Seal Team Ten

by Brockmann, Suzanne

  Mish?

  It was. He'd gotten a haircut. And a new suit. And he was so clean-shaven, he must've stopped for a touch-up in the men's room before coming outside.

  "You look incredible," he told her, his voice nearly as velvety-soft as the night.

  "You do, too." Her own voice was husky as well.

  He smiled crookedly, his eyes crinkling slightly at the edges. "Yeah, I cleaned up pretty well, huh?"

  She touched the lightweight wool of his jacket sleeve. "Where on earth did you get the money for this?"

  He stepped back slightly, pulling free from her grasp, putting both of his hands into his pockets. A gentle reminder. No sex. No touching. "I called my man Jeeves, had him wire me some funds from my Swiss account."

  Becca laughed. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked. It's none of my business."

  "Truth is, I had some cash," Mish told her. He'd been hoping he'd find the rest of his clothes and his other belongings—books, at least, because surely he had books— at the address listed in his personnel file. But he'd gone all the way to Albuquerque only to find that the address had been a fake. The street existed, but not the number. It had been a business district, filled with rundown pawnshops and seedy topless bars. Everything about it was completely unfamiliar.

  The phone number Mish had found in the file had been disconnected, as well.

  He'd spent nearly two days wandering around Albuquerque, looking for something, anything that triggered any kind of recognition.

  The closest he'd come to a flicker of memory had been when he'd gone to the mall and tried on this suit. As he slipped on the jacket and looked at himself in the mirror, he'd gotten the sense that something was wrong. He'd worn suits before, but the jacket had been different. There was something about the neckline or the collar or... He'd stared at himself in the three-way mirror until the fitting-room clerk had gotten nervous, but the answer hadn't come to him. How could a suit jacket be different? Men's jackets had been virtually the same for nearly a hundred years. It didn't make any sense at all.

  "How are you feeling?" Becca asked.

  "Much better," he told her. "Although I'd appreciate it if you could refrain from elbowing me in the side for another day or two."

  She laughed. 'Til try."

  She really did look amazingly beautiful. Her dress was a killer, with narrow straps that were barely there, but necessary to hold up the front, like some kind of feat of engineering. The fabric was shimmerv—not quite white, not quite gold, but a color somewhere in between that set off her golden-brown curls almost perfectly. She'd actually tried to comb her hair into some semblance of a style, using clips to hold it in place, but it was rebelling. He had to smile.

  "You decided to leave your cowboy hat home, huh?"

  "No, just out in the truck," she countered.

  Mish kept his eyes on her face, away from all that smooth skin, away from the golden-white material that clung enticingly to her breasts and stomach and fell in a smooth sheet all the way to the floor. But he couldn't resist taking a peek at her feet.

  "No," she said, "I'm not wearing boots." She lifted her skirt slightly to show him.

  Her shoes looked like something Cinderella might wear. Delicate and barely there. As sexy as the dress.

  She was smiling at him, and despite the fact that he was playing with fire here tonight, he felt himself start to relax. Albuquerque had held no answers. Maybe he'd never find out where he'd come from, what he'd done. And maybe that was okay.

  "Are we allowed to dance?" he asked her.

  She knew he was referring to the no-sex rule, and she thought about it. "I think it's probably okay. I mean, as long as we're in public, sure. We can dance. But only after dinner."

  Mish had to laugh, and he couldn't begin to guess. "Why only after dinner?"

  She finished her glass of champagne and set it down on a nearby table, giving him a smile that warmed him to his very soul. "Because I'm starving."

  She headed for the door, and Mish followed her inside.

  He probably would have followed her anywhere.

  "She moved next door when I was in second grade," Becca told Mish.

  They'd found a table in a quiet corner of the restaurant, and had talked about books and movies while they'd had dinner. Or rather, she'd talked. Mish had listened.

  He was listening still, watching her across the small table, giving her every ounce of his attention. He listened with his eyes as well as his ears, his face lit by the flickering light from a single candle. It was a little disconcerting to be the focus of all that intensity. But it was extremely nice, too—as if everything she had to say mattered. As if he didn't want to miss a single word.

  "We were inseparable right through high school," she continued. "And when we went to college, we stayed tight. Peg was going to be a kindergarten teacher, and I was going to be a veterinarian." She had to smile. "Only I hated it. I don't know what I expected—probably a few years of classes and then an internship spent cavorting across the countryside with the doctor from All Things Bright and Beautiful, helping birth lambs and foals and bunnies. Instead, I was stuck in a city animal hospital, tending to dogs that had been hit by cars. House pets that had been abused. We had one woman bring in her cat— someone had sprayed him with lighter fluid and set him on fire. It was..." She shook her head. "It was really awful. But I was determined not to quit. Being a vet had been my dream for so long. I couldn't just abandon it."

  Mish had been watching her, his eyes the most perfect blend of green and blue and brown, but now he looked down, into his coffee cup. "It's hard to admit you've made a mistake, particularly on that scale."

  "I think I was afraid of my parents' disapproval," she admitted.

  He looked up again, into her eyes, and Becca felt the room tilt. ' 'So what happened?”

  "Peg was diagnosed with cancer."

  Mish nodded, as if he'd been expecting her to tell him that awful news about her lifelong best friend. "I'm sorry."

  "It was Hodgkin's disease. In an advanced stage. She did chemo and radiation, and..." God, it had been ten years, and Becca still had to blink back tears. Of course, she never talked about it, never talked about Peg. She couldn't remember the last time she'd given so much of her soul away for free. But she truly wanted Mish to understand. Because maybe then he'd know why she'd been pursuing him so relentlessly.

  "She died eight months later," Becca told him.

  Silently, Mish reached across the table and took her hand.

  Becca felt fresh tears well as she gazed down at their intertwined fingers. His hands were warm, his fingers broad and work roughened. She wanted him to hold her hand, but she didn't want him to do it out of pity.

  Gently, she pulled her hand free. "She knew she was dying," Becca said. "And even though I'd stopped complaining about school—how could I bitch about something as trivial as boring classes and dull teachers when she was going through this real life hell?—she knew I was unhappy. And she made me talk about it. Yes, I hated school, but I wouldn't quit. I felt trapped by my expectations and my sense of responsibility. And she asked me what I loved doing best, more than anything else in the world. Of course, she knew—I loved riding. I told her, great, who was going to pay me money to ride all day? And she told me to go be a cowboy, work on a ranch, to do whatever I had to do—just make damn sure that I was happy. Life was too short to waste."

  Mish's eyes were beautiful but inscrutable. He surely understood what she was telling him, but he didn't acknowledge that her words applied to him—to the two of them and the attraction that simmered between them. And when he spoke, he surprised her. "So why are you still working at the Lazy Eight?"

  She didn't answer right away. "I love New Mexico." It sounded exactly like what it was—an excuse for wimp-ing out.

  Mish nodded.

  Becca briefly closed her eyes. "Yes, okay, so I'd be much happier working for myself. I bought a lottery ticket tonight. Maybe I'll get lucky and win enough money to bu
y my own ranch." And maybe Silver would grow wings and fly. Or—even more unlikely—maybe she'd wake up tomorrow morning with Mish in her bed.

  She looked away, suddenly aware she'd been eyeing him as if he were the dessert can. ' 1 should really go schmooze."

  "You know, sometimes it works better if you make your own luck," he told her as she pushed her chair back from the table. ' 'If you seek it out rather than waiting for it to come to you."

  Becca touched him then, just lightly, the tips of her fingers sliding down his cheek in the softest caress. "Haven't you noticed me trying?"

  She walked away, her heart pounding, before she could see his reaction.

  She'd taken the first step across those boundaries they'd set between them and the next move was Mish's. Would he stay or would he run?

  Becca knew everyone who was anyone in Santa Fe.

  She worked the room like a pro, shaking hands, remembering names, introducing Mish with a brief anecdote about the people he was meeting. 'This is James Sims. Don't ever put money on the game if you golf with him. He's good enough to go pro," and "Mish Parker, Frank and Althea Winters. Their granddaughter was just accepted at Yale University. Biochemistry major."

  It wasn't an act. She was really good with people. And they all liked her, too. Who wouldn't, with her warm, inclusive smile?

  She hadn't expected him to stick around after dinner. Mish had seen the surprise in her eyes as he'd approached her by the bar after he'd had a second cup of coffee— and let his pulse return to normal.

  He wasn't sure himself why he hadn't left. Her message had been all too clear as she'd told him the story of her friend's death. Life was too short. Cut to the chase. Take the plunge. Just do it.

  And, in case he'd been completely dense, she'd driven the message home by touching him lightly, provocatively. Come home with me tonight.

  Mish wanted to. He wanted to give in. The temptation was so strong, it seemed to buzz and crackle around him. He knew he should run for the door.

  As he watched, Becca let herself be waltzed out onto the dance floor with a man in his eighties.

  She sparkled as she laughed with him, and since she was at a safe distance, Mish allowed himself the luxury of aching for her. He longed to lose himself in the sweetness of her body, the warmth of her mouth. It was more than sex, although it was certainly about sex, too—he couldn't pretend otherwise. He burned for her, but he also wanted to lie down with her in his arms, to fall asleep and dream not about the past, but of the future.

  A clear, bright future, unshadowed by mistakes and regrets and hidden doubts.

  Mish stood there watching Becca, not running anywhere. He couldn't run. He was completely glued in place.

  The song ended, and the old man led her back to him.

  And then, for the first time in what had seemed like hours, they were alone. The room was clearing out, the party almost over.

  "The band's getting ready to pack up," she said, attempting to refasten one of the clips in her hair.

  They still hadn't shared a dance. It was probably just as well.

  "Where are you staying?" he asked, not touching her for the nine-thousandth time that night. He had to find the strength to stay away from her. She deserved someone better than him.

  "I'm down the street at the old Santa Fe Inn. They've just restored it—it's beautiful." She smiled. "Don't worry, I won't ask if you want to come see it." She held out her hand for him to shake. ' Thank you for a lovely evening."

  Mish gazed at her hand in disbelief. Did she honestly think he would briskly shake her hand and let her walk out into the night, wearing a dress that would draw the attention of every human male within a ten mile radius?

  "I'll walk you to your car," he told her.

  "I'm parked over at the inn."

  Damn. "Then I'll walk you to the inn." Walking her to her hotel would be a mistake. He knew that for a fact before the words even left his mouth.

  "You really don't have to," she said as if she could read his mind.

  "I won't come inside," he told her. Told himself.

  "Well," Becca said as she headed toward the door, "I won't force you to, so you don't have to look so tense."

  Mish rolled his head slightly. "I'm not tense."

  Becca just smiled at him.

  The night air was cooler now, and she took a deep breath as they stepped out onto the street.

  A group of men had just come out of a bar named Ricky's across the street, and were heading back toward the center of town. There were four of them, and as Mish watched, they noticed Becca. First two, then three and four. Heads turned, body language changed. Their stares weren't disrespectful, just very, very interested.

  And he resisted the urge to put his arm—or at least his jacket—around her shoulders.

  She took another deep breath, and her dress clung to her in a way that was hard to ignore. And now he was staring, too.

  "It's a beautiful night." She hugged herself, rubbing her upper arms. "I love it when it cools off like this."

  "Are you warm enough? I can give you my jacket..."

  Becca smiled at him. "Considering we're about twelve more steps from the inn, and considering it's probably all of seventy degrees, I think I'll survive without danger of frostbite, thanks."

  Mish could see the sign out in front of the inn. The place was, literally, just a few dozen yards away. In just a few moments, Becca would go inside and he'd be alone.

  "Why did Justin Whitlow want you to come to this party tonight?" he asked, hoping maybe she'd linger, praying that she wouldn't. "I mean, was the point just to keep his name on the tip of everyone's tongue, or was there something else you were trying to do?"

  She gazed up toward the moon. "Whitlow's actually trying to arrange a fund-raising event for the opera at the Lazy Eight. He gets to be the big generous benefactor that way, because he'd donate the facility. Except, of course, people would have to stay over. And then there would be the publicity he'd get for hosting the event. Not to mention the bonus of showing off the ranch to all those Santa Fe Opera supporters who have money to burn."

  "Money to burn."

  She turned to glance at him, amusement in her eyes, a small smile playing about the corners of her lips. ' 'Yeah. Amazing concept, isn't it? But nearly everyone I introduced you to tonight has more money than they know what to do with."

  Mish touched her. For the second time that evening, he couldn't help himself. He just stopped short and took her arm. "There's your answer, Becca."

  She didn't know what on earth he was talking about. But she didn't pull away. Her skin was so soft beneath his fingers, he was momentarily distracted, temporarily thrown.

  She was standing close enough to kiss, and the way she was looking up at him—eyes wide, lips slightly parted—

  he nearly gave in to the temptation to cover her mouth with his own.

  But he didn't kiss her, though he didn't release her, either. "You just spent four hours tightening your relationship with dozens of men and women who have—in your words—'money to burn.' Come on, Bee, don't you get it? These people like you. If you went to them with a plan to buy a spread and turn it into a vacation ranch, you could very well find yourself all the financial backing you'd need right here in Santa Fe."

  She was wary, keeping her natural enthusiasm buried, at least for the moment. "I'd need to work it all out— down to the last detail—before I started asking anyone for money. I'd have to find a piece of property..." She shook her head. "God, I don't have time to go driving halfway across the state to—"

  "Use the Internet," Mish interrupted. "The computer back at the Lazy Eight office has Internet access, doesn't it?"

  "Actually, it doesn't," Becca told him. "But I just got access on my laptop. I'm trying to create a website for the Lazy Eight. In my spare time." She laughed. "I hear myself say that, and I sound completely insane. What spare time?"

  He finally let go of her, and took a step back. When she laughed, he found her
irresistible, but kissing her now would only complicate things beyond belief. "When we get back to the ranch tomorrow, we can use your laptop to search for properties listed for sale."

  "My laptop's upstairs in my hotel room," Becca told him.

  Upstairs. In her room. Mish didn't say anything, didn't move. He just looked at her, imagining the hushed quiet of this four-star hotel's rooms, imagining one that smelled faintly of her unique brand of shampoo, imagining dim lights, a king-size bed, Becca turning her back to him, his fingers finding the tiny zipper pull at the back of her dress and...

  "I've only been on-line a few times," she continued. "Is it really possible to do that kind of a property search?"

  Mish nodded. "Yeah, I think so. We'd just need to use a search engine. Plug in the information we're looking for and..."

  She was looking at him curiously. "Where did you learn about the Internet?"

  Um. Good question. It was just one of those things he knew, like the waist size of his jeans. He shrugged. "I don't know. I just...picked it up here and there, I guess."

  "Would you mind coming up and..." She broke off. "I'm sorry. This can wait for tomorrow." She looked chagrined. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

  "If you like," Mish said, "I can come up for a few minutes—help you get signed on and started." But then he would leave.

  "This isn't just a ploy to get you up to my room," she told him earnestly.

  Mish laughed. "I know." He—and she—would be safe as long as he didn't kiss her. And he wasn't going to kiss her. "I won't stay long."

  Chapter 8

  “Okay," Mish said, "here we go. This looks more like the kind of place you're looking for."

  Becca inched her chair even closer to the computer screen. She'd long since kicked off her shoes, and she curled her feet and legs underneath her long skirt.

  Mish had thrown his jacket onto the bed at least forty-five minutes ago, and had loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves to his elbows.

  It was amazing. He worked the keyboard and mouse of her computer the way Becca handled horses. It was as if the computer were a part of him, a permanent attachment.