Seal Team Ten

by Brockmann, Suzanne

  The captain glanced first at Blue and then at Harvard. Then he turned to the other finks. "Anyone else have the same problems Ms. Richards is having?" he asked. "Mr. Farber? You have any problems with our procedure?"

  Farber straightened up, snapping to attention. As Harvard watched, he saw the FInCOM agent study the captain's face, trying to read from Joe's expression whether he should agree or disagree.

  "He's looking for your opinion, Mr. Farber," Harvard in­dicated. "There's no right answer."

  Farber shrugged. "Then I guess I'd have to say no. A train­ing exercise is a training exercise. We go into it well aware that it’s make-believe. There're no real hostages, and there's no real danger. So there's no real point to working around the clock to—"

  "Wrong," Harvard interrupted loudly. "There's no right answer, but there are wrong answers, and you're wrong. There's a list of reasons longer than my—" he glanced at P.J. "—arm as to why it's vitally necessary to train under conditions that are as realistic as possible."

  "Then why are we wasting our time with this half-baked exercise?" PJ. interjected.

  "Because FlnCOM gave us a rule book," Joe explained, "that outlined in pretty specific detail exactly what we could and could not subject the CSF agents to. We're limited to working within any given ten-hour period. We can't exceed that without providing you with a minimum of eight hours down time."

  "But that's absurd," PJ. protested. "With those restric­tions, there's no way we're going to be able to set up a scenario that has any basis in reality. I mean, part of the challenge of dealing with the stress of a hostage crisis is cop­ing with little or no sleep, of being on the job forty-eight or seventy-two or—God!—ninety hours in a row. Of catching naps in the back of a car or in the middle of the woods or... This is ludicrous." She gestured toward herself and the other FlnCOM agents. "We're big boys and girls. We've all been on assignments that have required us to work around the clock. What's the deal?"

  "Someone upstairs at FlnCOM is afraid of the SEAL teams," Joe said. "I think they think we're going to try to drag you through some version of BUD/s training. We've tried to assure them that's not possible or even desirable. We've been actively trying to persuade FlnCOM to revise that restrictive rule for weeks now. Months."

  "This is just plain stupid." PJ. wasn't mincing words. "I can't believe Kevin Laughton would agree to this."

  Harvard stepped forward again. "We haven't been able to reach Laughton," he told her. "Apparently the man has dropped off the face of the earth."

  PJ. looked at her watch, looked at the "Baywatch" cal­endar that was pinned to the wall near Wesley's computer. "Of course you haven't been able to reach him. Because he's on vacation," she said. "He's got a beach house on Pawley's Island in South Carolina." She stood. "Captain, if you let me use your office, I can call him right now—at least make him aware of the situation."

  "You have the phone number of Laughton's vacation house?" Harvard couldn't keep from asking. PJ. and Laugh-ton. There was that image again. He liked it even less today.

  PJ. didn't answer. Joe had already led her into his office, shutting the door behind her to give her privacy.

  Harvard turned to the finks and SEALs still sitting in rows. "I think we're done here for now," he said, dismissing them.

  He turned to find the captain and Blue exchanging a long look.

  "How well does she know Laughton, anyway?" Joe mur­mured.

  Blue didn't answer, but Harvard knew exactly what both men were thinking. If she knew her boss well enough to have his home phone number, she knew him pretty damn well.

  The call came within two hours.

  Harvard was surfing the net, wondering how long he'd have to wait before he could head over to PJ.'s hotel, won­dering if she'd agree to have a drink with him or if she'd hide in her room, not answer the phone when he called from the lobby.

  Wondering exactly what her connection to Kevin Laughton was.

  The phone rang, and Wes scooped it up. "Skelly." He sat a little straighter. "Yes, sir. One moment, Admiral, sir." He put the call on hold. "Captain, Admiral Stonegate on line one."

  Joe went into his office to take the call. Blue went in with him, closing the door tightly behind them both.

  "That was too quick." Lucky was the first to speak, look ing up from his computerized game of golf. "He's either not calling about the FlnCOM project or he's calling to say no."

  "How well does PJ. know Kevin Laughton?" Bobby put down his book to voice the question they all were thinking.

  "How well do you have to know a girl before you give her the phone number of your beach house?" Wes countered.

  "I don't have a beach house," Bobby pointed out.

  "Suppose that you did."

  "I guess it would really depend on how much I liked the girl."

  "And what the girl looks like," Lucky added.

  "We know what the girl looks like," Wes said. "She looks like PJ. Exactly like PJ. She is PJ."

  "For PJ. I'd consider going out and buying a beach house, just so I could give her my number there," Bobby decided.

  Harvard spun around in his chair, unable to listen to any more inane speculation. "The girl is a woman and her ears are probably ringing with all this talk about her. Show a little respect here. So she had her boss's phone number. So what?"

  "The Senior Chief is probably right," Wes said with a grin. "Laughton probably gives his vacation phone number to all the agents he works with—not just the beautiful female agents he's sleeping with."

  Crash spoke. He'd been so quiet, Harvard had almost for­gotten he was in the room. "I've heard that Laughton just got married. He doesn't seem to be the kind of man who would cheat on his wife—let alone a bride of less than a year."

  "And PJ.'s not the kind of woman who would get with a married man," Harvard added, trying to convince himself as well. He'd come to know PJ. well over the past few weeks. He shouldn't doubt her, but still, there was this tiny echo of a voice that kept asking, Are you sure?

  "I'm friends with a guy who's working for the San Diego police," Lucky said, opening the wrapper of a granola bar. "He said working with women in the squad adds all kinds of craziness to the usual stress of the job. If you're working a case with a female partner and there's any kind of attraction there at all, it can easily get blown out of proportion. Think about it. You know how everything gets heightened when you're out on an op."

  Harvard kept his face carefully expressionless. He knew firsthand what that was about. He'd experienced it yesterday afternoon.

  The captain came out of his office, grinning. "We got it," he announced "Permission to trash the rule book and per­mission to take our little finks out of the country for some on-location fun and games. We're going west, guys—so far west, it's east. Whatever P.J. said to Kevin Laughton—it had an impact."

  "There's your proof," Lucky said. "She calls Laughton, two hours later, major policies are changed. She's doin' him. Gotta be."

  Harvard had had enough. He stood up, the wheels of his chair rattling across the concrete floor. "Has it occurred to you that Laughton might have responded so quickly because he respects and values PJ.'s opinion as a member of his staff?"

  Lucky took another bite of his granola bar, thinking for a moment while he chewed. "No," he said with his mouth full. "She's not interested in any kind of new relationship—she told me that herself. She doesn't want a new relationship be­cause she's already got an old relationship. With Kevin Laughton."

  Harvard laughed in disbelief. "You're speculating." He turned to the captain. "Why are we talking about this? PJ.'s relationship with Laughton is none of our damned business— whatever it may be."

  "Amen to that," Joe Cat said. "The exercise start date has been pushed back two days," he announced. "Anyone on the CSF team should take a few days of leave, get some rest." He looked at Crash. "Sorry, Hawken. I know you're going to be disappointed, but apparently there are a few Marines who've been working with the locals, and they're
going to be our terrorists for this exercise. You're going to have to go along as one of the good guys."

  Crash's lips moved into what might have been a smile. "Too bad.”

  The captain looked at Harvard. "We're going to have to notify PJ. and the other finks—let 'em know we're heading to Southeast Asia."

  "I'll take care of that," Harvard said.

  Joe Cat smiled. "I figured you'd want to."

  "Make sure you tell 'em to put their wills and personal effects in order," Wes said with a grin that dripped pure mischief. "Because from now on, there're no rules."

  PJ. finished the steak and baked potato she'd ordered from room service and set the tray in the hall outside her room. She showered and pulled on a clean T-shirt and a pair of cutoff sweatpants and then, only then, did she phone the hotel desk and ask them to stop holding her calls.

  There was a message on her voice mail from Kevin, telling her he'd managed to pull the necessary strings. The CSF team project would be given the elbow room it needed, without interference.

  There was also a message from Harvard—"Call me. It's important." He'd left his beeper number.

  PJ. wrote the number down.

  She knew he wanted to talk to her, to try to convince her he didn't want to have sex with her in an attempt to dominate and put her securely in her place as first and foremost a woman. No, his feelings of desire had grown out of the ex­treme respect he had for her, and from his realization that gender didn't matter in the work she did.

  Yeah, right.

  Of course, he might have asked her to call so he could give her some important work-related information. Kevin's mes­sage meant there was bound to be some news.

  As much as she didn't want to—and she didn't want to call Harvard, she told herself—she was going to have to.

  But first she had more important things to do, such as checking in with the weather channel, to see if Mr. Murphy was going to send a tropical depression into their midst on the days they were scheduled to battle the steely-eyed Lieu­tenant William Hawken and his merry band of mock terror­ists.

  The phone rang before she'd keyed up the weather channel with the remote control.

  PJ. hit the mute button and picked up the call. "Richards."

  "Yo, it's H. Did you just page me?"

  P.J. closed her eyes. "No. No, not yet. I was going to, but—"

  "Good, you got my message, at least. Why don't you come down to the bar and—"

  PJ. forced herself to sound neutral and pleasant. "Thanks, but no. I'm ready for bed—"

  "It's only twenty hundred." His voice nearly cracked in disbelief. "You can't be serious—"

  "I'm very serious. We've got some tough days ahead of us, starting tomorrow," she told him. "I intend to sleep as much now as I possibly—"

  "Starting tomorrow, we've got two days of leave," he in­terrupted her.

  Of all the things she'd expected him to say, that wasn't on the list. "We do?"

  "We'll be boarding a plane for Southeast Asia on Thurs­day. Until then we've got a break."

  "Southeast Asia?" PJ. laughed, tickled with delight "Kevin really came through, didn't he? What a guy! He de­serves something special for this one. I'm going to have to think long and hard."

  On the other end of the line, Harvard was silent. When he finally spoke, his voice sounded different. Stiffer. More for­mal. "Richards, come downstairs. We really have to talk."

  Now the silence was all hers. PJ. took a deep breath. "Daryl, I'm sorry. I don't think it's—"

  "All right. Then I'll be right up."

  "No—"

  He'd already hung up.

  PJ. swore sharply, then threw the phone's handset into the cradle with a clatter. Her bed was a rumpled mess of unmade blankets and sheets, her pillow slightly indented from her late afternoon nap.

  She didn't want to make her bed. She wasn't going to make her bed, damn it. She'd meet him at the door, and they'd step outside into that little lobby near the elevators to talk. He'd say whatever it was he had to say, she'd turn him down one more time, and then she'd go back into her room.

  He knocked, and PJ. quickly rifled through the mess on the dresser to find her key card. Slipping it into the pocket of her shorts, she went to the door. She peeked out the peephole. Yeah, it was definitely Harvard. She opened the door.

  He wasn't smiling. He was just standing there, so big and forbidding. "May I come in?"

  PJ. forced a smile. "Maybe we should talk outside."

  Harvard glanced over his shoulder, and she realized there were people sitting on the sofa and chairs by the elevators. "I would prefer the privacy of your room. But if you're un­comfortable with that..."

  Admitting she had a problem sitting down and talking to Harvard in the intimate setting of her hotel room would be tantamount to admitting she was not immune to his magnetic sexuality. Yes, she was uncomfortable. But her discomfort was not because she was afraid he would try to seduce her— that was a given. Her discomfort came from her fear that once he started touching her, once he started kissing her, she wouldn't have the strength to turn him down.

  And God help her if he ever realized that.

  "I just want to talk to you," he said, searching her eyes. "Throw on a pair of shoes and we can go for a walk. I'll wait for you by the elevator," he added when she hesitated.

  It was a good solution. She didn't have to change out of her shorts and T-shirt to go to the bar, but she didn't have to let him into her room, either.

  "I’ll be right there," PJ. told him.

  It took a moment to find her sandals under the piles of dirty clothes scattered around the room. She finally slipped her feet into them and, taking a deep breath, left her room.

  Harvard was holding an elevator, and he followed her in and pushed the button for the main floor of the big hotel complex. He was silent all the way down, silent as she led the way out of the hotel lobby and headed toward the glis­tening water of the swimming pool.

  The sky was streaked with the colors of the setting sun, and the early evening still held the muggy heat of the day. A family—mother, father, two young children—were in the pool, and several couples, one elderly, the other achingly young, sat in the row of lounge chairs watching the first stars of the evening appear.

  Harvard was silent until they had walked to the other side of the pool.

  "I have a question for you," he finally said, leaning against the railing that overlooked the deep end. "A personal ques­tion. And I keep thinking, this is not my business. But then I keep thinking that in a way, it is my business, because it affects me and..." He took a deep breath, letting it out in a burst of air. "I'm talking all around it, aren't I? I suppose the best way to ask is simply to ask point-blank."

  P.J. could feel tension creeping into her shoulders and neck. He wanted to ask a personal question. Was it possible he'd somehow guessed? He was, after all, a very perceptive man. Was it possible he'd figured it out from those kisses they'd shared?

  She took a deep breath. Maybe it was better that he knew. On the other hand, maybe it wasn't. Maybe he'd take it—and her—as some kind of a challenge.

  "You can ask whatever you want," she told him, "but I can't promise I'm going to answer."

  He turned toward her, his face shadowed in the rapidly fading light. "Is the reason you've been pushing me away—"

  Here it came.

  "—because of your relationship with Kevin Laughton?"

  PJ. heard the words, but they were so different from the ones she'd been expecting, it took a moment for her to un­derstand what he'd asked.

  Kevin Laughton. Relationship. Relationship?

  But then she understood. She understood far too well.

  "You think because I have Kevin's home number, because I have direct access to the man when he's on vacation, that I must be getting it on with him, don't you?" She shook her head in disgust, moving away from him. "I should've known. With men like you, everything always comes down to sex."

/>   Harvard followed her. "P.J., wait. Talk to me. Are you saying no? Are you saying there's nothing going on between you and Laughton?"

  She turned to face him. "The only thing going on between me and Kevin—besides our highly exemplary work relation­ship—is a solid friendship. Kind of like what I thought you and I had going between us. The man is married to one of my best friends from college, a former roommate of mine. I introduced them because I like Kevin and I thought Elaine would like him even more, in a different way. I was right, and they got married last year. The three of us continue to be good friends. I've spent time at the beach house on Pawley's Island with the two of them. Does that satisfy your sordid curiosity?"

  "P.J., I'm sorry—"

  "Not half as sorry as I am. Let me guess—the whole damned Alpha Squad is speculating as to how many different times and different ways I've had to get it on with Kevin in order to get his home phone number, right?" P.J. didn't give him a chance to answer. "But if I were a man, everyone would've just assumed I was someone who had earned Kevin Laughton's trust through hard work."

  "You're right to be upset," Harvard said. "It was wrong of me to think that way. I was jealous—"

  "I bet you were," she said sharply. "You were probably thinking it wasn't fair—Kevin getting some, you not getting any."

  She turned to walk away, but he moved quickly, blocking her path. "I'd be lying if I said sex didn't play a part in the way I was feeling," Harvard said, his voice low. "But there's so much more to this thing we've got going—this friendship, I guess I'd have to call it for lack of a better name. In a lot of ways, the relationship you have with Laughton is far more intimate than any kind of casual sexual fling might be. And I’m standing here feeling even more jealous about that. I know it's stupid, but I like you too much to want to share you with anyone else."