He forced a smile. His parents were moving from this house in just a few weeks. This was probably going to be the very last time he sat on this deck. "Saving the world just about sums it up."
"Have you told that captain of yours it ticks your mother off that you can't freely talk about all these awful, dangerous assignments you get sent on?"
Harvard laughed. "Right now we're temporarily stationed in Virginia. We're helping train some FInCOM agents in counterterrorist techniques."
"That sounds relatively safe."
P. J. Richards and her blazing eyes came to mind. "Relatively," he agreed. "But it's going to keep me tied up over the next seven and a half weeks. I won't be around to help you pack or move or anything. Are you sure you're going to be able to handle that—especially with Daddy laid up?"
"Lena's home for the summer, and Jonelle's volunteered to help out, too."
Harvard nodded. "Good."
"How's that young friend of yours—the one that just got married and had himself a son, although not quite in that order?"
"Harlan Jones." Harvard identified the friend in question.
His mother frowned. "No, that's not what you usually call him."
"His nickname's Cowboy."
"That's right. Cowboy. How could I forget? How's that working out for him? He had to grow up really fast, didn't he?"
"It's only been a few months, but so far so good. He's on temporary assignment with SEAL Team Two out in California. He had the chance to be part of a project he couldn't turn down."
"A project you can't tell me anything about, no doubt."
Harvard had to smile. "Sorry. You'll like this irony, though. Cowboy's swim buddy from BUD/s training—a guy named William Hawken—is temporarily working with Alpha Squad."
"That's that small world factor again," his mother proclaimed. "Everyone's connected in some way—some more obviously than others." She leaned forward. "Speaking of connections—what's the chance you'll bring a girlfriend with you when you come to the new house for Thanksgiving?"
He snorted. "We're talking negative numbers—no chance at all. I’m not seeing anyone in particular right now."
"Still tomcatting around, huh? Getting’ it on without getting involved?"
Harvard closed his eyes. "Mom."
"Did you really think your mother didn't know? I know you're a smart man, so I won't give you my safe-sex speech—although in my opinion, the only sex that's truly safe is between a man and his wife." She pushed herself out of her chair. "Okay, I'm done embarrassing you. I'm going to go see about getting lunch on the table."
"Why don't you let me take you out somewhere?"
"And miss the chance to make sure you get at least one home-cooked meal this month? No way."
"I'll be in in a sec to help."
She kissed the top of his head. "You know, you were born with hair. You have exceptionally nice hair. I don't see why you insist on shaving it all off that way."
Harvard laughed as she headed inside. "I'll try to grow it in for Thanksgiving."
He'd already reserved a few days of leave to spend the holiday at home with his parents.
Home.
It was funny, but he still thought of this place as home. He hadn't lived here in more than fifteen years, but he'd always considered this house his sanctuary. He could come here any time he needed to, and he could center himself. It was the one place he could come back to that he'd foolishly thought would always remain the same.
The sweet smell of cookies baking in his mother's kitchen. The scent of his father's pipe. The fresh ocean air.
It was weird as hell to think that within less than two weeks his home would belong to strangers.
And he would be spending Thanksgiving far from the ocean at his parents' new house in Arizona.
"Excuse me, Senior Chief Becker! I've been looking for you!"
Harvard turned to find P. J. Richards bearing down on him, eyes shooting fire.
He turned and kept walking. He didn't need this right now. Damn it, he was tired, he was hungry, he was wearing the same clothes he'd had on when he'd left here close to forty-eight hours ago, he hadn't been able to grab more than a combat nap on the flight from Boston to Virginia, and he'd had to stand on the crowded bus back to the base.
On top of the annoying physical inconveniences, there were seven different items that had crash-landed on his desk while he was gone that needed his—and only his—immediate and undivided attention.
It was going to be a solid two hours before he made his way home and reintroduced himself to his bed.
And that was if he was lucky.
P.J. ran to catch up with him. "Did you give the order to restrict my distance for this and last morning's run to only three miles?"
Harvard kept walking. "Yes, I did."
She had to keep trotting to match the length of his stride. "Even though the rest of the team was required to go the full seven miles?"
"That's right."
"How dare you!"
She was nearly hopping up and down with anger, and Harvard swore and turned to face her. "I don't have time for this." He spoke more to himself than to her, but of course, she had no way of knowing that.
"Well, you're going to have to make time for this."
Damn, she was pretty. And so thoroughly passionate. But if his luck continued in its current downward spiral, he stood only a blind man's chance in a firing range of ever getting a taste of that passion any way other than her hurling angry words—or maybe even knives—in his direction.
"I'm sorry if my very existence is an inconvenience," she continued hotly, "but—"
"My order was standard procedure," he told her tightly.
She wasn't listening. "I will file a formal complaint if this coddling continues, if I am not treated completely the same as—"
"This coddling is by the book for any FInCOM agent who has received an injury sufficient to send him—or her—to the hospital."
She blinked at him. "What did you say?"
Well, what do you know? She was listening. "According to the rule book set up for this training session, if a fink goes to the hospital, said fink gets lighter physical training until it's determined that he—or she—is up to speed. Sorry to disappoint you, Ms. Richards, but you were treated no differently than anyone else would have been."
The sun was setting, streaking the sky with red-orange clouds, giving the entire base a romantic, fairy-tale look. Everything was softer, warmer, bathed in diffused pink light. Back home in Hingham, it would have been the perfect kind of summer evening for a long, lazy walk to the local icecream stand, flirting all the way with his sister's friends, strutting his seventeen-year-old stuff while they gazed at him adoringly.
The woman in front of him was gazing at him, but it sure as hell wasn't adoringly. In fact, she was looking at him as if he were trying to sell her a dehumidifier in the desert. "Rule book?"
Harvard glanced in the direction of his office, wishing he were there so he could, in turn, soon go home. "No doubt one of your bosses was afraid that Alpha Squad was going to hurt you and keep on hurting you. There's a list of ground rales for this training session."
"I wasn't shown any rule book."
Harvard snorted, his patience flat-out gone. He started walking again, leaving her behind. "Yeah, you're right, I'm making all this up."
"You can't blame me for being wary!" P.J. hurried to keep pace. "As far as I know, there's never been this kind of a rule book before. Why should FInCOM start now?"
"No doubt someone heard about BUD/s Hell Week—about the sleep deprivation and strenuous endurance tests that SEALs undergo at the end of phase-one training. I bet they were afraid we'd do something similar to the finks with this counterterrorist deal. And they were right. We would have, if we could. Because in real life, terrorists don't pay too much attention to time-out signals."
P.J. was back to glaring at him, full power. "I’ll have you know that I find 'fink' to
be an offensive term."
"It's a nickname. A single syllable versus four. Easier to say."
"Yeah, well, I don't like it."
"There's not much you do like, is there?" Including him. Maybe especially him. Harvard pushed open the door to the Quonset hut that housed Alpha Squad's temporary offices. "My father's going to be fine. I'm sure you were dying to know."
"Oh, God, I'm so sorry I didn't ask!"
His mistake was turning to look at her.
She looked stricken. She looked completely, thoroughly horrified, all her anger instantly vanished. He almost felt bad for her—and he didn't want to feel bad for her. He didn't want to feel bad for anyone, especially not himself.
He'd been off balance since he'd gotten that phone call from Joe Cat telling him about his father's heart attack. His entire personal life had been turned on its side. His parents were succumbing to age and his home was no longer going to be his home.
And then here came P. J. Richards, getting in his face, making all kinds of accusations, reminding him how much easier this entire assignment would be were it not for her female presence.
"Please forgive me—I didn't mean to be insensitive. I was rude not to have asked earlier. Is he really going to be all right?"
As Harvard gazed into PJ.'s bottomless dark eyes, he knew he was fooling himself. He hadn't been off balance since that phone call came in about his father. Damn, he'd been off balance from the moment this tiny little woman had stepped out of the FInCOM van and into his life. He'd liked her looks and her passion right from the start, and her ability to face up to her mistakes made him like her even more.
"Yeah," he told her. "He should be just fine in a few weeks. And his long-term prognosis is just as good, provided he stays with his diet." He nodded at her, hoping she'd consider herself dismissed, wishing he could pull her into his arms and kiss that too-vulnerable, still-mortified look off her face. Thank God he wasn't insane enough to try that. "If you'll excuse me, Ms. Richards, I have a great deal of work to do."
Harvard went inside the Quonset hut, forcing himself to shut the door tightly behind him, knowing that starting something hot and heavy with this woman was the dead last thing he should do but wanting it just the same.
Damn, he wanted it, wanted her.
He wanted to lose this unpleasant sensation he had of being adrift, to temporarily ground himself in her sweetness.
He took a deep breath and got to work.
His father was going to be fine in a few weeks, but he suspected his own recovery was going to take quite a bit longer.
PJ. had never done so much shooting in her life. They were going on day fourteen of the training, and during every single one of those days she'd spent a serious chunk of time on the firing range.
Before she'd started, she could outshoot the three other FInCOM agents, as well as some of the SEALs in Alpha Squad. And after two weeks of perfecting her skill, she was at least as good as the quiet SEAL with the thick southern accent, the X.O. or executive officer of Alpha Squad, the one everyone called Blue. And he was nearly as good as Alpha Squad's C.O., Joe Cat. But, of course, nobody even came close to Harvard.
Harvard. PJ. had managed successfully to avoid him since that day she'd been so mad she'd forgotten even the most basic social graces. She still couldn't believe she hadn't remembered to ask him about his father's health. Her anger was a solid excuse, except for the fact that that degree of rudeness was inexcusable.
Lord, she'd made one hell of a fool out of herself that evening.
But as much as she told herself she was avoiding any contact with Harvard out of embarrassment, that wasn't the only reason she was avoiding him.
The man was too good at what he did. How could she not respect and admire a man like that? And added onto those heaping double scoops of respect and admiration was a heady whipped topping of powerful physical attraction. It was a recipe for total disaster, complete with a cherry on top.
She'd learned early in life that her own personal success and freedom hinged on her ability to turn away from such emotions as lust and desire. And so she was turning away. She'd done it before. She could do it again.
PJ. went into the mess hall and grabbed a tray and a turkey sandwich. It turned out the food they'd been eating right from the start wasn't standard Uncle Sam fare. This meal had been catered by an upscale deli downtown, as per the FInCOM rule book. Such a list of rules did exist. Harvard had been right about that.
She felt his eyes following her as she stopped to pour herself a glass of iced tea.
As usual, she'd been aware of him from the moment she'd walked in. He was sitting clear across the room, his back against the far wall. He had two plates piled on his tray, both empty. He was across from the quiet SEAL called Crash, his feet on a chair, nursing a mug of coffee, watching her.
Harvard watched her all the time. He watched her during physical training. He watched her during the classroom sessions. He watched her on the firing range.
You'd think the man didn't have anything better to do with his time.
When he wasn't watching her, he was nearby, always ready to offer a hand up or a boost out of the water. It was driving her insane. He didn't offer Greg Greene a boost. Or Charlie Schneider.
Obviously, he didn't think Greg or Charlie needed one.
P.J. was more than tempted to carry her tray over to Harvard, to sit herself down at his table and to ask him how well she was doing.
Except right now, she knew exactly how well she was doing.
The focus of this morning's classroom session had been on working as a team. And she and Tim Farber and Charlie and Greg had totally flunked Teamwork 101. PJ. had read the personnel files of the other three agents, so when asked, she'd at least been able to come up with such basic facts as where they were from. But she hadn't been able to answer other, more personal questions about her team members. She didn't know such things as what they perceived to be their own strengths and weaknesses. And in return, none of them knew the first little teeny thing about her. None of them were even aware that she hailed from Washington, D.C.—which, apparently, was as much her fault as it was theirs.
And it was true. She hadn't made any attempts to get to know Tim or Charlie or Greg. She'd stopped hanging out in the hotel bar after hours, choosing instead to read over her notes and try to prepare for the coming day's assignments. It had seemed a more efficient use of her time, especially since it included avoiding Harvard's watching eyes, but now she knew she'd been wrong.
PJ. headed for the other FInCOM agents, forcing her mouth into what she hoped was a friendly smile. "Hey, guys. Mind if I join you?"
Farber blinked up at her. "Sorry, we were just leaving. I've got some paperwork to do before the next classroom session."
"I'm due at the range." Charlie gave her an insincere smile as he stood.
Greg didn't say anything. He just gathered his trash and left with Charlie.
Just like that, they were gone, leaving PJ. standing there, holding her tray like an idiot. It wasn't personal. She knew it wasn't personal. She'd arrived late, they had already eaten, and they all had things that needed to get done.
Still, something about it felt like a seventh-grade shunning all over again. She glanced around the room, and this time Harvard wasn't the only one watching her. Alpha Squad's captain, Joe Catalanotto, was watching her, too.
She sat and unwrapped her sandwich, praying that both men would leave her be. She took a bite, hoping her body language successfully broadcast, "I want to be alone."
"How you doing, Richards?" Joe pulled out the chair next to hers, straddled it and leaned his elbows on the backrest.
So much for body language. Her mouth was full, so she nodded a greeting.
"You know, one of my biggest beefs with FInCOM has to do with their refusing to acknowledge that teams just can't be thrown together," he said in his husky New York accent. "You can't just count down a line, picking, say, every fourth guy�
��or woman—and automatically make an effective team."
PJ. swallowed. "How do the SEALs do it?"
"I handpicked Alpha Squad," Joe told her, his smile making his dark brown eyes sparkle. It was funny. With his long, shaggy, dark hair, ruggedly handsome face and muscle-man body, this man could pull off sitting in a chair in that ridiculously macho way. He made it look both comfortable and natural. "I've been with Blue McCoy, my XO, for close to forever. Since BUD/s—basic training, you know?"
She nodded, her mouth full again.
"And I've known Harvard just as long, too. The rest of the guys, well, they'd developed reputations, and when I was looking for men with certain skills... It was really just a matter of meeting and making sure personalities meshed before I tapped 'em to join the squad." He paused. "Something tells me that FInCOM wasn't as careful about compatible personalities when they made the selections for this program."
PJ. snorted. "That's the understatement of the year."
Joe absentmindedly twisted the thick gold wedding band he wore on his left hand. PJ. tried to imagine the kind of woman who'd managed to squeeze vows of fidelity from this charismatic, larger-than-life man. Someone unique. Someone very, very special. Probably someone with the brains of a computer and the body of a super model.
"What FInCOM should have done," he told her, "if they wanted a four-man team, was select a leader, have that leader choose team members they've worked with before—people they trust."
"But if they'd done that, there's no way I would be on this team," she pointed out.
"What makes you so sure about that?"
P.J. laughed.
Joe laughed along with her. He had gorgeous teeth. "No, I'm serious," he said.
PJ. put down her sandwich. "Captain, excuse me for calling you crazy, but you're crazy. Do you really think Tim Farber would have handpicked me for his team?"
"Call me Joe," he said. "And no, of course Farber wouldn't have picked you. He's not smart enough. From what I've seen, out of the four of you, he's not the natural leader, either. He's fooled a lot of people, but he doesn't have what it takes. And the other two..." He shrugged. "I'm not particularly impressed. No, out of the four of you, this assignment should've been yours."
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