Which left her back at square one.
The doors opened, and PJ. stepped into the small sitting area by the elevators. She searched through her belt pack for her key card. She almost didn't see Harvard Becker sitting in the shadows.
And when she did see him, she almost kept going. If she'd had any working brains in her head, she should have kept going. But in her surprise, she stopped short, gaping at him like an idiot. He was the dead last person she'd expected to see sitting in the hallway on the soft leather of the sofa, waiting for her.
Harvard nodded a greeting. "Ms. Richards."
She had to clear her throat so her voice wouldn't come out in an undignified squeak. "Were you looking for me? Am I needed on base? You could have paged me."
"No." He stood up—Lord, he was tall. "Actually, I was looking for Luke O'Donlon."
"He's not here."
"Yes, I can see that."
P.J. started for her room, afraid if she didn't move, her anger would show. Who was he checking up on and trying to protect? Her or Lucky? Either way, it was damned insulting. She unlocked her door with a vicious swipe of the key card.
"Do you happen to know where he was headed?"
"Back to the base," she said shortly. She wanted to slam the door behind her, but she forced herself to turn and face him.
"I'm sorry to have bothered you," he said quietly.
"Was there anything else you wanted?" She knew as soon as the sarcastic words were out of her mouth it was the wrong thing to say.
Undisguised heat flared in his eyes, heat tinged with an awareness that told her he knew quite well his attraction was extremely mutual. He wanted her. The message was right there in his gorgeous brown eyes. But all he did was laugh, a soft chuckle that made her heart nearly stop beating and the hair stand up on the back of her neck.
All she had to do was step into her room and hold open that door, and he would come inside and...
And what? Mess up her life beyond repair, no doubt.
He was not on her side. He'd flatly admitted that he didn't like working with her, he didn't want to work with her.
PJ. moistened her dry lips, holding her head high and trying to look as if she were totally unaffected by the picture he made standing there. "Good night, Senior Chief."
She closed the door tightly behind her and drew in a deep breath.
Dear God, how on earth was she going to make it through another six weeks? She needed an ally, and she needed one bad.
Chapter 5
Harvard knew the moment PJ. walked into the bar. He turned and sure enough, there she was, looking everywhere but at him, pretending he didn't exist.
Today had been a classroom day for the finks, and Harvard had had other business to take care of. He'd gone to the mess hall at lunchtime, hoping for...what? He wasn't sure. But when he got there, Wes told him PJ. had gone to the firing range.
The afternoon had passed interminably slowly, the biggest excitement being when he spoke to Kevin Laughton's assistant's assistant, who had told him there was no way the FInCOM rule book was going to be altered to allow for two-or three-day-long exercises. And hadn't they already compromised on this issue? And no, Mr. Laughton couldn't come to the phone, he was far too busy with important matters.
Harvard had wheedled and cajoled, reasoned and explained, but he'd hung up the phone without any real hope that Laughton would call him or Joe Cat. He'd cheered himself up some by calling the friend of a friend of a friend who worked at the Pentagon and who faxed him the layout of FInCOM headquarters, where Kevin Laughton's office was housed. He'd spent his coffee break pinpointing the areas of FInCOM HQ that would be most vulnerable to a direct assault by a small, covert group of SEALs. He'd managed to put a smile on his face by imagining the look on Laughton's face when he walked into his high-level security office and found Harvard and Joe Cat sitting there, feet up on his desk, waiting to talk to him.
Harvard headed for an empty table in the bar, keeping PJ. securely in his peripheral vision, trying to figure out the best strategy for approaching her.
It was funny. He'd never had to work at approaching a woman before. Usually women fell right in his lap. But PJ. wasn't falling anywhere. She was running—hard—in the opposite direction.
The only other woman he'd ever pursued was Rachel.
Damn, he hadn't thought about Rachel in years. He'd met her during a training op in Guam. She was a marine biologist, part of a U.S. government survey team housed in the military facilities. She was beautiful—part African American, part Asian and part Hawaiian—and shyly sweet.
For a week or two, Rachel had had Harvard thinking in terms of forever. It was the only time in his life he'd been on the verge of crossing that fine line that separated sex from love. But then he'd been sent to Desert Shield, and while he was gone, Rachel had reconciled with her ex-husband.
He could still remember how that news had sliced like a hot knife into his quick. He could still remember that crazily out-of-control feeling of hurt and frustration—that sense of being on the verge of despair. He hadn't liked it one bit, and he'd worked hard since then to make sure he'd never repeat it.
He glanced at PJ. and met her eyes. She quickly looked away, as if the spark that had instantly ignited had been too hot for her to handle.
Hot was definitely the key word here.
Yes, he was the pursuer, but he wasn't in any real danger of going the Rachel route with this girl.
She was nothing like Rachel, for one thing.
For another, this thing, this current between him and PJ. came from total, mindless, screaming animal attraction. Lust. Pure, sizzling sex. Two bodies joined in a quest for heart-stopping pleasure.
That wasn't what his relationship with Rachel had been about. He'd been so careful with her. He'd held back so much.
But when he looked into P.J.'s eyes, he saw them joined in a dance of passion that had no civilities. He saw her legs locked around him as he drove himself into her, hard and fast, her back against the wall, right inside the doorway of her hotel room.
Oh, yeah. It was going to be amazingly good, but no one was going to cry when it was over.
Harvard smiled at himself, at his presumption that such a collaboration was, indeed, going to happen.
First thing he had to do was figure out how to get this girl to quit running away for long enough to talk to her. Only then could he start to convince her they'd gotten off to a bad start.
He should have been cooler last night.
He'd stood there outside her hotel room and he hadn't been able to think of anything besides how good she looked and how badly he wanted her and how damn glad he was that she hadn't been bringing Lucky back to her room with her.
He wasn't sure he would have been able to make small talk even if he'd tried. But he hadn't tried. He'd just stood there, looking at her as if she were the gingerbread girl and he was the hungry fox.
At least he hadn't drooled.
He caught the waitress's eye as he sat down. "Iced tea, no sugar," he ordered, then glanced again at P.J.
This time, she was looking straight at him and smiling. Damn, she had an incredible smile. On a scale from one to ten, it was an even hundred. He felt his mouth curve into an answering smile. He couldn't explain what caused her sudden change of heart, but he wasn't going to complain.
"Hey," she said, walking toward him. "What are you doing here?"
As she moved closer, Harvard realized she wasn't looking at him at all. Her focus was behind him. He turned and saw that Joe Cat had come into the bar through the back door, "I thought I'd stop in tonight before going home," the captain said to PJ. "What's shaking?"
"Not much," Harvard heard PJ. say as she gave Joe Cat another of those killer smiles. "Everyone's glued to the TV, watching baseball." She rolled her eyes in mock disgust.
Excuse me, Harvard felt like standing up and saying, but everyone isn't watching baseball. The waitress put his drink on the table in front of
him, and PJ. still didn't glance in his direction.
Joe shrugged out of his jacket. "You're not a baseball fan?"
"Nuh-uh. Too slow for me. The batter wiggles around, getting all ready for the pitch, and the pitcher does his thing, getting ready for the pitch, and I'm sitting there thinking, 'Just throw the ball!'" She laughed. She had musical-sounding laughter. "And then the ball is fired over the plate so fast that they've got to play it back in slo-mo just so I can see it."
"You're probably not into football, either, then. Too many breaks in the play."
"You got that right," PJ. said. "Do you have time to sit down? Can I buy you a beer?"
"I'd love it," Joe said.
"Then grab us a table. I'll be right back."
P J. headed toward the bar.
"If you don't sit with me, I may have to seriously damage you," Harvard said to his friend.
Joe Cat laughed and pulled out a chair at Harvard's table. "You didn't think I couldn't see you lurking here, eavesdropping, did you?"
"Of course, she may not want to chill with you after she comes back and sees the excess company," Harvard pointed out. "She's been running from me all day—she's bound to keep it up."
"Nah, she's tougher than that."
Harvard gave a short laugh of disbelief as he squeezed the lemon into his iced tea. "Wait a minute. Suddenly you're the authority on this girl?"
"I'm trying to be," Joe said. "I spent about two hours with her today at the range. She just happened to show up while I was there. You know, H., she's really good. She's got a real shooter's instinct And a natural ability to aim."
Harvard didn't know what to say. P.J. had just happened to show up.... He took a sip of his drink.
"She's funny, too," Joe added. "She has a solid sense of humor. She's one very sharp, very smart lady."
Harvard found his voice. "Oh, yeah? What's Veronica think about that?" He was kidding, but only half kidding.
Joe didn't miss that. And even though P.J. was coming toward them carrying two mugs filled with frothy beer, he leaned closer to Harvard. "It's not about sex," he said, talking fast. "Yes, PJ.'s a woman, and yes, she's attractive, but come on, H., you know me well enough to know I'm not going to go in that direction. Ever. I love Ronnie more than you will ever know. But I'm married, I'm not dead. I can still appreciate an attractive woman when I see one. And being friendly to this particular attractive woman is going to get us further than shutting her out. She approached me. She's clearly trying to make friends. This is exactly what we wanted."
Harvard saw P.J. glance over and see him sitting with Joe. He saw her falter, then square her shoulders and keep coining.
She nodded at him as she set the mugs on the table. "Senior Chief Becker," she said coolly, managing not to meet his eyes. "If I'd known you'd be joining us, I'd have offered to get you a drink, as well."
He wasn't aware they sold hemlock in this bar. "You can catch me on the next round," he said.
"I've got a lot of reading to do. I may not be able to stay for a next round. It might have to be some other time." She sat as far from him as possible and took a sip of her beer.
The temperature in that corner of the room had definitely dropped about twenty degrees.
"Basketball," Joe said to PJ. "I bet you like basketball."
She smiled, and the temperature went up a bit. "Good guess."
"Do you play?"
"I'm a frustrated player," she admitted. "I have certain... height issues. I never really spent enough time on the court to get any good."
"Have you had a chance to check out that new women's professional basketball league?" Harvard asked, attempting to be part of the conversation.
PJ. turned to him, her eyes reminiscent of the frozen tundra. "I've watched a few games." She turned to Joe Cat. "I don't spend much time watching sports—I prefer to be out there playing. Which reminds me, Tim Farber mentioned that you're something of a wizard on the handball court I was wondering if you play racquetball. There's a court here in the hotel, and I'm looking for an opponent"
Harvard shifted in his seat, clenching his teeth to keep from speaking.
"I've played some," Joe told her.
"Hmm. Now, in my experience, when people say they've played some, that really means they're too humble to admit that if you venture onto the court with them, they're going to thoroughly whip your butt"
Joe laughed. "I guess that probably depends on how long you've been playing."
PJ.'s smile returned. "I've played some."
She was flirting with Joe. PJ. was sitting right there, directly in front of him, flirting with the captain. What was this girl up to? What was she trying to pull?
Joe's pager went off. He looked at Harvard. "You getting anything?"
Harvard's pager was silent and still. "No, sir."
"That's a good sign. I'll be right back."
As Joe headed toward the bar and a telephone, PJ. pretended to be fascinated by the architectural structure of the building.
Harvard knocked on the table. Startled, she looked at him.
"I don't know what your deal is," he said bluntly. "I don't know what you stand to gain by getting tight with the captain—whether it's some career thing or just some personal power trip—but I'm here to tell you right now, missy, hands off. Didn't your research on the man include the fact that he's got a wife and kid? Or maybe you're the kind that gets off on things like that."
As Harvard watched, the permafrost in PJ.'s eyes morphed into volcanic anger. "How dare you?" she whispered.
The question was rhetorical, but Harvard answered it anyway. "I dare because Cat is my friend—and because you, little Miss Fink, are temptation incarnate. So back off."
She was looking at him as if he were something awful she'd stepped in, something disgusting that had stuck onto the bottom of her shoe. "You're such a...man," she said, as if that were the worst possible name she could call him. "The captain is the only person in this entire program who's even bothered to sit down and talk to me. But if you're telling me that all he's doing is dogging me, despite having a wife and kid at home—"
"He's not dogging you, baby, you're dogging him."
"I am not!”
"You just happen to head over to the firing range while Cat's scheduled to be there. He walks into this bar, and you all but launch yourself at him."
She flushed, unable to deny his accusations. "You really have no idea what it's like, do you?"
"Poor baby, all alone, far away from home. Is this where the violins start to play? Tell me, do you go for the married men because there's less of a chance of actually becoming involved?"
She was seething, her eyes all but shooting sparks. "I was only trying to be friends!"
"Friends?"
"You know, people who hang out together, share meals occasionally, sometimes get together for a game of cards or Scrabble?"
"Friends." Harvard let skepticism drip from his voice. "You want to be Cat's friend."
PJ. stood. "I knew you wouldn't understand. You've probably never had a friend who was a woman in your entire life."
"I'm ready to learn—a willing and able volunteer with the added bonus of being unattached. I'm wicked good at Scrabble. Among other things."
She snorted. "Sorry. From where I stand, you're the enemy."
"I'm what?"
"You heard me. You want me gone from this training op on pure principle. You think women have no place out in the field, in the line of fire. You're judging me not as an individual, but based only on the fact that I don't have a penis. What's the deal with that? Do you use your penis to aim your rifle better? Does it help you dodge bullets or run faster?"
This woman could really piss him off, but at the same time, she could really make him laugh. "Not that I know of."
"Not that / know of, either. You're a narrow-minded bigot, Senior Chief, and I have no desire to spend even a minute more in your company."
Harvard stopped lau
ghing. A bigot? "Hey," he said.
But PJ. was already walking away, her beer barely touched.
Harvard had never been called a bigot before. A bigot was someone narrow-minded who believed unswervingly that he and his opinions were inarguably right. But the fact is, he was right. Women did not belong on combat missions, carrying— and firing—weapons and being shot at. It was not easy to stare down the sight of a rifle at a human being and pull the trigger. And countless psych reports stated that women, God bless 'em, had a higher choke factor. When the time came to pull that trigger, after all those tax dollars had been spent on thousands of hours of training, most women couldn't get the job done.
God knows that certainly was the truth when it came to women like his mother and sisters and Rachel. He couldn't picture Rachel holding an MP5 automatic weapon. And his sisters... All four of them were card-carrying pacifists who spouted make-love-not-war-type cliches whenever he was around.
Still, after his sister Kendra had gotten married and started a family, she'd attached an addendum to her nonviolent beliefs. "Except if you threaten or hurt my kids." Harvard could still see the light of murder in his sister's eyes as the former president of Students Against Violence proclaimed that if anyone, anyone threatened her precious children, she would rip out their lungs with her bare hands.
Put an MP5 in that girl's hands and tell her her children were in danger, and she'd be using up her ammo faster than any man.
But on the other hand, you'd never be able even to get a weapon into his father's hands. The old man would gently push the barrel toward the floor and start lecturing on the theme of war in modern American literature.
Harvard could imagine what P.J. would say about that. He could hear her husky voice as clearly as if she were standing right behind him. Just because your father and men like him don't make good soldiers doesn't mean that all men shouldn't be soldiers. And in the same way, women like me shouldn't be lumped together with softer women like Rachel or your mother.
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