Seal Team Ten

by Brockmann, Suzanne

  Andy couldn't argue with her use of the word child. He'd taken a drag of tobacco smoke and was now coughing as if he was on the verge of asphyxiation.

  Cowboy handed him his can of beer. "Here, maybe this'll help."

  He knew damn well it wouldn't. It only served to turn Andy a darker shade of green.

  "I can't...drink any more," he gasped when he finally found some air.

  "Are you kidding?" Cowboy said. "You've got to finish that one and drink four more. We had a deal, remember?"

  "Four more?" Now Andy looked as if he was on the verge of tears.

  Cowboy opened another can. "Four more."

  Melody put her hand on his arm. "Jones, he's just a kid...."

  "That's the whole point." He lowered his voice, leaning closer to her so Andy couldn't hear. "He's a kid—who wants to hang out with high school seniors who are too young to drink them­selves. It's dangerous in those woods, the way that quarry's flooded. If those kids are going to be walking around up there in the dark, they should be doing it sober, not drunk." He turned to Andy. "You're not even a third done. Get busy, Marshall."

  Melody's grip on his arm tightened. "But he's—"

  "On the verge of learning an important lesson," Cowboy in­terrupted. "I don't want him to stop until he's got to stop. Believe me, it won't be long now." She was about to protest and he covered her hand with his. "Honey, I know this seems harsh to you, but the alternative is far harsher. Imagine how awful you'll feel if some Sunday morning we've got to go and drag that quarry because the boy genius over there was out staggering around drunk and stupid the night before and fell in and drowned."

  She hadn't considered such dire possibilities, and he could see the shock in her eyes. She was close enough for him to count the freckles on her nose, close enough to kiss....

  Her thoughts must've been moving in the same direction be­cause she quickly straightened up, pulling her hand out from un­derneath his.

  She'd touched him. He saw her realize that as a flush of pink tinged her cheeks. All that talk about keeping his distance—and she was the one who couldn't keep her hands off him.

  "I'm sorry," she murmured.

  "I know that wasn't about you and me," he quickly reassured her. "That was about your concern for Andy. I didn't read it the wrong way, so don't worry, all right?"

  But before she could reply, Andy bolted from the table and lunged for the bushes.

  Cowboy stood up. "Go on inside, Mel. I'll take care of him from here on in. I think it's probably best not to have an audi­ence—you know, save the last shreds of his manly pride."

  The sound of Andy throwing up a second time seemed to echo in the stillness of the night. Melody winced as she got up and moved toward the kitchen door. "I guess I should go in before I join him in sympathy."

  "Oh, hell, I'm sorry—I didn't even think of that possibility."

  "I was making a joke. Granted it was a bad one, but..." She smiled at him. It was just a little smile, but it was a smile just the same. His heart leaped crazily at the sight of it. "Are you sure I can't get you anything? A towel or maybe some wet wash­cloths?"

  "No. Thanks. I've got a spare towel in my tent. No sense making you do extra laundry." A joke. She made a joke. He managed to make her feel comfortable enough to make a joke. "Go on, Andy'll be fine. I'll see you later."

  Still, she hesitated, looking down at him from the back porch of the house. Cowboy would've liked to believe it was because she was loathe to leave his sparkling good company. But he knew better, and when he looked again, she was gone.

  "Hey, Andy," he said as he gently picked the boy up from the dirt under the shrubbery. "Are we having fun yet, kid?"

  Andy turned his head and, with a groan, emptied the rest of his stomach down the front of Cowboy's shut and jeans.

  It was the perfect topper to a week that had already gone out­rageously wrong.

  But Cowboy didn't care. He didn't give a damn. All he could think about was Melody's smile.

  Chapter 9

  The baby was working hard on his tap-dancing routine.

  Melody looked at the clock for the four millionth time that night. It read 1:24.

  Her back was aching, her breasts were tender, she had to pee again, and every now and then the baby would twist a certain way and trigger sciatic nerve pain that would shoot a lightning bolt all the way down her right leg from her buttocks to her calf.

  Melody swung her legs out of bed. The only way she was going to get some sleep was if she got up and walked around. With any luck, the rocking movement would lull the baby to sleep.

  She shrugged her arms into her robe and slipped her feet into her slippers and, after a brief stop in the bathroom, headed down­stairs. She actually had a craving for a corned beef sandwich and she knew there was half a pound of sliced corned beef in the fridge. If she was really lucky, she'd manage to make herself a sandwich and eat half of it before the craving disappeared.

  But the light was already on in the kitchen, and she stopped in the doorway, squinting against the brightness. “Brittany?"

  "No, it's me." Jones. He was sitting at the kitchen table, shirt less, of course. "I'm sorry, I was trying to be quiet—did I wake you?"

  “No, I was just...I couldn't sleep and..." Melody tried to close her robe to hide the revealingly thin cotton of her nightgown, but it was useless. The robe barely even met in the front.

  Her urge to flee was tempered by the fact that she no longer was merely hungry—she was starving. Her craving for that sand­wich had grown out of control. She eyed the refrigerator and gauged the distance between it and Jones.

  It was too close for comfort. Heck, anything that put her within a mile of this man was too close for comfort. She turned to go back upstairs, aware of the irony of the situation. The baby had been quieted simply by her walk down the stairs, but now she wouldn't be able to sleep because she was restless.

  But Jones stood up. "I can clear out if you want. I was just waiting for my laundry to dry."

  She realized that he was wearing only a towel. It was fastened loosely around his lean hips, and as she watched nearly hypno­tized, it began to slip free.

  "Andy did the psychedelic yawn on my last clean pair of jeans," Jones continued, catching the towel at the last split second and attaching it again around his waist.

  Melody had to laugh, both relieved and oddly, stupidly disap­pointed that he wasn't now standing naked in front of her. "I've never heard it called that before. As far as euphemisms go, it sounds almost pleasant."

  He smiled as if he could read her mind. "Believe me, it wasn't even close to pleasant. In fact, it was about four hundred yards beneath unpleasant, way down in the category of awful. But it was necessary."

  She was lingering in the doorway. She knew she was, but she couldn't seem to walk away. The towel was slipping again, and he finally gave up and just held it on with one hand.

  "How is Andy?" she asked.

  "Feeling pretty bad, but finally asleep. He had the added bonus of the dry heaves after Vince and I got him cleaned off and into bed."

  His hair was still wet from his own shower. If she moved closer, she knew exactly how he would smell. Deliciously clean and dangerously sweet. Jones had the power to make even the everyday smell of cheap soap seem exotic and mysterious.

  "Why don't you come sit down?" he said quietly. "If you're hungry, I could make you something to eat. Same rules apply as during dinner. We talk, that's all."

  Melody could remember staying up far later into the night with this man, feeding each other room-service food and talking about anything that popped into their heads. Books, movies, music. She knew he liked Stephen King, Harrison Ford action flicks and the country sounds of Diamond Rio. But she didn't know why. Their conversations had never been that serious. He'd often interrupted himself midsentence to kiss her until the room spun and to bury himself deeply inside her so that all talk was soon forgotten.

  He'd told her more about himself this ev
ening than he'd had the entire time they'd been in Paris. She could picture him as a boy, looking a lot like Andy Marshall, desperate for his father's approval. She could imagine him, too, getting into the kind of trouble that Andy attracted like a high-powered magnet. She was dying to find out how he'd turned himself around. How had he gone from near juvenile delinquent to this confident, well-adjusted man?

  Melody stepped into the room. "Why don't you sit down?" she told him. "I'm just going to make myself a sandwich."

  "Are you sure I can't help?"

  "I'd rather you sat down. That way, I know your towel won't fall off."

  He laughed. "I'm sorry about this. I honestly didn't have any­thing clean to put on."

  "Just sit, Jones," she ordered him. She could feel him watch­ing her as she got the cold cuts and mustard from the refrigerator. She set them on the table. "What I really want is a Reuben— you know, a grilled sandwich with corned beef, sauerkraut and Swiss cheese on rye? Thousand Island dressing dripping out the sides. Except we don't have any Swiss cheese or Thousand Island dressing."

  "Salt," he said. "What you crave is salt. But I read that you're not supposed to have a lot of salt while you're pregnant."

  "Every now and then, you've just got to break the rules," Melody told him as she took two plates from the cabinet.

  "If you want, I'll run out to the store," he volunteered. "There's got to be a supermarket around here that's open twenty-four hours."

  She glanced at him as she got the bread from the cupboard. "I can picture you at the Stop and Shop wearing only your towel."

  He stood up. "I'll put my jeans on wet. It doesn't bother me. Believe me, I've worn far worse."

  "No," Melody said. "Thanks, but no. By the time you got back, the craving would be gone."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Yeah. It's weird. I get these cravings, and then as soon as I'm face-to-face with the food, I get queasy—particularly if it's something that takes me awhile to prepare. Suddenly, the food I was craving becomes absolutely the last thing I want to get any­where near my mouth. I stand a better chance if I can make it and start eating it quickly." She sat across from him at the table to do just that. "Help yourself."

  "Thanks." Jones sat back down. He pulled one of the plates in his direction and took several slices of bread from the bag.

  "So what happens next with Andy?" Melody asked.

  "I'm going to get him up early," Jones told her, reaching for the mustard. "Let him experience the joys of a hangover. And then we're going to go over to the library and get some statistics on the correlation between starting to drink at age twelve and alcoholism." He glanced up at her, licking his fingers. "I think it would be a really good idea if you came along."

  "What possible good can I do for Andy by coming with you?"

  "Oh, it's not for Andy. It's for me. I want you to come because I enjoy your company." He smiled as he took a bite of his sand­wich.

  Melody tried not to feel pleased. She knew his words were just part of his effort to charm her.

  "I don't know," she said. "Saturday's really the only morning I have to sleep late."

  "Andy and I'll be at the library for a while," he told her. "You could meet us over there."

  "I don't know..."

  "You don't have to tell me now. Just think about it. See how you feel in the morning." He watched as she took a tentative bite of her own sandwich. "How is it?"

  It tasted...delicious. "It's good," she admitted. "At least that bite was good."

  "It must be so bizarre to be pregnant," Jones mused. "I can't even imagine what it would feel like to have another person inside me."

  "It was really strange at first, back when I first felt the baby move," Melody said between bites. "I wasn't even really show­ing that much, but I could feel this fluttering inside me—kind of as if the grilled cheese sandwich I had for lunch had come alive and was doing a little dance."

  Jones laughed. "I've felt that. It's called indigestion."

  "No, this is different. This doesn't hurt. It just feels really strange—and kind of miraculous." She couldn't keep from smil­ing as she rested her hand on her belly—on the baby. "Definitely miraculous."

  "The entire concept is pretty damn amazing," Jones agreed. "And terrifying. I mean, you've still got a month and a half to go before that baby decides he wants to get shaken loose. But by then, he's going to be three inches taller than you. I swear, I look at you, Melody, and I get scared to death. You're so tiny and that baby's so huge. How exactly is this going to work?"

  "It's natural, Jones. Women have been having babies since the beginning of time."

  He was silent for a moment. "I'm sorry," he finally said. "I promised we wouldn't talk about this. It's just...I don't like it when things are out of my control."

  Melody put her half-eaten sandwich back down on her plate. Her appetite was gone. "I know how hard this must be for you,"

  she told him. "I know it must seem as if—in just one split sec­ond—your entire life's been derailed."

  "But it happened," Jones pointed out, "and now there's no turning back. There's only moving ahead."

  "That's right," Melody agreed. "And what lies ahead for you and what lies ahead for me are two entirely different paths."

  He laughed, breaking the somber mood they'd somehow fallen into. "Yeah, yeah, different paths, yada, yada, yada. We've talked about this before, honey. What I want to know is, who's going to be your labor coach? You are planning to use Lamaze, aren't you?"

  Melody blinked. "You know so much about this...."

  "I've been reading up. I'd like to be considered for position of coach. That is, if you're still accepting applications."

  "Brittany's already agreed to do it," she told him, adding a silent thank God. She could just imagine having Cowboy Jones present in the delivery room when she was giving birth. Talking about double torture.

  "Yeah, I figured. I was just hoping..." He looked down at her unfinished food. "I guess you hit the wall with your sandwich, huh?"

  Melody nodded as she stood up. "I better get to bed."

  "You go on up. I'll take care of the mess." Jones smiled. "This was nice. Let's do it again sometime—like every night for the rest of our lives." He smacked himself on the top of his head. "Damn, there I go again. Of course, as you pointed out your­self—every now and then you've got to break the rules."

  "Good night, Jones." She let her voice drip with exaggerated exasperation.

  He chuckled. "Good night, honey."

  As Melody went up the stairs, she didn't look back. She knew if she looked, she'd see Jones smiling at her, watching as she walked away.

  But she knew that his smile would be a mask, covering his frustration and despair. This was hard enough for him, consid­ering that marrying her was not truly what he wanted to do. It would've been hard enough to set the wheels in motion and sim ply follow through. But for him to sit there night after night, day after day, and try to convince her that marriage was for the best when he didn't quite believe it himself...

  She felt sorry for him.

  Almost as sorry as she felt for herself.

  "Hey, guys. Find out anything good?"

  Cowboy glanced up from the library computer to see Brittany Evans standing behind Andy's chair. He turned, looking past her, making a quick sweep of the library, searching for her sister. But if Melody was there, she was out of sight, hiding among the stacks.

  "She's outside," Brittany answered his unspoken question. "She was feeling a little faint, so she's taking a minute, sitting on one of the benches out front."

  "You left her alone?"

  "Only for a minute. But I figured, instead of me sitting with her... Well, I thought you might want to switch baby-sitting jobs."

  "Yeah," Cowboy said as he stood up. "Thanks."

  Andy glared. "Hey. I don't need no baby-sitter."

  "That's right," Brittany said tartly to him as she slid into the seat Cowboy had left empty. "You don't. You ne
ed a warden. And a grammar instructor, apparently. So what are you research­ing here? The statistics of alcohol overdoses among minors, re­sulting in fatalities? Kids who've died from drinking too much. Fascinating subject, huh? How's your stomach feeling this morn­ing, by the way?"

  Cowboy didn't wait to hear Andy's retort as he crossed the library foyer, pushed open the heavy wooden door and stepped outside.

  Mel was sitting on a bench, just as Brittany had said. The sight of her still had the power to make him pause. She was beautiful. Her golden hair cascaded down around her shoulders, reflecting the bright autumn sun. And although the air was cool, she'd taken off her sweater and wore only a sleeveless dress. Her arms were lightly tanned and as slender as they'd ever been. In fact, he was certain he could encircle both of her wrists with the thumb and forefinger of one hand. That is, if she would let him get close enough to touch her.

  As he moved toward the bench, he was surprised that she didn't leap up and back away—until he realized that behind her sun­glasses, her eyes were closed.

  Her face was pale, too.

  "Honey, are you all right?" He sat down beside her.

  She didn't open her eyes. "I get so dizzy," she admitted. "Even just the walk from the car..." She opened her eyes and looked at him. "It's totally not fair. My mother was one of those ridiculously healthy people who played tennis the day before I was born. Two kids, and she didn't throw up once."

  "But you have more than just your mother's genes," Cowboy pointed out. "You're half your father, too."

  She smiled wanly. "Yeah, well, he never had morning sick­ness, either."

  The breeze ruffled her hair, blowing a strand across her cheek. He wanted to touch her hair, to brush it back and run his fingers through its silk.

  "You don't talk about him much." Cowboy reached down and picked up a perfect red maple leaf that the wind had brought right to their feet. "I remember when we were in Paris, you told me about your mother getting remarried and moving to Florida, but you never even mentioned your father."

  "He died the summer I was sixteen." Melody paused. "I never really knew him. I mean, I lived in the same house with him for sixteen years, but we weren't very close. He worked seven days a week, eighteen hours a day. He was an investment broker. If you want to know the awful truth, I don't know what my mother saw in him."