Troubleshooters 03 Over The Edge

by Suzanne Brockmann

  In the loft, Marte turned to Helga, glee lighting her face. “They’re going to have a baby! We’re going to be aunts!”

  “Dear God in heaven,” Poppi’s face turned from pink to purple. “You got the girl pregnant. That’s what this is about.”

  Hershel got very quiet. “That’s not what I said. If you bothered to listen—”

  Poppi turned to Herr Gunvald. “How much?”

  Herr Gunvald shook his head and glanced back at his wife in confusion, as if she might know what Poppi had meant. She didn’t. “How much what?”

  “Money,” Poppi said.

  Out of all of them, it was only Hershel who seemed to understand. “Stop,” he ordered his father. “Don’t say another word.”

  But Poppi was furious. He wasn’t thinking at all—that was the excuse Helga gave him. It was the only way she could keep from hating him for what he’d then said.

  “How much money do you want,” he asked Annebet’s father, “to make this problem—the girl and the baby—go away?”

  Herr Gunvald’s reaction was to laugh in disbelief.

  Annebet was not quite so easily amused. “How dare you!” She escaped her mother’s grasp and launched herself toward Poppi. Or maybe Fru Gunvald pushed her into the yard. She looked pretty angry, too.

  “How dare you come here and say such things!” Annebet was outraged. “You . . . you . . .”

  “Vile Jew?” Wilhelm Gruber suggested from the gate.

  Helga hadn’t seen him approach, and they all turned, almost as one, to stare at the German soldier.

  He held his gun loosely in his hands, not over his shoulder, his position definitely threatening.

  Fru Rosen was still sitting in the carriage, on the same side of the gate as Gruber, within a few short feet of the man. The way he was holding his gun, the barrel was pointing directly at her. She looked as if she were about to faint.

  Annebet alone had the presence of mind to cross the yard to her. “Get your ugly thoughts and your ugly face away from my parents’house!” she said, leveling her anger at Gruber as she went past him. “Fru Rosen, won’t you come inside for a cup of tea? You must be thirsty after your ride over here.”

  It was absurd, the ride over had been a five-minute nothing. But Annebet practically lifted her new mother-in-law out of the wagon and nearly carried her past Gruber and up the path, away from him.

  Fru Gunvald took over, bringing Helga’s mother into the house. It wasn’t really that much safer, but it had the illusion of being so.

  Annebet turned back to Wilhelm Gruber. “Leave. Now!”

  Her father stepped up beside her, as if creating a wall between Gruber and the Rosens. It was a very big, very strong, very angry wall.

  “There was a commotion,” Gruber explained, “and I came to investigate. In Germany, nine times out of ten, if there are angry voices, there are Jews involved.”

  “He’s furious,” Marte whispered to Helga, “at Annebet for marrying Hershel. He’s even more furious at Hershel.”

  “In Germany, it’s hard for Jewish civilians not to be involved when thugs break the windows of their stores or attack them on the streets,” Annebet countered hotly.

  Gruber addressed Herr Gunvald, Aryan man to Aryan man. “You have to admit, your troubles didn’t start until she married that kike.”

  Herr Gunvald got large. “We don’t use that kind of language here. We don’t believe in Dark Age thinking—that race or religion makes one man different from another. We don’t believe in a God who commands us to destroy anyone and everyone who doesn’t think the way we do. Before you Germans closed the borders, people came to Denmark for freedom of religion and we welcomed them. The Rosens are Danish citizens now and while you are in Denmark, when you are in my yard, you will address them with respect!”

  “This commotion has nothing to do with anyone’s belief in God,” Annebet added. “It’s about a father who doesn’t realize his son has become a man with a will of his own.”

  “It’s about a wealthy man who’s forgotten that there’s far more to make a man rich than money in the bank,” Hershel said.

  “Leave my yard,” Herr Gunvald ordered Gruber sternly, “before I call the Danish police.”

  Gruber looked at Annebet, all of the fight and anger gone from his eyes, leaving only perplexed sorrow. “You could have had me,” he said. “It won’t be long until he’s rounded up—him and the others. You have to know it’s coming. So why would you choose him over me?”

  “I love him,” Annebet said.

  “I love you,” Gruber said, tears in his eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” Annebet whispered.

  “And I’m sorry for you.” With one last look at Hershel, Gruber turned and walked away.

  For several long moments, no one moved, no one spoke.

  Then Poppi started toward the wagon. “Get your mother,” he commanded Hershel.

  That was it. No words of apology. No mention of thanks. Helga burned with shame, fighting tears, while Poppi loaded her mother onto the wagon and they silently pulled away.

  “Anna, I’m so sorry,” she heard Hershel say to Annebet.

  She pulled him into her arms, held him close. “It is coming, you know,” she said. “God help us all.”

  And up in the loft, Marte put her arm, warm and heavy, around Helga’s shoulders. “He’ll come around,” she whispered. “Your poppi. Right now he’s scared. My father says he has every right to be frightened, but that he shouldn’t be. Because we won’t let them take you anywhere.”

  Helga looked into her best friend’s fierce blue-green eyes.

  “We won’t,” Marte whispered. “We won’t.”

  --------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  Seventeen

  The sun was just starting to come up as Sam Starrett dragged his tired ass back down the hotel corridor. Then there he was. Room 812.

  He stood in the hallway, just staring at the numbers on the door, afraid to open the damn thing.

  Now, there was some real irony. He’d spent the past long hours practicing opening a door to a hijacked airplane and going head-to-head with AK-47-wielding terrorists.

  He was pretty much one hundred percent certain that there were no terrorists behind the door to his hotel room.

  Only Alyssa Locke.

  Of course, he’d rather face the wrath of a thousand religious zealots than deal with her anger as she realized he’d taken advantage of her again. He’d rather face those thousand zealots than live through the disappointment this morning was destined to bring.

  Although maybe he could slip back into the room without waking her. Maybe he could shower off the dust and sweat of the past hours and climb back into bed, beside her.

  It was that pathetic hope, that he could have even just another half hour—hell, he’d take fifteen minutes—with her sweet warmth next to him, that kept him from turning around and hiding in the hotel restaurant until he was certain she’d returned to her own room.

  He unlocked the door silently, careful not to let the latch click.

  The room was dim, most of the early morning light kept out by the heavy curtains.

  Sam closed the door behind him just as silently as he’d opened it, setting his vest on the floor and letting his eyes adjust to the low levels of light.

  The bed was in the shadows. If she was still here, she was silent and unmoving. Still sound asleep.

  He took a step farther into the room.

  And nearly jumped out of his skin as the bathroom door opened behind him.

  “Jesus Christ!”

  “Starrett! My God!” Her hair was wet from the shower, and she wore only a towel wrapped around her, held in place under her arms. She was awake, she was sober, and if her expression were any indication, she was already angry with him.

  God damn, she looked good wearing only a towel. Sam wanted to touch her, to run his hands across her smooth shoulders and down the gracefully muscled
contours of her arms. He wanted to unwind her from the towel so he could see not just the very tops of her breasts but her entire beautiful body. He wanted to kiss her, to make love to her, to fall asleep exhausted and satisfied beside her. He wanted to wake up to her smile every day for the rest of his life, like some stupid coffee commercial on TV.

  He fucking wanted to marry her.

  He almost kissed her. He almost figured what the hell. She was already mad, already getting ready to leave. How much worse could it be if he kissed her and dropped to his knees and started begging. Don’t leave, Lys. Please don’t ever leave. . . .

  “What are you doing sneaking in here like that?” she asked sharply. “You nearly scared me to death.”

  “It’s my fucking room,” he said, and she flinched as if he’d hit her.

  Jesus, what did she expect? That he wouldn’t respond hostilely to her hostility? He sat down on the bed and started taking off his boots, praying that she would just throw on her clothes and leave before he did something really stupid. Like start to cry.

  But she didn’t pick up her clothes from where they’d landed last night. She just stood there. As if she had something important to say.

  And with the kind of realization that hit like a knife blade to the heart, Sam knew exactly what was coming. He fired one of his boots across the room. It smacked the wall with a bang and a shower of dirt.

  “Don’t worry, I won’t tell a soul,” he said flatly. “I remember the fucking drill, Alyssa. Last night never even happened as far as I’m concerned. Does that make you happy?”

  “Ecstatic.” She moved then. Picking up her pants and her bra. Her shirt. A pair of satin and lace panties that made him get hard just from remembering what they’d looked like on her.

  She managed to gather her clothes with chilly dignity—how the hell did she do that while wearing only a towel?—and headed toward the bathroom.

  “Make it snappy,” Sam told her as he launched his second boot at the wall.

  “Hey, Muldoon. Got a sec?”

  Stan caught up with Mike Muldoon on the stairs heading down to the restaurant.

  “Sure, Senior. What’s up?”

  First things first. “Good job tonight.”

  Muldoon smiled ruefully. “Yeah, well, I seem to have overcome my fear of female terrorists.”

  He’d successfully “killed” Teri Howe close to a dozen times in a row during the night’s drill. And she’d been looking particularly adorable and feminine, wearing one of Stan’s extra Navy-issue sweaters under her flack jacket to fight the chill. It had hung on her, nearly to her knees.

  “If Teri ever decides to start her own terrorist cell, you’ll be the man we’ll call to hunt her down,” Stan said with a grin.

  “Yeah, right,” Muldoon said. “She’s a likely candidate for terrorist activity. She’s got to be one of the nicest women I’ve ever met.”

  Nice? After having dinner with her two nights in a row, the best Muldoon could come up with to describe Teri Howe was nice? What the hell was wrong with him?

  “How’d it go last night?” Stan asked, even though he knew damn well how it had gone. Muldoon had kissed Teri good night in the frickin’ hotel lobby, where anyone could see them. No wonder she’d run away. Or maybe she hadn’t run away. Maybe she’d intended for Muldoon to give chase.

  But he hadn’t.

  Muldoon shrugged. “I don’t know, Senior. She’s, uh . . .”

  Don’t say nice.

  “Great,” he said instead. But great wasn’t much better.

  Teri Howe was poetry, she was song, she was sunshine. She was all those corny song lyrics Stan had always rolled his eyes over. She was amazing, astounding, spectacular, phenomenal. She was fabulous. Stunning. Wonderful. She wasn’t merely nice, merely great. Come on, man.

  Stan pulled Muldoon to the side to let O’Leary and Nilsson pass them on the stairs.

  “But . . .” Muldoon was saying.

  “But what?” Stan said in total disbelief after the two SEALs had gone out the door. “What’s there to say but about? This woman is incredible. She’s incomparable. I can guarantee it, Muldoon, you will never meet anyone like her again in your entire life.”

  Muldoon nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I know. I’m . . . I just . . . You see, women come to me, Senior. I’ve never had to, you know, go after them.”

  “So?”

  “So, she’s not exactly jumping into my bed,” Muldoon admitted. “I mean, last night, I kissed her, but she didn’t invite me up. I mean, everywhere I go, women usually just, you know, invite me up. So then I go to their room or their apartment or their house, and they take off my clothes and I can pretty much handle it from there. But . . .”

  The kid was serious. Women invited him home and then they took off his clothes. Of course he was serious. He was standing there with a body that made grown women get tongue-tied and a face that could’ve made a fortune in Hollywood, even when it was covered with muddy, sweated-through camouflage paint, the way it was right now.

  Stan wasn’t sure whether he wanted to laugh or cry. To hit the kid or high five him.

  “I don’t know how to do it this way,” Muldoon continued. “I suck at this. I don’t even think Teri’s interested in me.”

  “Okay,” Stan said, somehow managing to keep a completely straight face. “All right. Just relax. So you don’t have much experience pursuing women. That’s okay. I think most men would kill to be in your shoes, if you want to know the truth. But for right now, you just need . . . Okay. You need an operational plan. That’s all you need. First thing you’re going to do is find her and ask her to have lunch with you, provided, of course, that we’re not called out between now and then.”

  Muldoon wasn’t convinced, his handsome face dubious. “Senior, I don’t—”

  “Then,” Stan bulldozed over him, “after lunch, you walk her back to her room. All the way, Muldoon. Right to her door. You don’t give her a choice about it.”

  “But—”

  “And you get inside her room by telling her that you’re concerned for her safety, what with the explosions by the swimming pool and all. You just want to check to make sure everything’s all right. That’s how you get your ass in there.”

  Muldoon laughed in disbelief. “Does that really work?”

  Stan’s hair was matted with sweat and dust. Muldoon’s was charmingly tousled. It would work for him.

  “If she’s interested, she’ll let you in, yes. You’ve just got to remember—if she says no at any point, you turn around and you leave. You understand?”

  “Well, yeah,” Muldoon said, all injured blue eyes. “You don’t think I’d . . . I mean, God, Senior Chief, it’s not like I’d ever force myself on a woman. What kind of jerk do you think I am?”

  “The kind of jerk who has no experience in inviting himself into a woman’s room,” Stan replied.

  Muldoon laughed, but it was definitely halfhearted. “I’m not sure I can do this,” he said. “I mean, Teri Howe? She’s . . .”

  “Great?” Stan volunteered.

  “Yeah, but . . . I don’t know, Senior. She’s not a particularly good kisser so . . .”

  They were talking about her.

  She was the not a particularly good kisser that they were talking about.

  At first Teri had refused to believe they were talking about her, when she’d started to go up the stairs that led from the restaurant to the lobby, cup of coffee and some kind of local Danish-type thing in hand. She’d thought she’d heard Stan and Mike Muldoon’s voices.

  She didn’t really mean to eavesdrop.

  Okay, that was a lie. She did mean to eavesdrop. She’d heard Stan asking, “How’d it go last night?” and she’d stopped walking.

  O’Leary and Nilsson had gone past her, and she’d pretended to tie her boot laces. And then she’d stood there and eavesdropped shamelessly.

  And she was so a great kisser. Muldoon was the one who needed work.

  “What do you mean,
she’s not a great—?” Stan laughed. “How the fuck do you know, Muldoon? I saw you kiss her last night, and it was definitely uninspired on your end.”

  Stan had seen her last night. Kissing Mike Muldoon. Oh, God. But of course. He’d been in the lobby. He’d fallen asleep there.

  “And if you tell me, jeez,” Stan continued, imitating the younger man’s voice, “you don’t have much experience kissing women because all you have to do is lean toward them and they’re the ones jamming their tongues down your throat . . . Holy Christ!”