Seal Team Ten

by Brockmann, Suzanne

  He helped her out of the car, and as he closed the door behind her, she held on to his hand. He'd been on quite a few difficult missions since he'd become a SEAL, but this was the first time he'd had a hand to hold as he took the point. And odd as it was, he was glad for it, glad she was there.

  "Please, God, let him be here," she murmured as they started toward the door.

  "If he is here," Cowboy told her, "do me a favor. Don't let me kill him."

  She squeezed his hand. "I won't."

  He took a deep breath, pushed open the door and together they went inside.

  It was vintage run-down bus station. The odor of cigarette smoke and urine wasn't completely masked by the cloyingly sweet chemical scent of air freshener. The bleak walls were a hopeless shade of beige, and the industrial-bland floor tiles were cracked and chipped in some places, revealing triangles of the dirty gray concrete beneath. The men's room had a sign on the door saying Out Of Order—Use Facilities Near Ticket Agents. The snack bar had been permanently shut down, replaced by vending machines. The cheery orange and yellow of the hard plastic chairs had long since been dulled by thousands of grimy fingers.

  And Andy Marshall, a picture of dejection, sat in one of them, shoulders slumped, elbows on knees, forehead resting in the palms of his hands.

  Relief roared in Cowboy's ears. It made the bus station, and the entire world with it, seem to shift and tilt on its axis.

  The relief was followed by an icy surge of anger. How could Andy have done this? The little bastard! He'd had them all wor­ried damned sick!

  "Jones." He turned and looked down into Melody's eyes, They were brimming with tears. But she blinked, pushing them back as she smiled up at him. "I think he's already been punished enough," she said as if she could read his mind, as if everything he was feeling was written on his face.

  Cowboy nodded. It was obvious that the kid's last hope had been ripped from him without any anesthetic. It wasn't going to do either Andy or Cowboy the slightest bit of good to foam at the mouth and rage at him.

  "I'm going to go call Tom Beatrice,", he told Melody, knowing that he had to attempt to regain his equilibrium before he con­fronted the boy. "I want to give Harvard a call, too. Tell him we found Andy alive."

  She held on to his hand until the last possible moment. "Call Brittany, will you? Please?"

  "I will." He went to a row of beat-up pay phones, punching in his calling-card number and watching as Melody approached Andy.

  She sat down next to him, and even then the kid didn't look up until she spoke. Cowboy was too far away to hear what she said, but Andy didn't seem surprised by her presence.

  He watched them talk as he made his calls. Tom was quietly thankful. Harvard was out, and Cowboy left a message for him with his father. Brittany cried and then cursed the boy for his stupidity in the same breath in which she thanked God for keeping him safe.

  As Cowboy hung up the phone, Andy glanced warily in his direction. The flash of his pale face called to mind that other ghastly image he'd thought he'd seen 175 feet beneath the surface of the flooded quarry.

  Andy's face looked much better with life glistening in his eyes.

  And just like that, Cowboy's anger faded. The kid was alive. Yeah, he'd made a pile of very huge mistakes, but who was Cow­boy to talk? He'd made some whopping mistakes here himself.

  Starting seven and a half months ago in that 747 bathroom with Melody. With barely a thought, he'd gambled with fate and lost— and changed her life irrevocably.

  She looked up at him as he approached, and he could see trep­idation in her eyes. He tried to smile to reassure her, but it came out little better than a grimace. Great big God, he was tired, but he couldn't even consider slowing down. He had a ninety-minute drive back to Appleton that he had to make before he could even think about climbing into bed.

  Climbing into Melody's bed.

  If she let him. Hell, if he let himself, knowing what he now knew for certain—that he had no right to be anyone's father.

  He laughed silently and scornfully at himself. Yeah, right. Like he'd ever turn Melody down. Whether it was comfort, true love or sheer lust that drove her into his arms, he wasn't going to push her away. Not in this lifetime.

  "I'm sorry," Andy said before Cowboy even sat down.

  "Yeah," Cowboy told him, "I know. I'm glad you're okay, kid."

  "I thought maybe my father would be like you." Andy kicked once at the metal leg of the chair. "He wasn't."

  "I wish you had told me what you were planning to do." Cowboy was glad he'd made those phone calls first. His voice came out even and matter-of-fact rather than harsh and shaking with anger. "I would've come up here with you."

  "No, you wouldn't've." The boy's words were spoken without his usual cheeky attitude or resentment. They were flat, expressionlessly hopeless. "You didn't believe me when I said I didn't mess up that house."

  "Yeah," Cowboy said. He cleared his throat. "Lookit, Andy, I owe you a major apology on that one. I know now that you didn't do it. Of course, now is a little bit late. Still, I hope you can forgive me."

  There was a tiny flare of surprise in Andy's eyes. "You know I didn't...?"

  "Brittany believed you," Melody told him. "And she figured out a way to prove you were telling the truth. The account infor­mation from her computer is going to show that someone—you— were on-line that night. And although that probably wouldn't hold up as an alibi in a court of law, it'll go far in convincing Tom Beatrice he's caught the wrong kid."

  "Brittany believed me, huh?" Andy looked bemused. "Man, there was a time when she would've been organizing a lynch mob." He looked up at Cowboy and squared his narrow shoul­ders. "Maybe I am at least partly guilty, though. I did go into that house about two weeks ago. One of the upstairs windows was open a crack. I knew the place was empty, so I climbed up and went inside. I didn't break anything, though, and I didn't steal anything. I just looked."

  "And touched," Cowboy added.

  Andy rolled his eyes. "Yeah. I left my fingerprints everywhere. What a fool. Someone must've seen me go in and told Alex Parks. He did the spray painting and broke the windows and mirrors and stuff. He told me last night up by the quarry. He told me he'd made sure I was going to leave town. He told me he'd reserved a room for me at juvy hall." He smiled grimly. "I scared the hell out of him when I jumped into the quarry."

  "You scared the hell out of all of us,"

  "It was a stupid, dangerous thing to do," Melody admonished him hotly. "You might have really drowned."

  Andy slouched in his seat. "Yeah, like anyone would've missed me. Like anyone in the world gives a damn. My father doesn't—that's for sure. You know, he didn't even know my name? He kept calling me Anthony. Anthony. And he stood and talked with me for five lousy minutes. That's all he could spare me in all of twelve years."

  "Forget about your father," Melody said fiercely. "He's an idiot, Andy. You don't need him because you have us. You've got me and Brittany and Jones—"

  "Yeah, for how long?" There were actually tears in Andy's eyes. He couldn't keep up the expressionless act any longer. His voice shook. “Because after this mess, Social Services is going to pull me out of the Romanellas' house so fast I won't even have time to wave goodbye."

  "We won't let them," Melody said. “I’ll talk to Vince Ro-manella and—"

  "What are you going tell him to do?" Andy sneered. "Adopt me? That's about the only thing I can think of that would keep me around. And I'm so sure that would go over really well." He shook his head, swearing softly. "I bet Vince already has my stuff packed into boxes."

  "Someone at Social Services must have the authority to give you a second chance," Cowboy said. "Alex Parks is the one who should be thrown into the brig for this, not you."

  Andy wiped savagely at his tears. "What do you care? You're going to leave town yourself in a few weeks!"

  Cowboy didn't know what to say. The kid was right. He wasn't going to stay. He was a SEAL. His job pulled
him all over the world. Even under the best of circumstances, he'd often be gone for weeks at a time. He glanced up, and Melody made a point of not meeting his gaze.

  "I don't know why you're so hot to marry her," Andy contin­ued, gesturing with a thumb toward Melody, "when you're only going to see her and the kid a few times a year. My father might've been a real jerk, but at least he didn't pretend he was doing anything besides giving me his name when he married my mother."

  Melody stood up. "I think we'd better get going," she said, "It's getting late."

  "You know, Ted Shepherd's got a thing for you," Andy said to Melody.

  "Andy, I changed the subject." Melody's voice sounded strained. "We need to go, and we need to stop talking about this now."

  Andy turned to Cowboy. "The guy she works for has the hots for her. You didn't know that, did you? The guy's got money, too. He could take care of her and the kid, no problem. Brittany told me he's going to be governor some day. But as long as you're around, she doesn't stand a chance of getting anything started with him. And if you marry her—"

  "Home, Andrew," Melody said in that tone that she used when she had reached the absolute end of her rope. "Now."

  Chapter 13

  Your Lamaze class starts tonight." Brittany was in the dining room, rifling through the sideboard drawers, searching for some­thing. "Seven o'clock. At the hospital. In the West Lounge."

  Melody sank into a chair at the kitchen table, aware of Jones watching her from the other side of the room. Lamaze class. God. It was nearly six. She would barely have enough time to take a shower. "Britt, I’m beat I'm just going to stay home."

  Brittany stopped her search long enough to poke her head through the door. " Abigail Cloutier has a waiting list a mile long for this class. If you don't show up, she'll fill your slot, and then you'll be stuck waiting for the next session, which doesn't start until next month. You'll probably end up having your baby before you're halfway through." She disappeared again. "I made some pea soup—it's on the stove. And there's bread warming in the oven."

  "Wait a minute," Melody said, sitting up straight. "Aren't you coming with me?"

  "Here's my passport," Brittany said triumphantly. She slammed the drawer shut and came into the kitchen, adjusting her hair. "I need it as a second form of ID."

  "You aren't coming with me, are you?" Melody looked at her sister, fighting her panic. If Brittany didn't come as her coach, then that left Melody going solo, or... She didn't look at Jones. She refused to look at Jones.

  But Britt was all dressed up, and it was obvious it wasn't for Abigail Cloutier's benefit. She was wearing a dark suit, complete with panty hose and her black heels that meant business. Her blond hair was pulled up into a French braid and she actually wore makeup.

  "Sweetie, Social Services is intending to take Andy back to Boston tonight. I've been on the phone with Vince Romanella and at least twelve different social workers since Cowboy called this afternoon. There's a meeting at 6:00 at the Romanellas'," she told them, turning to look at Jones, who was silently leaning against the kitchen counter. "I expect it to drag on until quite late, so no, Mel, I can't go to the Lamaze class with you tonight."

  "I'll go," Jones said. Melody closed her eyes.

  Britt laughed. "I figured you'd be willing to volunteer as tem­porary coach."

  God, the last thing Melody wanted to do was sit with Jones in a room with a dozen other expectant, married couples. But that wasn't the worst of it. She'd seen childbirth classes portrayed on TV, and all of them had demanded a certain amount of physical intimacy—touching at the very least—between the mother-to-be and her coach.

  It was obviously all she could do to keep from throwing herself at Jones even under normal circumstances. Add any strong emo­tions into the churning pot of passion, and she would be on the verge of meltdown. Add a situation in which Jones would be forced to touch her, and she would be lost.

  "Jones, you look even more exhausted than I feel," Melody countered, knowing that no matter what she said, he wouldn't quit. He didn't know how to quit He'd never quit before in his entire life.

  He gave her a crooked smile. "Honey, is it going to be harder than diving to 175 feet?"

  "No." Melody realized that for the first time since he'd arrived in Appleton all those weeks ago, he was wearing a sweatshirt She'd honestly thought he didn't have one. Before today, she'd thought he wasn't capable of feeling the cold.

  "Well, there you go. As long as it doesn't involve breathing a tank of mixed gas, it'll be a—"

  "Piece of cake," Melody finished for him with a sigh. "Speak for yourself," she muttered.

  He straightened up, concern darkening his eyes. "Mel, if you're really feeling too tired to go, I'll go for you. I can take notes and tomorrow I can tell you everything you missed."

  He was serious. He looked a total mess, but he stood ready to help her however he could, and the effect was touching. She tried to look away. When it came to Jones, she shouldn't be thinking words like "touching."

  But his chin glinted with golden brown stubble, and although he looked exhausted to the bone, and as if by all rights he should be sitting rather than standing, he looked...undeniably touchingly adorable. Melody couldn't help but glance at him, and he mus­tered a tired smile. She knew him well enough to believe he would be ready and willing to run ten miles if it was asked of him. Twenty if she asked him.

  Brittany pulled on her overcoat. Her purse was by the door, and she gathered it up. "If you're not going to go, call Abby now," her sister told her.

  Melody closed her eyes. "I'm going to go." With Jones. Oh, God. The feeling that gripped her was more than pure dread. In fact, the dread was laced with stomach-flipping, roller-coaster-style excitement.

  Brittany opened the door, but as a seeming afterthought, she turned back. "Oh, just so you know, I'm planning to begin the preliminary paperwork tonight to adopt Andy."

  Melody nearly fell out of her chair. "What?"

  "You heard me."

  "I can't believe you're serious."

  Britt bristled. "If you can be a single mother, then I can, too. And it's not as if we don't have four empty bedrooms in this house."

  Melody shook her head. "I'm not criticizing you," she told her sister. "I'm just...amazed. A few weeks ago, Andy's name was interchangeable with Satan's."

  "Well, yes, but that was before I got to know him."

  "Britt, you don't really know Andy Marshall," Melody coun­tered. "I mean, you might think you do, but—"

  "I know all that I need to know," Brittany said quietly. "I know that right now the one thing that boy needs more than anything in the world is someone who loves him and wants him, truly wants him. I know he's not perfect. I know he's going to give me headaches over things I can't even imagine, but I don't care. I don't care! Because you know what? The thought of my life without that kid around...well, it just feels cold—like spring will never come again. I've thought about it long and hard. I honestly want him, Mel."

  "It's not going to be that easy to cut through the red tape," Melody cautioned. "A single woman trying to adopt a kid who's a known troublemaker... I can imagine Social Services deciding that he's going to need a strong father figure and turning you down."

  "Even if it doesn't work out," Brittany told her, "at least Andy will know that someone wanted him. At least I can give him that much."

  Melody stood up and gave her sister a hug. "You go and fight for him," she whispered, blinking back tears.

  And then Brittany was gone, leaving her alone in the kitchen with Jones. Jones and his stormy green eyes...

  "I better shower and change if we're going out," he said.

  She nodded. "I have to, too."

  "Are you certain you just don't want to let me go?" he asked.

  Melody was certain of nothing anymore. "The class is only an hour and a half," she told him. "It'll be over before we know it."

  She hoped.

  * * *

  Jones was help
ing himself to a cup of coffee as Melody re­turned from the ladies' room. Abby Cloutier, the Lamaze instruc­tor, had called a ten-minute washroom break—a definite necessity for a class filled with hugely pregnant women.

  So far, they'd sat on folding chairs in a darkened room and watched a movie that focused on giving birth. She'd barely been able to pay attention with Jones sitting so close to her. Having him here was a thorough distraction. He smelled good and looked even better.

  But he hadn't had to touch her.

  Not yet.

  Jones was smiling as he listened to another man talk. He was standing in a group of about five men, most of whom were help­ing themselves to cookies from the snack table. He'd broken out his Dockers and polo shirt for the occasion, and with his hair neatly pulled back into a pony tail at the nape of his neck, and his chin freshly shaven, he looked impossibly handsome. But even though he was dressed nearly the same as the other men, he stood out in the crowd. He might as well have been wearing his dress whites.

  "Is that your Navy SEAL?" a voice behind Melody asked. She turned to see Janette Dennison, one of Brittany's high school friends who was pregnant with her fourth child. Janette peered across the room at Jones. "Dear Lord, he's bigger than Hank Forsythe!"

  Hank owned the local gym. His wife, Sandy, was pregnant with their first. "Jones is taller," Melody pointed out.

  "Your Lieutenant Jones is more than taller," Janette countered. "Your Lieutenant Jones is...beyond description, Mel. Haven't you noticed every single woman in this place looking at you as if you've won the lottery?"

  Melody had noticed. But she was well aware that everyone's envy would fade rapidly as soon they were told exactly what a U.S. Navy SEAL did for a living. She'd heard several women complaining in the ladies' room about husbands who had to fly to Boulder or Los Angeles or Seattle on business and were gone for days, sometimes even weeks, at a time.

  They didn't know how lucky they were. Their husbands weren't going to be parachuting out of airplanes or helocasting— jumping from low-flying helicopters into the ocean below—as they inserted into enemy territory. Their husbands carried brief­cases, not submachine guns. Their work didn't expose them to physical dangers. Their husbands would always be returning safe and sound. There was no chance of their being brought back home strapped to some medic's stretcher, bleeding from gunshot wounds, or—worse yet—zipped inside a body bag.