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.
14
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 p
leasure 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 FInCOM 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 could 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.
If Pope was surprised, he hid it well. “I’d be honored.”
“No way,” Veronica heard Kevin Laughton say vehemently. “Absolutely no way.”
“Joe, what are you doing?” she asked. “You can’t leave the building, it’s not safe.”
But Joe had already jumped down, off the stage, and was striding between the tables, toward Sgt. Tony Pope, U.S.M.C., retired.
As Veronica watched, Pope led Joe—surrounded by FInCOM agents and his three SEALs—out of the room. The TV news cameras and reporters scrambled after them.
The shelter was, quite literally, right next door to the hotel. Once inside, Pope gave Joe—and the camera crews—a tour of his modest facility, from the cafeteria to the kitchen. He pointed out the holes in the roof and the other parts of the building that needed repairs. He introduced Joe to many of the longtime residents and workers.
Joe addressed them by rank, even the grungiest, rag-clad winos, and spoke to them all with the utmost respect and courtesy.
And as Joe was leaving, he slipped the jeweled ring from his finger and handed it to Tony Pope. “Fix your roof,” he said.
Tears sprang to the older man’s eyes. “Your Highness,” he said. “You’ve already given us so much.” He gestured to the TV cameras. “The publicity alone is priceless.”
“You need some quick cash, and I have one ring too many,” Joe said. “The solution is so obvious. So simple.” He smiled into the TV news cameras. “Just like my friend Cindy says.”
“Oh, Joe, that ring’s not yours to give away,” Veronica breathed, knowing that she would pay for the ring herself, if she had to.
The final scene in the evening news report showed all of the men in the Boylston Street Shelter sharply saluting Prince Tedric as he left the building.
“Sergeant Tony Pope asks that contributions be sent directly to the Boylston Street Shelter,” the news anchor said, “at 994—”
The phone rang, and Veronica pushed the Mute button as she answered it.
“Did you see it?” It was Henri Freder, the Ustanzian ambassador. “Did you see the news? It’s not just a local story, it’s being run nationally, and by the cable network.”
“I saw it,” Veronica said.
“Gold,” Freder said. “Pure, solid gold.”
“I know that ring was valuable, sir,” Veronica started to say. “But—”
“Not the ring,” Freder enthused. “Prince Tedric’s image! Absolutely golden! He is America’s newest hero. Everyone loves him. We
couldn’t have done it better if we’d tried. I’ve got to go, my other phone is ringing—”
Veronica stared at the disconnected telephone and slowly hung up the receiver. Everyone loved Prince Tedric—who was really a sailor named Joe, and not a real prince at all.
Or was he?
He was more of a prince than Tedric had ever been.
Now, because of Joe, everyone loved Prince Tedric. Except Veronica. She was falling in love with a prince named Joe.
Veronica had two hours to rest before the party. She lay down on the bed and stared at the ceiling, trying not to let the words Joe had spoken on the plane echo in her mind.
The kiss they’d shared. It didn’t mean anything.
She was in love with a man who had told her, on more than one occasion, that the best she could hope for with him was a casual sexual relationship. He’d told her that the kisses they’d shared meant nothing to him.
He did desire her, though.
Veronica knew that from looking into his eyes. She knew it, too, from the way he’d kissed her in the chapel at Saint Mary’s. If they’d been alone, it wouldn’t have taken much for that one, single kiss to escalate into lovemaking.
But he didn’t love her.
So now what? Was she going to just sit around loving Joe from a distance until the terrorists were caught, until he went back to SEAL Team Ten’s temporary base in California? Or was she going to do something foolish, like make love to the man, stupidly hoping that the physical act would magically make him fall in love with her, too?
It would never happen. He would have all he’d ever wanted from her—sex. And she would have a broken heart.
A single tear slid down the side of her face and lodged rather uncomfortably in her ear. Perfect. She was now one-hundred-percent pitiable and pathetic.
The telephone rang, and Veronica rolled over and looked at it. She contemplated letting the front desk take a message, but after three rings, she finally picked it up. She wasn’t going to get any sleep anyway.
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