ible, outshone by Heather's golden glory. Standing side by
side, there should have been no contest.
Except, one of the two women made Lucky feel com- pletely alive. And it wasn't Heather.
“Hey, Lucy. Lieutenant." U.S. Navy SEAL Chief Bobby Taylor smiled at Sydney as he slipped into the fourth seat at the table. "You must be Sydney. Were my directions okay?" he asked her.
Syd nodded. She looked up at Lucky almost challeng-ingly. "I wasn't sure exactly where the bar was," she told him, "so I called Chief Taylor and asked for directions."
So that's how she found him. Well, wasn't she proud of herself? Lucky made a mental note to beat Bobby to death later.
"Call me Bob. Please." The enormous SEAL smiled at Syd again, and she smiled happily back at him, ignoring Lucky completely.
"No nickname?" she teased. "Like Hawk or Cyclops or Panther?"
And Lucky felt it. Jealousy. Stabbing and hot, like a lightning bolt to his already churning stomach. My God. Was it possible Sydney Jameson found Bob Taylor attractive? More attractive than she found Lucky?
Bobby laughed. "Just Bobby. Some guys during BUD/S tried to call me Tonto, which I objected to somewhat... forcefully." He flexed his fists meaningfully.
Bobby was a good-looking man despite the fact that his nose had been broken four or five too many times. He was darkly handsome, with high cheekbones, craggy features, and deep-brown eyes that broadcast his mother's Native American heritage. He had a quiet calmness to him, a Zen-like quality that was very attractive.
And then there was his size. Massive was the word for the man. Some women really went for that. Of course, if
Bobby wasn't careful to keep up his PT and his diet, he'd quickly run to fat.
"I considered Tonto politically incorrect," Bobby said mildly. "So I made sure the name didn't stick."
Bobby's fists were the size of canned hams. No doubt he'd been extremely persuasive in his objections.
"These days the Lieutenant here is fond of calling me Stimpy," Bob continued, "which is the name of a really stupid cartoon cat." He looked down at his hands and flexed his hot-dog-sized fingers again. "I've yet to object, but it's getting old."
"No," Lucky said. "It's because Wes—" he turned to Syd. "Bobby's swim buddy is this little wiry guy named Wes Skelly, and visually, well, Ren and Stimpy just seems to fit. It's that really nasty cartoon that—"
"Wes isn't little," Lucy interrupted. "He's as tall as Blue, you know."
"Yeah, but next to Gigantor here—"
"I like Gigantor," Bobby decided.
Syd was laughing, and Lucky knew from the way the chief was smiling at her that he was completely charmed, too. Maybe that was the way to win Syd's alliance. Maybe she could be Bobby's girlfriend.
The thought was not a pleasant one, and he dismissed it out of hand. Charming women was his strength, damn it, and he was going to charm Sydney Jameson if it was the last thing he did.
Lucy got down to business. "You talk to Frisco?" she asked him.
Lucky nodded grimly. "I did. Do you think it's possible Stonegate doesn't really want us to apprehend the rapist?"
"Why? What happened?" Syd demanded.
"Lieutenant Commander Francisco got called in to meet with Admiral Stonegate," Lucy explained. "Ron Stone-gate's not exactly a big fan of the SEAL teams."
"What'd Stonehead do this time?" Bobby asked.
"Easy on the insults," Lucky murmured. He glanced at Syd, wishing she weren't a reporter, knowing that anything they said could conceivably end up in a news story. "We've been ordered by the...admiral to use this assignment as a special training operation," he said, choosing his words carefully, leaving out all the expletives and less-than-flattering adjectives he would have used had she not been there, "for a trio of SEAL candidates who are just about to finish up their second phase of BUD/S."
"King, Lee and Rosetti," Bobby said, nodding his approval.
Lucky nodded. Bobby had been working as an instructor with this particular group of candidates right from the start of phase one. He wasn't surprised the chief should knew the men in question.
"Tell me about them," Lucky commanded. He'd made a quick stop at the base and had pulled the three candidates' files after he'd talked to Frisco and before he'd picked up Heather. But you could only tell so much about a man from words on a piece of paper. He wanted to hear Bobby's opinion.
"They were all part of the same boat team during phase one," Bobby told him. "Mike Lee's the oldest and a lieutenant, Junior Grade, and he was buddied up with Ensign Thomas King—a local kid, much younger. African American. Both have IQs that are off the chart, and both have enough smarts to recognize each other's strengths and weaknesses. It was a good match. Petty Officer Rio Rosetti, on the other hand, is barely twenty-one, barely graduated from high school, struggles to spell his own name, but he can build anything out of nothing. He's magic. He was out in a skiff and the propeller snagged a line and one of the blades snapped. He took it apart, built a new propeller out
of the junk, that was on board. They couldn't move fast, but they could move. It was impressive.
"Rosetti's swim buddy bailed during the second day of Hell Week," Bobby continued, "and Lee and King took him in. He returned the favor a few days later, when Lee started hallucinating. He was seeing evil spirits and not taking it well, and King and Rosetti took turns sitting on him. The three of them have been tight ever since. King and Lee spend nearly all their off time tutoring Rosetti. With their help, he's managed to stay with the classroom program." He paused. "They're good men, Lieutenant."
It was good to hear that.
Still. "Turning a mission this serious into a training op makes about as much sense as sticking the team with Lois Lane, here," Lucky said.
"Twelve hours, seventeen minutes," Syd said. "Hah."
He blinked at her, temporarily distracted. "Hah? What hah?"
"I knew when you found out that I was a reporter it was only a matter of time before you used the old Lois Lane cliche," she told him. Her attitude wasn't quite smug, but it was a touch too gleeful to be merely matter-of-fact. "I figured twenty-four, but you managed in nearly half the time. Congratulations, Lieutenant."
"Lois Lane," Bobby mused. "Shoot, it's almost as bad as Tonto."
"It's not very original," even Lucy agreed.
"Can we talk about this case please?" Lucky said desperately.
"Absolutely," Lucy said. "Here's my late-breaking news. Four more women have come forward since Sydney's article appeared in the paper this morning. Four.''' She shook her head in frustration. "I don't know why some women don't report sexual assault when it happens."
"Is it our guy?" Syd asked. "Same MO?"
"Three of the women were branded with the budweiser. Those three attacks took place within the past four weeks. The fourth was earlier. I'm certain the same perp was responsible for all four attacks," Lucy told them. "And frankly, it's a little alarming that the severity of the beatings he gives his victims seems to be increasing."
"Any pattern among the victims as to location, physical appearance, anything?" Lucky asked.
"If there is, we can't find anything other than that the victims are all females between the ages of eighteen and forty-three, and the attacks all took place in either San Felipe or Coronado," the detective replied. "I'll get you the complete files first thing in the morning. You might as well try searching for a pattern, too. I don't think you're going to find one, but it sure beats sitting around waiting for this guy to strike again."
Bobby's pager went off. He glanced at it as he shut it off, then stood. "If that's all for now, Lieutenant..."
Lucky gestured with his head toward the pager. "Anything I should know about?"
"Just Wes," the bigger man said. "It's been a rough tour for him. Coronado's the last place he wanted to be, and he's been here for nearly three months now." He nodded at Sydney. "Nice meeting you. See you later, Luce." He turned back. "Do me a favor and lock your windows tonight,
ladies."
"And every night until we catch this guy," Lucky added as the chief headed for the door. He stood up. "I'm going to take off, too."
"See you tomorrow." Syd barely even looked at him as she turned to Lucy. "Are you in a hurry to get home, detective? Because I have some questions I was hoping you could answer."
Lucky lingered, but aside from a quick wave from Lucy, neither woman gave him a second glance.
"I did some research on sex crimes and serial rapists and serial murderers," Syd continued, "and—"
"And you're thinking about what I said about the level of violence escalating," Lucy finished for her. "You want to know if I think this guy's going to cross the line into rape-homicide."
Oh, God, Lucky hadn't even considered that. Rape alone was bad enough.
Lucy sighed. "Considering the abuse the perp seems to enjoy dishing out, in my opinion, it could be just a matter of time before he—"
"Heads up," Syd said in a low voice. "Barbie's coming this way."
Barbie?
Lucky looked up to see Heather heading toward them. Her body in motion made heads turn throughout the entire room.
She was gorgeous, but she was plastic. Kind of like a Barbie doll. Yeah, the name fit.
He wanted to stay, wanted to hear what Lucy and Syd had to say, but he'd saddled himself with Heather, and now he had to pay the price.
He had to take her home.
With Heather, there was always a fifty-fifty chance she'd invite him up to her place and tear off his clothes. Tonight she'd made a few suggestive comments at dinner that led him to believe it was, indeed, going to be one of those nights where they engaged in a little pleasure gymnastics.
"Ready to go home?" Heather smiled at him, a smile loaded with promise. A smile he knew that Syd had not missed.
Good. Let her know that he was going to get some tonight. Let her know he didn't need her to make fireworks.
"Absolutely." Lucky put his arm around her waist.
He glanced at Syd, but she was already back to her discussion with Lucy, and she didn't look up.
As Heather dragged him to the door, Lucky knew he was the envy of every man in the bar. He was going home with a beautiful woman who wanted to have wild sex with him.
He should have been running for his car. He should have been in a hurry to get her naked.
But as he reached the door, he couldn't stop himself from hesitating, from looking back at Syd.
She glanced up at that exact moment, and their eyes met and held. The connection was instantaneous. It was crac-klingly powerful, burningly intense.
He didn't look away, and neither did she.
It was far more intimate than he'd ever been with Heather, and they'd spent days together naked.
Heather tugged at his arm, pressed her body against him, pulled his head down for a kiss.
Lucky responded instinctively, and when he looked back at Syd, she had turned away.
"Come on, baby," Heather murmured. "I'm in a hurry."
Lucky let her pull him out the door.
The pickup truck was following her.
Syd had first noticed the headlights in her rearview mirror as she'd pulled out of La Cantina's parking lot.
The truck had stayed several car lengths behind her as she'd headed west on Arizona Avenue. And when she'd made a left turn onto Draper, he'd turned, too.
She knew for sure when she did a series of right and left turns, taking the shortcut to her neighborhood. It couldn't be a coincidence. He was definitely following her.
Syd and Lucy had talked briefly after Navy Ken had taken his inflatable Barbie home. She'd stayed in the bar after Lucy had left as well, having a glass of beer as she
wrote her latest women's safety article on her laptop. It was far easier to write in the noisy bar than it would have been in her too-quiet apartment. She missed the chaos of the newsroom. And being home alone would only have served to remind her that Lucky O'Donlon wasn't.
Miss Vapid USA was, no doubt, his soul mate. Syd wondered rather viciously if they spent all their time together gazing into mirrors. Blond and Blonder.
Lucy had volunteered the information that Heather was typical of the type of women the SEAL fraternized with. He went for beauty queens who were usually in their late teens, with an IQ not much higher than their age.
Syd didn't know why she was surprised. God forbid a man like Luke O'Donlon should ever become involved with a woman who actually meant something to him. A woman who talked back to him, offering a differing opinion and a challenging, vivacious honest-to-God relationship....
Who was she kidding? Did she really imagine she tasted integrity in his kisses?
It was true that he'd protested admirably when she'd accused him of trying to steal his XO's wife, but all that meant was that he had a line in his debauchery that he would not cross.
He was hot, he was smooth, he could kiss like a dream, but his passion was empty. For indeed, what was passion without emotion? A balloon that, when popped, revealed nothing but slightly foul-smelling air.
She was glad she'd seen Luke O'Donlon with his Barbie doll. It was healthy, it was realistic and just maybe it would keep her damned subconscious from dreaming erotic dreams about him tonight.
Syd took a right turn onto Pacific, pulling into the right lane and slowing down enough so that anyone in their right mind would pass her, but the truck stayed behind her.
Think. She had to think. Or rather, she had to stop think-
ing about Luke O'Donlon and his perfect butt and focus on the fact that a sociopathic serial rapist could well be following her through the nearly deserted streets of San Felipe.
She'd written an article dealing with this very subject just minutes ago.
If you think someone is following you, she'd said, do not go home. Drive directly to the police station. If you have a cell phone, use it to call for help.
Syd fumbled in her shoulder bag for her cell phone, hesitating only slightly before she pushed the speed-dial button she'd programmed with Lucky O'Donlon's home phone number. It would serve him right if she interrupted him.
His machine picked up after only two rings, and she skipped over his sexy-voiced message.
"O'Donlon, it's Syd. If you're there, pick up." Nothing. "Lieutenant, I know my voice is the last thing you probably want to hear right now, but I'm being followed." Oh, crud, her voice cracked slightly, and her fear and apprehension peeked through. She took a deep breath, hoping to sound calm and collected, but only managing to sound very small and pitiful. "Are you there?"
No response. The answering machine beeped, cutting her off.
Okay. Okay. As long as she kept moving, she'd be okay.
And chances were, if she pulled into the brightly lit police-station parking lot, whoever was following her would drive away.
But what a missed opportunity that would be. If this were the rapist behind her, they could catch him. Right now. Tonight.
She pressed one of the other speed-dial numbers she'd programmed into her phone. Detective Lucy McCoy's home number.
One ring. Two rings. Three...
"'Lo?" Lucy sounded as if she'd already been asleep.
"Lucy, it's Syd." She gave a quick rundown of the situation, and Lucy snapped instantly awake.
"Stay on Pacific," Lucy ordered. "What's your license plate number?"
"God, I don't know. My car's a little black Civic. The truck's one of those full-size ones—I haven't been able to see what color—something dark. And he's hanging too far back for me to see his plate number."
"Just keep driving," Lucy said. "Slow and steady. I'm calling in as many cars as possible to intercept."
Slow and steady.
Syd used her cell phone and tried calling Lucky one more time.
Nothing.
Slow and steady.
She was heading north on Pacific. She could just follow the road all the way up to San Francisco, slowly and steadily. Provided the truck behind her le
t her stop for gas. She was running low. Of course a little car like this could go for miles on a sixteenth of a tank. She had no reason to be afraid. At any minute, the San Felipe police were going to come to the rescue.
Any minute. Any. Minute.
She heard it then—sirens in the distance, getting louder and deafeningly louder as the police cars moved closer.
Three of them came from behind. She watched in her rear-view mirror as they surrounded the truck, their lights flashing.
She slowed to a stop at the side of the road as the truck did the same, twisting to look back through her rear window as the police officers approached, their weapons drawn, bright searchlights aimed at the truck.
She could see the shadow of the man in the cab. He had both hands on his head in a position of surrender. The po-
lice pulled open the truck's door, pulled him out alongside the truck where he braced himself, assuming the position for a full-body search.
Syd turned off the ignition and got out, wanting to get closer now that she knew the man following her wasn't armed, wanting to hear what he was saying, wanting to get a good look at him—see if he was the same man who'd nearly knocked her down the stairs after attacking her neighbor.
The man was talking. She could see from the police officers standing around him that he was keeping up a steady stream of conversation. Explanation, no doubt, for why he was out driving around so late at night. Following someone? Officer, that was just an unfortunate coincidence. I was going to the supermarket to pick up some ice cream.
Yeah, right.
As Syd moved closer, one of the police officers approached her.
"Sydney Jameson?" he called.
"Yes," she said. "Thank you for responding so quickly to Detective McCoy's call. Does this guy have identification?"
"He does," the officer said. "He also says he knows you—and that you know him."
What? Sydney moved closer, but the man who'd been following her was still surrounded by the police and she couldn't see his face.
Suzanne Brockmann - Team Ten 09 - Get Lucky Page 6