he said to the watching crowd, “and I would like to hear his question, if the rest of you don’t mind…?”

  Someone started to clap, and after a brief smattering of applause, Joe bowed his head to the man.

  “The question I wanted to ask you, Prince Tedric,” the man said in his clear voice, “and the question I want to ask all of you,” he added, addressing the entire crowd, “is how can you sit here in good conscience, spending so much money for one meal, when right next door a homeless shelter and soup kitchen for Vietnam veterans is about to be shut down from lack of funding?”

  It was so quiet in the room, a pin co
uld have been heard falling on the floor.

  Joe didn’t answer at first. He let the question sit, filling the air, surrounding all the luncheon guests.

  “What is your name?” Joe asked the man.

  “Tony Pope, sir,” the man said. “Sergeant Tony Pope, U.S. Marines, retired.”

  “You served in Vietnam, Sergeant?” Joe asked.

  Pope nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  Joe looked at Blue and the FInCOM agents who were still holding Pope’s arms. “I think you can release him,” he said. “I think we’ve determined he’s not out for blood.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Pope straightened his jacket and tie.

  He was a good-looking man, Veronica realized, with a neatly trimmed goatee and mustache. His suit was well-tailored, if rather worn and fraying in spots. He held himself proudly, standing tall, with his shoulders back and head high.

  “Do you run this homeless shelter, Sergeant Pope?” Joe asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Pope replied. “The Boylston Street Shelter. For ten years, sir.” His mouth tightened. “We’ve had some tough times, but never like this. The few grants we had left ran out, and it’ll be six months before we stand a chance of getting any additional funding. And now the city says we need to make repairs to the facility by the end of the month—Friday—or our site’s condemned. We barely have enough cash to feed our residents, let alone make the kind of repairs they’re demanding. To be bluntly honest, sir, the Vietnam vets that live at Boylston Street Shelter are getting screwed—again.”

  “How many men use your facility?” Joe asked quietly.

  “Daily we average around two hundred and fifty,” the man replied. “These are men who have nowhere else to go—no food, no place but the street to sleep.”

  Joe was silent.

  “Our yearly overhead cost is twenty thousand dollars,” Tony Pope said. He looked around the room. “That’s what two hundred of you are paying right now, for one single meal.”

  “Is the Boylston Street Shelter serving lunch today?” Joe asked.

  “Today and every day,” Pope said. “Until they nail our doors shut.”

  “Do you mind if I come take a look?” Joe asked.