by Cindy Gerard
Cristo. He’d been back there. Back in that hellhole, watching Bry bleed out in the mud and the heat and the ground that ran red.
He looked down at her hand, as surprised by her knee-jerk gesture of comfort as he was by the ease with which he’d revisited Africa. He was not surprised, however, when she quickly removed her hand and drew away from him again.
He sucked in a fractured breath, shook his head, then drank again, using the time to settle himself. “Sorry. Hadn’t… hadn’t thought about that night in a while.”
When he looked up, he saw something in her expression that he hadn’t seen before—hadn’t figured he’d ever see. Not from this tough nut.
Pain.
It knocked him for a loop, but yeah, it was definitely there. In her eyes. On her face. In her unexpected offer of comfort.
A reflection of his pain, maybe? Plain compassion?
Or was he seeing her own pain?
He’d written her off as an ice princess, core of steel. But hell, he knew better than to judge people so quickly.
“Anyway,” he continued, “we brought Bry home to his family. Ann and Robert Tompkins. And Stephanie. That was… man… a lot of years ago.” He dragged a hand over his face, shook his head. “Ann and Robert, they sort of adopted us, I guess you could say. Just like we adopted them. And Steph, well, she was just a kid.”
“So Stephanie’s like a sister to you?”
That brought his head up again. He searched her face, tried to get a read on where the question had come from. Why did she give two tacos about any of his relationships?
“Yeah,” he said finally. “I guess you could call it that.”
He was a little confused about how he felt about Stephanie at the moment. He’d always had feelings for her. Of course, he’d also known he was never going to act on them. Why? Number one, because she’d never encouraged him. Number two, because he needed to think about her as a sister and he knew she thought of him and the rest of the BOIs as brothers.
“If and when you ever meet her,” Bry had said one day a million years ago when the team had been hunched over MREs in Bosnia trying to keep their fingers and their asses from freezing off, “I don’t want to even see you thinkin’ about laying your grubby hands on her, got it? ’Specially you, Choirboy,” he’d added, grinning and nodding in Rafe’s direction. “Don’t you be turning on that hot Latin charm around my kid sister.”
Every time he saw Stephanie, Rafe had to remind himself of what Bry had said. It wasn’t that he thought Bryan would actually object to any one of the guys getting serious about her. It was more about respect for the Tompkinses. They were like the most righteous, most honorable people Rafe had ever known. He admired them. Respected them. And he knew what they wanted for their daughter. Someone connected and stable and who did not make a career out of getting shot at by terrorists.
He was not that man.
He was a guerrero. A warrior. And that was the only man he knew how to be.
He worked his jaw. The Tompkinses didn’t know what he’d come from. He didn’t ever want them to. He felt a rush of shame that he shouldn’t have had to feel but was tied to by blood.
“So what happens now?”
“Now,” he said, dragging himself back to a situation he could do something about, “we find out who sent the trigger guy after Stephanie and why. And then we fry the bastard.”
10
“Have we got government hardliners at work here or rogue elements?” Gabe tossed out the possibilities for them all to consider.
While B.J. didn’t like it, she was still at the Joneses’ apartment at ten o’clock that night. She sat at their dining room table with Gabe and Mendoza, walking through what they knew and what they didn’t about who had ordered the hit on Stephanie.
A contemporary chandelier done in polished nickel and sparkling crystal hung over the table, illuminating the grim faces surrounding it. Outside and below the terrace doors, city and traffic lights winked. In the far distance, a red light blinked on and off on a radio tower.
After considering Gabe Jones’s question, she shrugged. “E-bomb technology has been a top military priority for several years. To my knowledge there have never been any dissenters among the members of the House or Senate. Funding requests have always passed unanimously, so it’s hard to figure that we’re dealing with a vendetta from inside.”
It all came back to the E-bomb specs. Everyone in the room knew it. Per her orders from Sherwood, she’d already filled both men in on who she worked for at DIA, the find in Afghanistan that had led her to be planted inside the NSA, and about the firestorm Stephanie had created when she’d presented her report at staffing this afternoon.
“Doesn’t rule out the possibility of a flat-out traitor, though,” she said, aware of Mendoza’s eyes on her.
“Profiteers, then,” the Choirboy conjectured as he slumped back in a dining table chair, “selling out to the highest bidder?”
“That’s my guess,” B.J. agreed. “Sherwood’s got a team scrutinizing Hendricks’s PDA, office, and home phone logs as well as his professional and social network to see who he’s been in contact with recently.”
“What about background checks on the SI personnel?” Gabe asked.
“That too, along with anyone affiliated with E-bomb development. But it’s going to take time.”
“So how did they get inside?” Gabe wanted to know as he absently flipped a pen back and forth between his fingers. “And why did they kill Hendricks if he was one of them?”
“If you find the answer to that question,” Jenna said, joining them at the table, “you’ll probably find the rest of your answers.”
Between talking with Stephanie’s parents, who had called at least twice since they’d arrived, Jenna had moved Stephanie into the guest bedroom, where she was now sleeping. Next Jenna had made a pot of coffee, then filled heavy stoneware mugs and passed them around.
The Joneses made a striking pair, B.J. thought, observing them together. The nationally acclaimed investigative journalist and the elite black ops warrior. Jenna was tall and lean with long red hair, intelligent green eyes, and attitude to spare. As tall as she was, however, her husband dwarfed her in stature, but not character. B.J. figured him for around six foot four, two hundred thirty or forty pounds of lean muscle and keen intellect.
She couldn’t ignore how attractive and vital they were together. Just like she couldn’t help being mystified by it. By the energy they created with a simple look, a light, unconscious touch, a private smile. By the complete and utter ease they felt around each other. These two very independent spirits seemed to have somehow reached a level of trust that transcended ego and will and made them one balanced, highly functioning unit.
She imagined they thought they were in love. In her estimation love was a fallacy sparked by chemical reactions and biology. Love was an opportunity for letdown. She didn’t have to look any further than to her parents to see that.
Okay. Back to business. She was taking her cues from Mendoza now, and it still grated. Big time. But she had no choice. Jenna, however, was not with the firm. Plus she was a journalist, not a trained agent.
“Is it really advisable for Jenna to be briefed on this? She’s a civilian.” B.J. voiced her concern when it became clear that Jenna was going to be privy to all information.
“She’s with me,” Gabe informed her with a hard look that flat-out said, drop it.
“She’s got a valid point,” Jenna agreed, then scolded her husband. “And you don’t need to bully her.”
B.J. didn’t know what to make of Jenna defending her.
“I’m not bullying,” Gabe said with a look that should have withered flowers.
Didn’t bother Jenna. “You always bully, Angel Boy. It’s one of those endearing qualities I love about you. The point is, you need to give B.J. a break. She’s not used to playing with rules, she’s used to playing by them.”
“Fine.” Gabe turned to B.J. “We make our
own rules. Jenna stays.”
Except for an eye-roll that Jenna directed her husband’s way, that was the end of that discussion.
“That would be the pizza,” Jenna said when the doorbell rang.
“I’ll get it.” Gabe stopped her with a hand on her arm when she started to get up.
“You just want to be able to say you handled dinner,” Jenna said.
“And that would be different from any other night why?” he drawled with much more affection than accusation in his tone as he walked to the door.
“Well, he’s got me there,” Jenna said, not at all offended. “My best meals arrive via speed dial.”
B.J. watched Gabe, not for the first time detecting a slight limp, and not for the first time wondering how he’d come by it. And had Jenna actually called him Angel Boy? It was none of her business but she couldn’t help but wonder about the—what? Nickname? Endearment?
He looked more like the devil—all six feet, four inches of him—when he paused before opening the door, withdrew a 1911-A1 from the drawer of a table in the entryway, then checked the video camera monitor mounted by the door frame. Apparently comfortable with what he saw, he tucked the pistol in the back of his waistband and opened the door.
“You a cook, B.J.?” Jenna asked conversationally, but before she could answer, Gabe interrupted.
“I’m short the tip,” he said from the open doorway.
“I knew he couldn’t do this without me.” With a smug smile, Jenna joined her husband at the door.
“What’s wrong with his leg?” The whispered question was out before B.J. could stop it. She immediately regretted asking it. One, it implied that she was concerned, which she didn’t want to be. Two, it revealed her interest in people she didn’t want to be interested in—no matter how nice they were.
“A little over a year ago, he took some shrapnel protecting Jenna in a bombing. Ended up with a bone infection. Lost the leg below the knee,” Mendoza said quietly.
She jerked her head toward him, stunned by that information.
“Don’t worry about Gabe,” he assured her. “It slowed him down for a few months but he’s one hundred percent now. That woman he married will make certain he stays that way.”
She turned her gaze back to the stunningly handsome couple by the door as she digested the fact that they had been through some very rough times together.
“They’re something, aren’t they?” Mendoza asked as the aroma of pizza wafted into the room.
B.J. averted her gaze away from Gabe and Jenna, who were laughing and joking with the pizza delivery guy.
“Strong personalities,” she said because it was true and because she felt uncomfortable suddenly. She didn’t want to care about these people. Besides, small talk wasn’t her thing. Finding herself fascinated by a strong male/female bond was not her thing.
The discomfort she experienced when she realized that Mendoza was watching her with unguarded curiosity was definitely not her thing. And earlier, when he’d gone Florence Nightingale on her and tended her skinned knee and her arm, she’d gotten short of breath. She’d been hyper-aware of the strength of his callused fingers; shockingly sensitive to his breath warming her thighs when he’d squatted down in front of her; achingly conscious of his mouth inches away from her—
“B.J.”
His voice startled her.
He was smiling when she met his eyes and she fought a fleeting moment of panic, wondering if he could have possibly read her mind.
“What?” she snapped, which seemed to amuse him even more.
“That’s what I’m asking. B.J. What does it stand for?”
Jenna and Gabe returned to the table with the pizza just then, saving her from telling Mendoza that it was none of his business. She’d been B.J. since the second grade when Bernie Watson had made fun of her name and she’d had to bloody his nose. She wasn’t about to give the Choirboy access to the source of one of her biggest childhood miseries.
“Load up,” Gabe said, tossing paper plates and napkins on the table. “It’s going to be a long night.”
Rafe pushed back from the table, stood, and stretched. “Let’s call it a wrap for tonight,” he suggested around a yawn.
It was close to two a.m. They’d repeatedly rehashed what they knew and what they didn’t. For the most part, they made contingency plans for Stephanie’s protection. They’d made lists: contact lists, to-do lists, things-to-ask-Stephanie-when-she-woke-up lists. And they’d made calls to the BOIs with instructions on what they needed put in place for Stephanie’s protection.
B. J. Chase had both surprised and pleased him. She may not have liked the arrangement but she hadn’t let it interfere with her job. She was intelligent and insightful and had a memory like a computer. She’d provided relevant, detailed information on her observations during her two-week infiltration of the NSA. She remembered fine points about the shooter and had had the foresight to snap his photo and e-mail it to her boss, who had dispatched a team to the scene. Hopefully they’d have an ID by morning.
She was a pro. If there was an emotion other than “prickly” bottled up inside that uptight officer, she’d given no indication she was ever going to let it loose.
“Yeah,” Gabe agreed, rolling the stiffness out of his shoulders, “we’ve done about as much as we can do without involving Stephanie and having her interpret the contents of the flash drive she smuggled out of NSA.”
“Would you mind terribly bunking in with Steph?” Jenna asked B.J., who looked as weary as the rest of them but who, Rafe knew, would have been up for an all-nighter if they’d asked it of her.
“No need,” B.J. said, standing. “I’ll call a cab and head back to my apartment.”
“No,” Rafe said, “you won’t. I want you here.”
“There’s not going to be another attempt on her life tonight,” B. J. argued.
“What about your life? Once the bastard who ordered the hit on Steph realizes his hired gun bought the farm there’ll be another gun dispatched to find her and you. Your Jeep’s at the park, remember? They’ll run the plates, track you down.”
He could see in her eyes that she understood this fully. She just didn’t want to be there.
“I can handle myself.”
God, the woman had a stubborn streak. She was making him tired.
“We are all very much aware of that,” he muttered, and pissed her off again.
He hadn’t intended to sound patronizing, but judging by the look on her face, he had succeeded in doing so. Too bad. “Look. We’re done talking about this, okay?”
“Come on, B.J.” Jenna dared to break into their stare-down contest. “I’ll show you where the towels are in the guest bath. You get the first shower. I’ll round up something for you to sleep in. Gabe,” she tossed over her shoulder as she and a reluctant B.J. walked out of the room.
“Already on it,” Gabe said. He left the room and returned with a sheet and a pillow for Rafe. He tossed both in Rafe’s general direction and turned to leave. “Nightie night.”
“So what do you think?” Rafe asked his friend as he shook out the sheet and spread it across what was, fortunately for him, a very large and very comfy sectional sofa.
Gabe scratched his jaw, yawned. “I think it’s a damn good thing Reed decided to get married or we’d be scattered around the globe right now instead of gathering for what was supposed to have been an engagement party in Richmond.”
Rafe had been thinking the same thing. But that hadn’t been on his mind when he’d asked the question. He’d wondered what Gabe thought of B.J.
“You think Chase will be a team player?” he asked, kicking off his shoes.
“I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?” Gabe raised a hand that passed for saying good night and headed for the master bedroom.
Yeah, they’d find out, Rafe thought a while later, as he heard the guest bathroom door open. He glanced up, caught a glimpse of B.J.
“It’s all yours,” she sai
d, and scurried into the guest bedroom—but not before he’d caught a glimpse of her, wrapped in a towel, her blond hair wet and darkened. All he could do was sit there, the image of her bare shoulders burning in his brain as some amazing female scent drifted into the living room.
It didn’t get any better when he made himself walk to the bathroom and strip off his jeans and T-shirt. Her scent lingered. So did the mental image of her standing where he was now standing, naked under the shower spray with clouds of steam fogging up the small room.
He got hard just thinking about it. So hard that he ached. Hard. For an ice princess who would rather have busted his balls than, well, than do other, much more pleasurable things involving those same balls.