Seal Team Ten

by Brockmann, Suzanne

  "I would love to see your country," Cindy said, in her stilted schoolgirl French.

  Oh, dear. Veronica stood. "Cindy, I'm sure Prince Tedric would love for you to see his country, too, but he should really practice his English, now that he's visiting America."

  Joe looked up at her. "It's all right," he murmured, then turned back to Cindy. "I know a way you can see my coun­try," Joe replied in perfect French. His accent was impecca­ble—he spoke like a native Parisian. "Close your eyes, and I will tell you all about my beautiful Ustanzia, and you will see it as if you are there."

  Veronica's mouth was hanging open. Joe spoke French? Joe spoke French? She pulled her mouth shut and listened in si­lence as he described Ustanzia's mountains and valleys and plains in almost poetic language—both in French and English, as he translated the too-difficult words for the little girl.

  "It sounds wonderful," Cindy said with a sigh.

  "It is," Joe replied. He smiled again. "Do you know some people in my country also speak Russian?" He then repeated his question in flawless Russian.

  Veronica had to sit down. Russian? What other languages did he speak? Or maybe she should wonder what languages didn't he speak...

  "Do you speak Russian?" Joe asked the little girl.

  She shook her head.

  "Say 'da,’” Joe said.

  "Da," she said.

  "That's Russian for 'yes,'" he told her, and smiled—a big, wide, warm Joe smile, not one of Tedric's pinched smiles. "Now you speak Russian."

  "Da," she said again, with a brilliant smile in return.

  A FInCOM agent appeared in the doorway. When Joe looked up, the man touched his watch.

  "I have to go now," Joe said. "I'm sorry I can't stay longer."

  "That's okay," Cindy said, but once again her eyes filled with tears.

  Joe felt his heart clench. He'd been there, visiting Cindy, for only thirty minutes. When they'd set up the schedule for the tour, McKinley had wanted to allot only five minutes for Saint Mary's, but Veronica had been adamant that they take a full half hour. But now, even a half hour didn't seem long enough.

  "I'm so glad I got to meet you," Joe said, leaning forward to kiss her on the forehead as he stood.

  "Your Majesty...?"

  "Yes, milady?"

  "I heard on the news that there are lots of kids hungry in Ustanzia right now," Cindy said, laboring over the words.

  Joe nodded seriously. "Yes," he said. "That news report was right. My family is trying to fix that."

  "I don't like it when kids are hungry," she said.

  "I don't either," Joe said, his voice husky. The tornado in­side him was growing again. How could this child think of others' troubles and pain, when her own pain was so great?

  "Why don't you share your food with them?" Cindy said.

  "It's not always that easy," Joe said. But she already knew that. Surely she, of all people, knew that.

  "It should be, "she said.

  He nodded. "You're right. It should be."

  She closed her eyes briefly—an eyelid curtsy.

  Joe bowed. What could he say now? Stay well? That would be little more than a cruel joke. I'll see you soon? An untruth. Both he and the child knew they would never meet again. His rage and frustration swelled up into his throat, making it dif­ficult to speak. "Goodbye, Cindy," he managed to say, then moved toward the door.

  "I love you, Prince," Cindy said.

  Joe stopped, and turned back to her, fighting hard to smile. "Thank you," he said. "I'll treasure this day, Cindy—al­ways—and carry you forever in my heart."

  The little girl smiled, made happy by such a small thing, such a small pleasure.

  Somehow Joe kept the smile on his face until he was outside the room. Somehow he managed to walk down the hall with­out putting his fist through a wall. Somehow he managed to keep walking—until the burning rage in his stomach and throat and behind his eyes grew too intense, and his feet wouldn't carry him another step forward.

  He turned toward the wall—the same wall he hadn't put his fist through—and leaned his arms against it, burying his face in the crook of his elbow, hoping, praying that the pain that was burning him would soon let up.

  But why should it? The pain Cindy was in wasn't going to let up. She was going to die, probably in a matter of days. The in­justice of it all was like a knee to his groin. Bile filled his mouth and he wanted to shake his fist at the sky and curse the God Who could let this happen.

  "Joe."

  Ronnie was there, then. Leading him down the hall, she pulled him into the semiprivacy of a tiny chapel. Warm and soft, she put her arms around him and held him tightly.

  "Oh, God," he said, fighting the hot rush of tears to his eyes. "Oh, God!”

  "I know," she said. "I know. But you were so good. You made her smile. You made her happy."

  Joe pulled back to look at Veronica. Light filtered in through the stained-glass windows, glowing red and blue and gold on the tile floor. "I'm not even a real prince," he said harshly. "It was all just a lie.”

  Veronica shook her head. "Tedric would've disappointed her horribly," she said. "You've given her something good to dream about."

  Joe laughed, but it came out sounding more like a sob. He stared up at the crucifix on the wall behind the altar. "Yeah, but for how long?"

  "For as long as she needs good dreams," Veronica said qui­etly.

  Joe felt his eyes fill with tears again. He tried to blink them back, but one or two escaped, rolling down his face. He was crying. God, he hadn't cried since he was fifteen years old. Embarrassed, he wiped at his face with the back of one hand. "This is why you insisted that Saint Mary's stay on the sched­ule," he said gruffly. "You're really the one responsible for making that little girl happy."

  "I think it was teamwork," Veronica said, smiling at him through her own tears.

  He'd never seen her look more beautiful. Nearly everything she'd done up to this point, he realized, she'd done for the sake of one little dying girl. Sure, she wanted to help catch the ter­rorists. And she wanted to help her friend, the princess of Us-tanzia. But what really had driven her to make sure Joe could pass as Prince Tedric, was the little sick kid back in that bed.

  He knew that as sure as he knew his heart was beating.

  The noose around Joe's chest drew so tight, for one heart-stopping moment he was sure he'd never be able to breathe again. But then something snapped—not the noose, but some­thing in his head—and a little voice said, "You're in love with this woman, you flaming idiot," and he knew it was true.

  She was wonderful. And he was crazy in love with her.

  Her smile faded and there was only warmth in her eyes, warmth and that ever-present flame of desire. She moved back into his arms, and lifted her mouth to his and...

  God, he was kissing her. He was actually kissing her.

  He took her lips hungrily, pulling her lithe body closer to him. He wanted to inhale her, devour her, become one with her. He kissed her again and again, his tongue sweeping fiercely past any pretense of civility, as he savagely claimed her mouth.

  He could feel her arms around his neck, feel her pressing herself even tighter against him as she kissed him with equal abandon.

  It was so right. It was so utterly, perfectly right. This woman, his arms around her, their two hearts beating—pounding—in unison. Two souls intertwined. Two minds so different, yet alike.

  Joe knew with sudden frightening clarity what he'd been fighting and denying to himself for days now.

  He wanted.

  Ronnie St. John.

  Permanently.

  As in "till death do us part."

  He wanted to make love to her, to possess her, to own her heart as completely as she owned his. He wanted to see her eyes widen in pleasure, hear her cry his name as he filled her, to­tally, absolutely, in a perfect act of total and binding love.

  For the first time in his life, Joe understood the concept of happily ever after. It was
a promise he'd never allowed himself before, an impossible rank he'd never thought to achieve.

  But it was right there, staring him in the face whenever Ve­ronica walked into the room. It was in the way she stood, the way she tilted her head very slightly as she listened to him talk, the way she tried so ineffectually to tuck her wild curls back up into her bun, the way her blue eyes danced as she laughed. And it was in the way she was kissing him, as if she, too, wanted to wrap her gorgeous mile-long legs around his waist and feel him inside her forever and ever and ever and ever.

  But then, as suddenly as the kiss had started, it stopped.

  Veronica pulled away, as if she suddenly realized that they were standing in the middle of the hospice chapel, surrounded by stained glass and soothing dark wood and candles, with a FInCOM agent watching them from the doorway, A nun knelt quietly before the altar. They'd been standing there, kissing, in front of a nun, for crying out loud Veronica's cheeks flushed pink as Joe looked into her eyes, trying to see what she was thinking. Was this just another "mistake"? Or was this simply a more emotional thank-you? Or was it more than that? Please, God, he wanted it to be more. He wanted it to mean she was feeling all of the things that he felt. But they weren't alone, and he couldn't ask. He couldn't even speak. All he could do was hope.

  She looked away from him, the expression in her eyes un­readable as she murmured an apology.

  An apology. Mistakes and accidents required apologies.

  Joe's heart sank as the FInCOM agents quickly led them both back to the waiting limos. And when Kevin Laughton hustled Veronica into a different limousine and she didn't even glance in Joe's direction before getting inside, his heart shat­tered.

  He had his answer. That kiss had been another mistake.

  Joe was quiet on the charter flight to Boston. Even his friends from the Alpha Squad knew enough to stay away from him.

  Veronica slipped into the seat next to his, and he glanced up, his eyes wary.

  "Are you ail right?" she asked quietly.

  He smiled tightly. "Why wouldn't I be all right?"

  Veronica wasn't sure how to answer that question. Because you just spent time with a dying child. Because you talked to her and you didn't try to pretend that she had a future, that she wasn't dying. Because it hurts like hell to know that there's nothing you or anyone else can do for that little girl, except make her smile a few more times And because you kissed me as if your world were crumbling beneath your very feet, and when I pulled away, you looked at me as if I were ripping the heart from your chest Joe shook his head. "You know, that's the problem when big, mean guys like me show we actually have a soul," he complained. "Everyone gets all worried, like, he lost it once, now he's gonna burst into tears every time someone says 'Boo,' Well, forget about it. I'm fine."

  Veronica nodded, not daring to comment, certainly not dar­ing to mention the kiss. Not yet. They sat for a moment in si­lence, and then she turned back to look at him. "I had no.idea you spoke French," she said, tackling a much safer subject, hoping he'd be the one to bring up the topic of the kiss they'd shared. "And Russian?"

  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 begotten 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.

  Chapter 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.