Seal Team Ten

by Brockmann, Suzanne

  Admiral Forrest smiled again as he watched an expression of disbelief flit across Veronica's face.

  "How on earth... ?" she asked.

  "With a raftload of courage," he answered. "And a whole hell of a lot of training and skill. Joe Cat's an expert in explo­sives, you know, both on land and underwater. And he knows all there is to know about locks and security systems. He's a top-notch mechanic. He understands engines in a way that's almost spiritual. He's also an expert marksman, a sharp­shooter with damn near any ordnance he can get his hands on. And that's just the tip of the iceberg, missy. If you want me to continue, then we'd better find a place to sit and get comfort­able, because it's going to take a while."

  Veronica tried hard to connect everything she'd just heard with the grimy, unkempt, seemingly uneducated man who had appeared in her hotel room. "I see," she finally said.

  "No, you don't," Forrest countered, a smile softening his words. "But you will. Best thing to do is go find Joe. And when he talks to you, really listen. You'll know soon enough what being a SEAL means."

  Joe sat in the hairdresser's portable chair, looking at him­self in the hotel-room mirror.

  He looked... different.

  A dentist had come in and capped the tooth he'd chipped three years ago while on a training mission and had never had fixed.

  Joe had stopped noticing it after a while. He'd had the rough edges filed down the day of the accident, but he'd never had the time or inclination to get the damn thing capped.

  The capped tooth wasn't the only thing different about him now. Joe's short dark hair was about six inches longer—and no longer short—thanks to the hair extensions the tired-looking stylist had almost finished attaching.

  It was odd, seeing himself with long hair like this.

  Joe had grown his hair out before, when he'd had advance warning of covert operations. But he liked wearing his hair short. It wasn't military-regulation short, just a comfortable length that was easy to deal with.

  Long hair got in the way. It worked its way into his mouth, hung in his face, and got in his eyes at inopportune moments.

  And it made him look like that cowardly idiot, Tedric Cortere.

  Which was precisely the point, right now.

  God help them, Joe vowed, if they expected him to wear those satin suits with the ruffles and metallic trim, and those garish rings on his fingers. No, God help him. This was a job, and if the powers that be wanted him to dress like an idiot, he was going to have to dress like an idiot. Like it or not.

  Joe stared into the mirror at the opulence of the hotel room. This place gave him the creeps. He was nervous he might break something or spill something or touch something he wasn't supposed to touch. And his nervousness really annoyed him. Why should he be nervous? Why should he feel intimidated? It was only a lousy hotel room, for Pete's sake. The only differ­ence between this room and the cheap motel rooms he stayed in when he traveled was that here the TV wasn't chained down. Here there was a phone in the bathroom. And the towels were thick and plentiful. And the carpets were plush and clean. And the wallpaper wasn't stained, and the curtains actually closed all the way, and the furniture wasn't broken and mismatched. Oh yeah, and the price tag for a one-night stay—that was dif­ferent, too.

  Sheesh, this place was as different from the places he usu­ally stayed as night was to day, Joe reminded himself.

  But the truth was, he wished he was staying at a cheap mo­tel. At least then he could lie on the bed and put his feet up without being afraid he'd ruin the bedspread. At least he wouldn't feel so goddammed out of his league.

  But he was stuck here until another assassination attempt was made or until the prince's U.S. tour ended in five weeks.

  Five weeks.

  Five weeks of feeling out of place. Of being afraid to touch anything.

  "Don't touch!" he could still hear his mother say, when as a kid, he went along on her trips to Scarsdale, where she cleaned houses that were ten times the size of their tiny Jersey City apartment. "Don't touch, or you'll hear from your fa­ther when we get home."

  Except Joe didn't have a father. He had a whole slew of stepfathers and "uncles," but no father. Still, whoever was temporarily playing the part of dear old dad at home would have leaped at any excuse to kick Joe's insolent butt into to­morrow.

  Jeez, what was wrong with him? He hadn't thought about those "happy" memories in years.

  The hotel-room door opened with an almost-inaudible click and Joe tensed. He looked up, turning his head and making the hairdresser sigh melodramatically.

  But Joe had been too well-trained to let someone come into the room without giving them the once-over. Not while he was looking more and more like a man who'd been an assassin's target just this morning.

  It was only the media consultant. Veronica St. John.

  She posed no threat.

  Joe turned his head, looking back into the mirror, waiting for the rush of relief, for the relaxation of the tension in his shoul­ders.

  But it never came. Instead of relaxing, he felt as if all of his senses had gone on alert. As if he'd suddenly woken up. It was as if he were about to go into a combat situation. The colors in the wallpaper seemed sharper, clearer. The sounds of the hair­dresser behind him seemed louder. And his sense of smell heightened to the point where he caught a whiff of Veronica St. John's subtle perfume from all the way across the room.

  "Good God," she said in her crisp, faintly British-accented voice. "You look... amazing."

  "Well, thank you, sweetheart. You're not so bad yourself."

  She'd moved to where he could see her behind him in the mirror, and he glanced up, briefly meeting her gaze.

  Blue eyes. Oh, baby, those eyes were blue. Electric blue. Electric-shock blue.

  Joe looked up at her again and realized that the current of awareness and attraction that had shot through him had gone through her, as well. She looked as surprised as he felt. Sur­prised, no doubt, that a guy from his side of the tracks could catch her eye.

  Except he didn't look like himself anymore. He looked like Prince Tedric.

  It figured.

  "I see you had the opportunity to take a shower," she said, no longer meeting his eyes. "Did your clothes get taken down to the laundry?"

  "I think so," he said. "They were gone when I got out of the bathroom. I found this hotel robe… I'd appreciate it if you could ask Admiral Forrest to send over a uniform in the morn­ing. And maybe some socks and shorts…?"

  Veronica felt her cheeks start to heat. Lord, what was wrong with her? Since when did the mention of men's underwear make her face turn as red as a schoolgirl's?

  Or maybe it wasn't the mention of unmentionables that was making her blush. Maybe it was the thought that this very large, very charismatic, very handsome, and very, very dangerous man was sitting here, with absolutely nothing on underneath his white terry-cloth robe.

  From the glint in his dark brown eyes, it was clear that he was able to read her mind.

  She used every ounce of her British schooling to keep her voice sounding cool and detached. "There's no need, Your Majesty," she said. "We go from here to your suite. A tailor will be arriving soon. He'll provide you with all of the clothing you'll need for the course of the next few weeks."

  "Whoa," Joe said. "Whoa, whoa! Back up a sec, will ya?"

  "A tailor," Veronica repeated. "We'll be meeting with him shortly. I realize it's late, but if we don't get started with—"

  "No, no," Joe said. "Before that. Did you just call me 'Your Majesty’?”

  "I'm done here,” the hairdresser said. In a monotone, he quickly ran down a quick list of things Joe could and could not do with the extensions in his hair. “Swim—yes. Shower—yes. Run a comb through your hair—no. You have to be careful to comb only above and below the attachment." He turned to Veronica. "You have my card if you need me again."

  "Find Mr. Laughton on your way out," Veronica said as Joe stood and helped the man fold up his por
table chair. "He'll see that you get paid."

  She watched, waiting until the hairdresser had closed the hotel-room door tightly behind him. Then she turned back to Joe.

  "Your Majesty," she said again. "And Your Highness. And Your Excellency. You'll have to get used to it. This is the way you're going to be addressed."

  "Even by you?" Joe stood very still, his arms folded across his chest. It was as if he were afraid to touch anything. But that was ridiculous. From the little information Veronica had gleaned from Admiral Forrest, Joe Catalanotto, or Joe Cat as the admiral had called him, wasn't afraid of anything.

  She crossed the room and sat down in one of the easy chairs by the windows. "Yes, even by me." Veronica gestured for him to sit across from her. "If we intend to pull off this cha- rade-"

  "You're right," Joe said, sitting down. "You're absolutely right. We need to go the full distance or the shooters will smell that something's not right." He smiled wryly. "It's just, after years of 'Hey, you!' or 'Yo, paesan!' 'Your Majesty' is a little disconcerting."

  Veronica's eyebrows moved upward a fraction of an inch. It figured she'd be surprised. She probably thought he didn't know any four-syllable words.

  Damn, what was it about her? She wasn't pretty, but.. .at the same time, she was. Her hair was gorgeous—the kind of soft curls he loved to run his fingers through. Joe found his eyes drawn to her face, to her delicate, almost-pointed nose, and her beautifully shaped lips. And those eyes...

  His gaze slid lower, to the dark blue blazer that covered her shoulders, tapering down to her slender waist. She wore a matching navy skirt that ended a few inches above her knees yet still managed to scream of propriety. Her politely crossed legs were something else entirely. Not even the sturdy pumps she wore on her feet could hide the fact that her legs were long and graceful and sexy as hell—the kind of legs a man dreams about. This man, anyway.

  Joe knew that she was well aware he was studying her. But she had turned away, pretending to look for something in her briefcase, purposely ignoring the attraction he knew was mu­tual.

  And then the phone rang—a sudden shrill noise that broke the quiet.

  “Excuse me for a moment, please," Veronica said, grace­fully standing and crossing the room to answer it.

  "Hello?" she said, glancing back at Joe. As she watched, he leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

  Thank goodness. He couldn't undress her any further with eyes that were closed. And with his eyes closed, she didn't have to be afraid that the warmth that spread throughout her entire body at his unmasked interest would somehow show. Heaven help her if this man got the idea that he could make her heart beat harder with a single look. She had enough to worry about without having to fight off some sailor's amorous advances.

  "The tailor has arrived," one of Tedric's aides told her. "May I ask how much longer you'll be?"

  "We'll be up shortly," Veronica said. "Please arrange to have coffee available. And something to eat. Doughnuts. Chocolate ones." Lt. Joe Catalanotto looked the chocolate-doughnut type. They could all certainly use some extra sugar to keep them awake.

  She hung up the phone and crossed back to Joe. His head was still back, and his eyes were closed. He'd slumped down in the chair as if he had no bones in his entire body.

  He was totally, absolutely and quite soundly asleep.

  Veronica sat down across from him and leaned forward, studying his face. He'd shaved and somehow managed to get all of the grease and dirt off in the shower. Even his hands were free of grime. His hair was clean and now, with the exten­sions, quite long. To the average eye, he might have looked quite a bit like Prince Tedric, but Veronica knew better.

  Tedric had never been—and never would be—this hand­some.

  There was an edge to Joe Catalanotto's good looks. A sharpness, a definition, an honesty that Tedric didn't have. There was something vibrant about Joe. He was so very alive, so vital, as if he took each moment and lived it to its very full­est. Veronica had never met anyone quite like him before.

  Imagine taking a squad of seven men deep behind enemy lines, she thought, with bombs falling, no less. Imagine hav­ing the courage and the confidence to risk not just one's own life, but six other lives, as well. And then imagine actually en­joying the danger.

  Veronica thought of the men she knew, the men she was used to working with. They tended to be so very...careful. Not that they weren't risk takers—oftentimes they were. But the risks they took were financial or psychological, never physical. Not a single one would ever put himself into any real physical dan­ger. A paper cut was the worst they could expect, and that usually required a great deal of hand-holding.

  Most men looked softer, less imposing when asleep, but not Joe. His body may have been relaxed, but his jaw was tightly clenched, his lips pulled back in what was almost a snarl. Un­derneath his lids, his eyes jerked back and forth in REM sleep.

  He slept ferociously, almost as if these five minutes of rest were all he'd get for the next few days.

  It was strange. It was very strange. And it was stranger still when Veronica sighed.

  It wasn't a particularly weighty sigh, just a little one, really. Not even very loud.

  Still, Joe's eyes flew open and he sat up straight. He was in­stantly alert, without a hint of fatigue on his lean face.

  He took a sip directly from a can of soda that was sitting on the glass-topped end table and looked at Veronica steadily, as if he hadn't been fast asleep mere seconds earlier. "Time for the tailor?" he said.

  She was fascinated. "How do you do that?" she asked, leaning forward slightly, searching his eyes for any sign of grogginess. "Wake up so quickly, I mean."

  Joe blinked and then smiled, clearly surprised at her inter­est. His smile was genuine, reaching his eyes and making the laugh lines around them deepen. Lord, he was even more at­tractive when he smiled that way. Veronica found herself smil­ing back, hypnotized by the warmth of his eyes.

  "Training." He leaned back in his chair and watched her. "SEALs take classes to study sleep patterns. We learn to catch catnaps whenever we can."

  "Really?" Joe could see the amusement in her eyes, the barely restrained laughter curving the corners of her mouth. Her natural expression was a smile, he realized. But she'd taught herself to put on that serious, businesslike facade she wore most of the time. "Classes to learn how to sleep and wake up?" she asked, letting a laugh slip out.

  Was she laughing at him or with him? He honestly couldn't tell, and he felt his own smile fade. Damn, what was it about this particular girl that he found so intimidating? With any other woman, he'd assume the joke was shared, and he'd feel glad that he was making her smile. But this one...

  There was attraction in her eyes, all right. Genuine animal attraction. He saw it there every time she glanced in his direc­tion. But there was also wariness. Maybe even fear. She didn't want to be attracted to him.

  She probably didn't think he was good enough for her.

  Damn it, he was a Navy SEAL. There was nobody better. If she wanted to ignore the fire that was ready to ignite between them, then so be it. Her loss.

  He would find plenty of women to distract him during this way-too-simple operation, and—

  With a hiss of silk, she crossed her long legs. Joe had to look away.

  Her loss. It was her loss. Except every cell in his body was screaming that the loss was his.

  Okay. So he'd seduce her. He'd ply her with wine—no, make that expensive champagne—and he'd wait until the heat he saw in her eyes started to burn out of control. It would be that easy. And then... Oh, baby. It didn't take much to imagine his hands in her soft red hair, then sweeping up underneath the delicate silk of her blouse, finding the soft, sweet fullness of her breasts. He could picture one of those sexy legs wrapped around one of his legs, as she pressed herself tightly against him, her fingers reaching for the buckle of his belt as he plundered her beauti­ful mouth with his tongue and...

  Sure, it might
be that easy.

  But then again, it might not.

  He had no reason on earth to believe that a woman like this one would want anything to do with him. From the way she dressed and acted, Joe was willing to bet big bucks that she wouldn't want any kind of permanent thing with a guy like him.

  Veronica St. John—"Sinjin," she pronounced it with that richer-than-God accent—could probably trace her bloodline back to Henry the Eighth. And Joe, he didn't even know who the hell his father was. And wouldn't that just make dicey din­ner conversation. "Catalanotto... Italian name, isn't it? Where exactly is your father from, Lieutenant?"

  “Well, gee, I don't know, Ronnie." He wondered if anyone had ever called her Ronnie, probably not. "Mom says he was some sailor in port for a day or two. Catalanotto is her name. And where she came from is anyone's guess. So is it really any wonder Mom drank as much as she did?"

  Yeah, that would go over real well.

  But he wasn't talking about marriage here. He wasn't talk­ing about much more than quenching that sharp thirst he felt whenever he looked into Veronica St. John's eyes. He was talking about one night, maybe two or three or four, depend­ing on how long this operation lasted. He was talking short-term fling, hot affair—not a lot of conversation required.

  It was true, he didn't have a lot of experience with debu­tantes, but hell, her money and power were only on the sur­face. Peel the outer trappings away, and Veronica St. John was a woman. And Joe knew women. He knew what they liked, how to catch their eye, how to make them smile.

  Usually women came to him. It had been a long while since he'd actively pursued one.