Seal Team Ten

by Brockmann, Suzanne

  He didn't wait for an answer. He turned and stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

  The noise echoed as Cowboy stared at Harvard and Blue.

  "Shoot," he finally said. "Anybody have any idea what the hell's going on?"

  Chapter 9

  Room service arrived at the royal suite before Joe did.

  "Set it out on the table, please," Veronica instructed the waiter.

  She'd ordered a full-course meal, from appetizers to des­sert, complete with three different wines.

  This afternoon's lesson was food—or more precisely, eating food. There was a hundred-dollar-a-plate charity luncheon in Boston, Massachusetts, that had been left on the prince's tour schedule. Both the location and the visibility of the event were right for a possible assassination attempt, but it was more than a hi-and-bye appearance. It would involve more than Joe's ability to stand and wave as if he were Prince Tedric.

  The hotel-suite door opened, and Joe came inside, followed by three FInCOM agents. His shirt was unbuttoned, revealing his T-shirt underneath, and he met Veronica's eyes only briefly before turning to the laden dining table. It was quite clear that he was still upset with her.

  "What's this?" he asked.

  "This is practice for the Boston charity luncheon," Veron­ica replied. "I hope you're hungry."

  Joe stared at the table. It was loaded with dishes covered with plate-warmers. It was set for two, with a full array of cutlery and three different wineglasses at each setting. What, didn't Miss High-and-Mighty think he knew how to eat with a fork? Didn't she know he dined with admirals and four-star generals at the Officers' Club?

  Stupid. Ignorant.

  Joe nodded slowly, wishing he was still pissed off, wishing he was still nursing the slow burn he'd felt upstairs in the exercise room. But he wasn't. He was too tired to be angry now. He was too tired to feel anything but disappointment and hurt. Damn, it made him feel so vulnerable.

  The room-service waiter was standing next to the table, looking down his snotty nose at Joe's unbuttoned shirt. Gee, maybe the waiter and Veronica had had a good laugh about Joe before he'd arrived.

  “This is unnecessary," he said, turning back to look at Ve­ronica. Man, she looked pretty in that blue dress. Her hair was tied back with some kind of ribbon, and— Forget about her, he told himself harshly. She was just some rich girl who'd made it more than clear that they lived in two different worlds, and there was no crossing the border. He was stupid and ignorant, and kissing him had been a mistake. ' 'Believe it or not, I al­ready know which fork is for the salad and which fork is for the dessert. It might come as a shock to you, but I also know how to use a napkin and drink from a glass."

  Veronica actually looked surprised, her blue eyes growing even wider. "Oh," she said. "No. No, I knew that. That's not what this is." She let a nervous laugh escape. "You actually thought / thought I'd need to teach you how to eat?"

  Joe was not amused. "Yeah."

  My God, he was serious. He was standing there, his power­ful arms folded across his broad chest, staring at her with those mystifying dark eyes. Veronica remembered that flash of hurt in Joe's eyes when they'd argued in the exercise room. What had she said? She'd called him stupid and ignorant. Oh, Lord. She still couldn't believe those words had come out of her mouth.

  "I'm so sorry," she said.

  His eyes narrowed slightly, as if he couldn't believe what he was hearing.

  "I owe you an apology," Veronica explained. "I was very angry this afternoon, and I said some things I didn't mean. The truth is, I was frustrated and angry with myself. / was the one who fell asleep. It was all my fault, and I tried to take it out on you. I shouldn't have. I am sorry."

  Joe looked at the waiter and then at the FlnCOM agents who were sitting on the sofa, listening to every word. He crossed to the door and opened it invitingly. "You guys mind stepping outside for a sec?"

  The FlnCOM agents looked at each other and shrugged. Rising to their feet, they crossed to the door and filed out into the corridor. Joe turned to the waiter. "You, too, pal." He gestured toward the open door. "Take a hike."

  He waited until the waiter was outside, then closed the door tightly and crossed back to Veronica. "You know, these guys will give you privacy if you ask for it," he said.

  She nodded. "I know," she said. She lifted her chin slightly, steadily meeting his gaze. "It's just…I was rude to you in public, I felt I should apologize to you in public, too."

  Joe nodded, too. "Okay," he said. "Yeah. That sounds fair." He looked at her, and there was something very close to admiration in his eyes. "That sounds really fair."

  Veronica felt her own eyes flood with tears. Oh, damn, she was going to cry. If she started to cry, she was going to feel once more just how gentle Joe's hard-as-steel arms could be. And Lord, she didn't want to be reminded of that. "I am sorry," she said, blinking back the tears.

  Oh, damn, Veronica was going to cry, Joe thought as he took a step toward her, then stopped himself. No, she was trying hard to hide it. It was better if he played along, if he pretended he didn't notice. But, man, the sight of those blue eyes swim­ming in tears made his chest ache, reminding him of this morning, when he'd held her in his arms. Reminding him of that unbelievable kiss...

  Veronica forced a smile and held out her hand to him. "Still friends?" she asked.

  Friends, huh? Joe had never had a friend before that he wanted to pull into his arms and kiss the living daylights out of.

  As he gazed into her eyes, the attraction between them seemed to crackle and snap, like some living thing.

  Veronica was okay. She was a decent person—the fact that she'd apologized proved that. But she came from miles on the other side of the railroad tracks. If their relationship became intimate, she'd still be slumming. And he'd be...

  He'd be dreaming about her every night for the rest of his life.

  Joe let go of Veronica's hand as if he'd been stung. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, where had that thought come from... ?

  "Are you all right?" The concern in her eyes was genuine.

  Joe stuffed his hands in his pockets. "Yeah. Sorry. I guess I'm... After we do this dining thing, I'm going to take an­other short nap."

  "A three-minute nap this time?" Veronica asked. "Or maybe you'll splurge, and sleep for five whole minutes... ?"

  Joe smiled, and she gave him an answering smile. Their gazes met and held. And held and held and held.

  With another woman, Joe would have closed the gap be­tween them. With another woman, Joe would have taken two short steps and brought them face to face. He would have brushed those stray flame-colored curls from the side of her beautiful face, then lifted her chin and lowered his mouth to meet hers.

  He had tasted her lips before. He knew how amazing kissing Veronica could be.

  But she wasn't another woman. She was Veronica St. John. And she'd already made it clear that sex wasn't on their agenda. Hell, if a kiss was a mistake, then making love would be an er­ror of unbelievable magnitude. And the truth was, Joe didn't want to face that kind of rejection.

  So Joe didn't move. He just gazed at her.

  "Well," she said, slightly breathlessly, "perhaps we should get to work."

  But she didn't cross toward the dining table, she just gazed up at him, as if she, too, were caught in some kind of force field and unable to move.

  Veronica was beautiful. And rich. And smart. But more than just book smart. She was people smart, too. Joe had seen her manipulate a tableful of high-ranking officials. She couldn't have done that on an Ivy League diploma alone.

  He didn't know the first thing about her, Joe realized. He didn't know where she came from, or how she'd gotten here, to Washington, D.C. He didn't know how she'd come to work for the crown prince of Ustanzia. He didn't know why she'd re­mained, even after the assassination attempt, when most civil­ians would have headed for the hills and safety.

  "What's your angle?" Joe asked.

  Veronica
blinked. "Excuse me?"

  He reworded the question. "Why are you here? I mean, I'm here to help catch Diosdado, but what are you getting out of this?"

  She looked out the window at the afternoon view of the capital city. When she glanced back at Joe, her smile was rue­ful. "Beats me," she said. "I'm not getting paid nearly half enough, although it could be argued that working for royalty is a solid career boost. Of course, it all depends on whether we can successfully pass you off as Prince Tedric."

  She sank down onto the couch and looked up at him, elbow on her knee, chin in her hand. "We have less than six hours before the committee makes a decision." She shook her head and laughed humorlessly. "Instead of becoming more like Tedric, you seem more different from him than when we started. I look at you, Joe, and you don't even look like the prince anymore."

  Joe smiled as he sat next to her on the couch. "Lucky for us, most people won't look beneath the surface. They'll expect to see Ted, so... they'll see Ted."

  "I need this thing to work," Veronica said, smoothing her skirt over her knees. "If this doesn't work..."

  "Why?" Joe asked. "Mortgage payment coming due on the castle?"

  Veronica turned and looked at him. "Very funny."

  "Sorry."

  "You don't really want to hear this."

  Joe was watching her, studying her face. His dark eyes were fathomless, and as mysterious as the deepest ocean. "Yes, I do."

  "Tedric's sister has been my best friend since boarding school," Veronica said. "Even though Tedric is unconcerned with Ustanzia's financial state, Wila has been working hard to make her country more solvent. It matters to her—so it mat­ters to me." She smiled. "When oil was discovered, Wila ac­tually did cartwheels right across the Capital lawn. I thought poor Jules was going to have a heart attack. But then she found out how much it would cost to drill. She's counting on getting U.S. aid."

  Jules.

  Be a dear, Jules, and ring the office. Veronica had mur­mured those words in her sleep, and since then, Joe had been wondering, not without a sliver of jealousy, exactly who this Jules was.

  "Who's Jules?" Joe asked.

  "Jules," Veronica repeated. "My brother. He conveniently married my best friend. It's quite cozy, really, and very sweet. They're expecting a baby any moment."

  Her brother. Jules was her brother. Why did that make Joe feel so damned good? He and Veronica were going to be friends, nothing more, so why should he care whether Jules was her brother or her lover or her pet monkey?

  But he did care, damn it.

  Joe leaned forward. "So that's why Wila didn't come on this tour instead of Brain-dead Ted? Because she's pregnant?"

  Veronica tried not to smile, but failed. "Don't call Prince Tedric that," she said.

  He smiled at her, struck by the way her eyes were the exact shade of blue as her dress. "You know, you look pretty in blue."

  Her smile vanished and she stood. "We should really get started," she said, crossing to the dining table. "The food's getting cold."

  Joe didn't move. "So where did you and Jules grow up? London?"

  Veronica turned to look back at him. "No," she replied. "At first we traveled with our parents, and when we were old enough, we went away to school. The closest thing we had to a permanent home was Huntsgate Manor, where our Great-Aunt Rosamond lived."

  "Huntsgate Manor," Joe mused. "It sounds like something out of a fairy tale."

  Veronica's eyes grew dreamy and out of focus as she gazed out the window. "It was so wonderful. This big, old, moldy, ancient house with gardens and grounds that went on forever and ever and ever." She looked up at Joe with a spark of hu­mor in her eyes. "Not really," she added. "I think the prop­erty is only about four or five acres, but when we were little, it seemed to go to the edge of the world and back."

  Night and day, Joe thought. Their two upbringings were as different as night and day. He wondered what she would do, how she would react if she knew about the rock he'd crawled out from under.

  Veronica laughed, embarrassed. "I don't know why I just told you all that," she said. "It's hardly interesting."

  But it was interesting. It was fascinating. As fascinating as those gigantic houses he'd gone into with his mother, the houses that she'd cleaned when he was a kid. Veronica's words were another porthole to that same world of "Look but don't touch." It was fascinating. And depressing as hell. Veronica had been raised like a little princess. No doubt she'd only be content to spend her life "happily ever after," with a prince.

  And he sure as hell didn't fit that bill.

  Except, what was he doing, thinking about things like hap­pily ever after?

  "How about you, Joe?" she asked, interrupting his thoughts. "Where did you grow up?"

  "Near New York City. We really should get to work," he said, half hoping she'd let the subject of his childhood drop— and half hoping that she wouldn't.

  She wouldn't. "New York City," she said. "I've never lived there, I've only visited. I remember the first time I was there as a child. It all seemed to be lights and music and Broadway plays and marvelous food and.. .people, people everywhere."

  "I didn't see any plays on Broadway," Joe said dryly. "Al­though when I was ten, I snuck out of the house at night and hung around the theater district, trying to spot celebrities. I'd get their autograph and then sell it, make a quick buck."

  "Your parents probably loved that," Veronica said. "A ten-year-old, all alone in New York City... ?"

  "My mother was usually too drunk to notice I was gone," Joe said. "And even if she had, she wouldn't have given a damn."

  Veronica looked away from him, down at the floor. "Oh," she said.

  "Yeah," Joe said. "Oh."

  She fiddled with her hair for a moment, and then she sur­prised him. She looked up and directly into his eyes and smiled—a smile not without sorrow for the boy he'd once been. "I guess that's where you learned to be so self-reliant. And self-confident."

  "Self-reliant, maybe. But I grew up with everyone always telling me I wasn't good enough," Joe said. "No, that's not true. Not everyone. Not Frank O'Riley." He shook his head and laughed. "He was this mean old guy who lived in this grungy basement apartment in one of the tenements over by the river. He had a wooden leg and a glass eye and his arms were covered with tattoos and all the kids were scared sh-— scared to death of him. Except me, because I was the toughest, coolest kid in the neighborhood—at least among the under-twelve set.

  "O'Riley had this garden—really just a patch of land. It couldn't have been more than twelve by four feet. He always had something growing—flowers, vegetables—it was always something. So I went in there, over his rusty fence, just to prove I wasn't scared of the old man.

  "I'd been planning to trample his flowers, but once I got into the garden, I couldn't do it," Joe said. "They were just too damn pretty. All those colors. Shades I'd never even imag­ined. Instead, I sat down and just looked at them.

  "Old Frank came out and told me he'd loaded his gun and was ready to shoot me in my sorry butt, but since I was obvi­ously another nature lover, he'd brought me a glass of lemon­ade instead."

  Why was he telling her this? Blue was the only person he'd ever mentioned Frank O'Riley to, and never in such detail. Joe's friendship with Old Man O'Riley was the single good memory he carried from his childhood. Chief Frank O'Riley, U.S.N., retired, and his barely habitable basement apartment had been Joe's refuge, his escape when life at home became unbearable.

  And suddenly he knew why he was telling Veronica about Frank, his one childhood friend, his single positive role model. He wanted this woman to know where he came from, who he really was. And he wanted to see her reaction; see whether she would recognize the importance old Frank had played in his life, or whether she would shrug it off, uncaring, uninterested.

  *'Frank was a sailor," Joe told Veronica. "Tough as nails, and with one hell of a foul mouth. He could swear like no one I've ever known. He fought in the Pacific in World War Two,
as a frogman, one of the early members of the UDTs, the un­derwater demolition teams that later became the SEALs. He was rough and crude, but he never turned me away from his door. I helped him pull weeds in his garden in return for the stories he told."

  Veronica was listening intently, so he went on.

  "When everyone else I knew told me I was going to end up in jail or worse, Frank O'Riley told me I was destined to be­come a Navy SEAL—because both they and I were the best of the best."

  "He was right," Veronica murmured. "He must be very, very proud of you."

  "He's dead," Joe said. He watched her eyes fill with com­passion, and the noose around his chest grew tighter. He was in big trouble here. "He died when I was fifteen."

  "Oh, no," she whispered.

  "Frank had one hell of a powerful spirit," Joe continued, resisting the urge to pull her into his arms and comfort her be­cause his friend had died more than fifteen years ago. "Wher­ever I went and whatever I did for the three years after he died, he was there, whispering into my ear, keeping me in line, re­minding me about those Navy SEALs that he'd admired so much. On the day I turned eighteen, I walked into that navy recruitment office and I could almost feel his sigh of relief."

  He smiled at her and Veronica smiled back, gazing into his eyes. Again, time seemed to stand totally still. Again, it was the perfect opportunity to kiss her, and again, Joe didn't allow himself to move.

  "I'm glad you've forgiven me, Joe," she said quietly.

  "Hey, what happened to 'Your Highness'?" Joe asked, try­ing desperately to return to a more lighthearted, teasing tone.

  She was getting serious on him. Serious meant being honest, and in all honesty, Joe did not want to be friends with this woman. He wanted to be lovers. He was dying to be her lover. He wanted to touch her in ways she'd never been touched be­fore. He wanted to hear her cry out his name and—

  Veronica looked surprised. "I've forgotten to call you that, haven't I?"