Seal Team Ten

by Brockmann, Suzanne

  "So," Becca said, her lower lip caught between her teeth as she tried not to smile. "Are you coming in, or what?"

  He was coming in. She knew it and he knew it. Mish lost himself in her eyes. "Why can't I stay away from you?" he whispered.

  "Why would you want to?" she countered just as softly.

  And as she reached for his hand and tugged him gently into her room, closing and locking the door behind them, Mish couldn't remember why he'd even considered staying away. She set the ice cream down on top of the motel television and he drew her into his arms. As she melted against him, he slowly lowered his mouth to hers and then, if he hadn't had amnesia already, he would have contracted a full-blown case of it right then as he lost himself completely in the sheer sweetness of her kiss.

  As Mish kissed her, Becca tugged him toward the bed, afraid that he might come to his senses and walk out the door. She knew he was afraid of hurting her. She knew he wouldn't quite believe her even if she told him again that she wasn't looking for more than a low-maintenance, high-passion, short-term love affair. At this point, she wouldn't quite believe herself.

  Last night had been incredible, even with the secrets that had hung between them. Tonight promised to be even more amazing.

  Except tonight, she was the one with the secrets.

  Mish's fingers were gentle as he worked to loosen the knots in her halter. His eyes were as warm as his hands as he pulled her top free. And as he drew in a sharp breath at the sight of her bare breasts, he made her feel like the most beautiful, most sexy woman in the world.

  He touched her gently with his mouth and his hands, taking his time to look at her, to really take her in.

  Becca tugged at the hem of his T-shirt, trying to pull it up, and he yanked it over his head. And then she was touching him, too, sliding her palms across his gorgeous tanned muscles, kissing him just as lightly, taking her time to look at him as well.

  The bruise on his side was starting to fade. His muscles were amazingly well-defined, as if he had stepped out of an anatomy textbook. Or a J. Crew catalog. Anns, shoulders, pecs, he was sheer perfection right down to the six-pack of muscles that made up his abdomen.

  But his eyes were as soft as his body was hard. And it was his eyes that held her captive.

  All night long, he'd told her this afternoon. He'd wanted to make love to her all night long.

  He lowered his head and lightly touched the tip of her breast with his tongue as he found and slowly unfastened . the top button of her shorts.

  All night long...

  Becca pulled his mouth to hers and kissed him just as slowly, languidly, leisurely drinking him in.

  It was as if the entire world had gone into slow motion, and with that, all of her senses had heightened.

  She could hear the sound of their quiet breathing, the sound of her zipper being pulled down, tantalizingly slowly. She could feel the slightly callused roughness of his fingers against her skin. The delicious chill of the conditioned air against the tongue-wetted tips of her breasts. The satin-over-steel silkiness of his back beneath her hands. The baby-smoothness of his cheeks against her face...

  He'd shaved for her. He'd come to her reluctantly after trying for hours to keep his distance. And yet, he'd recognized the futility of his resistance enough to shave before coming to her room.

  It was silly, really. That he'd shaved was no big deal. It was simple consideration. A small sign of kindness, of caring, yet it brought all of her emotions bubbling to the surface.

  He cared. She knew without a doubt that he desired her, but to know that he cared...

  Becca was in too deep. She was in serious trouble, if the fact that this man had shaved for her was enough to bring tears of joy to her eyes. But she couldn't stop what she was feeling. It was far too late.

  She was falling in love with this man without a name. She was completely enthralled with the gentle warmth of his eyes, with the way he truly listened whenever she spoke, with the fact that despite the absolute goodness that seemed to shine from within him, he was not an angel. Despite his good intentions, he was drawn to her as completely and powerfully as she was drawn to him. And try as he might, as much as he wanted otherwise, he hadn't been able to stay away.

  He drew her shorts and her panties slowly down her legs, and she took close to forever to help him rid himself of his jeans. Then, skin against skin, she touched him, breathed him, kissed him, completely on fire, yet preferring this slow, intense burn to a white-hot flash of flame that would end far too soon.

  No, she didn't want this to end.

  She had no idea what tomorrow would bring, and more than half hoped this Jarell from the homeless shelter would provide no answers to Mish's many questions. His talk of machine guns had made her uneasy. Those were the weapons used by the survivalists who lived in military-style compounds in the mountains. They were all-or-nothing organizations and Becca had no desire to join one—no matter how desperately she loved this man.

  Oh, yes, she loved him desperately. How could she have let that happen?

  When she first asked him to have dinner, she'd imagined she'd love him just a little. A safe amount. Enough to justify giving in to this intense physical attraction, but not so much that she would feel this shortness of breath, this lack of control.

  She'd wanted a brief entanglement with a handsome stranger. True, she'd wanted more than shallow sex, but she'd wanted nowhere near this Grand Canyon of emotional attachment.

  But it was okay. It was going to be okay, because there was no way in hell Mish was going to fall in love with her. Becca could deal with a one-sided love affair. What she couldn't handle was hoping against hope that she had, in fact, at long last, found true love.

  Because despite how much she hoped, true love didn't exist. And she and Mish would part, just later rather than sooner. And crushed hope was far worse than no hope at all.

  Mish pulled back from their endless kiss, their languorous embrace, and as she gazed into his eyes, her heart twisted in her chest.

  "I want you," she whispered, knowing he would misunderstand, but needing to say it, say something, all the same.

  He kissed her again, then reached across her for the condoms she'd left on the nightstand. She closed her eyes, pressing herself against him, feeling the hard length of his heat parting her, dangerously close to penetration. She was more than ready for him, in every possible way.

  It had to be biological—some kind of nesting instinct that was kicking in as her thirtieth birthday approached.

  He pulled away from her to cover himself, and she resisted the urge to cling to him. She knew he would be back in a matter of moments. Still, she would use this as practice for the real thing, for when they would part for good.

  He held her gaze as he came back to her, as he joined her in one slow, perfect thrust.

  It was too good, too perfect, and Becca pulled him to her and kissed him, afraid of what he might see if he looked too close.

  She shut her eyes and loved him.

  All night long.

  Chapter 12

  ' 'Mr. Haymore?"

  "Only folks call me Mr. Haymore be bill collectors and magazine salesmen." The tall African-American man stood at one of the sinks in the church kitchen. His back was to Mish and Becca, but he didn't turn around. He kept right on washing stalks of celery as he spoke. "If you're here on that sort of business, you might as well just walk right back out the door. You'll have to catch me some other time. But if you're here for something friendlier, call me Jarell, wash your hands and roll up your sleeves. I could use some help chopping this celery. Got two hundred forty people to feed tonight, and time's wasting."

  Mish moved to the next sink over and started washing his hands. "Jarell. I spent the night at the shelter here two weeks ago. Do you remember me by any chance?"

  Jarell's face broke into an enormous smile. "Well, I'll be! If it isn't Mission Man! Mish! You are looking good, my man! Out of uniform, but still doggone good! Staying cle
an, I'll wager." He held out a big wet hand for Mish to shake, then pulled him in for an embrace. "Glory be, it is a good day!"

  "Out of uniform...?" The words had a strangely familiar ring to them.

  "Yeah, you're here for your jacket, aren't you? I'm afraid it's pretty badly stained, though, and..." Jarell caught sight of Becca as he released Mish. "Hey, who's this?"

  "Becca Keyes," Mish told him. "A...friend of mine."

  She met his eyes briefly in acknowledgement of his hesitation, and he felt a wave of heat as a vivid memory of the night before flashed through him as clear as day. He could see Becca shattering as she sat astride him, head thrown back, breasts taut with desire as he, too, exploded in perfect slow motion. Friend, yes, but friend wasn't a big enough word for what she was to him. Except lover didn't quite cover the intensity of their relationship, either.

  Jarell wiped his hands on a towel before enveloping Becca in a welcoming hug.

  "Did I leave...a jacket here?" Mish asked.

  "I knew you'd be back for it." Jarell picked up a knife and set to work chopping celery. "You were pretty out of it the morning you left. You were wearing it when you came in, along with a shirt, but they were both soaking wet so Max and I took 'em off you so as you wouldn't catch a chill. I apologize for not reminding you of that in the morning, although, like I said, I'm pretty sure the jacket's ruined." He set down the knife and wiped his hands again as he headed toward the office door. "I'll get that for you."

  "Thank you," Mish said. His jacket. And a shirt. He had no idea what they would look like, but maybe—just maybe—they would trigger more memories.

  Becca touched his hand. "Don't expect too much," she said softly.

  He forced a smile. "I never do."

  "Here you go," Jarell said, coming back into the room, carrying a plastic grocery bag. "If you get it cleaned, it'll keep you warm at least. Not that you're needing to stay warm with this heat wave we've been having."

  Mish took the bag from Jarell, glancing inside. The jacket was black. From what he could tell, a plain suit jacket. Nothing special, nothing strange. He felt a rush of disappointment. Still, maybe Jarell could provide some other information.

  Becca had picked up a knife and started chopping celery,, earning one of Jarell's million-dollar smiles. Mish was afraid he'd cut off a finger if he tried to help, afraid his hands were actually shaking. Please, Lord, let him either find some answers or the peace to live with never knowing the truth....

  " "I was wondering," Mish said, "if that one night was the only time I stayed at the shelter, or..." He cleared his throat, "I know this sounds awful, but I was wondering if I spent the night here any time before that."

  Jarell blew out a stream of air as he began cutting celery again. "Whew, it was a bad one, huh? Mish, I can't tell you how often I've seen it happen. A good man gives in to the temptation, takes a drink and ends up on a binge, God knows where." He laughed ruefully. "Then he spends the rest of his life unable to reclaim those days of blackout, always wondering just where he was and what kind of trouble he got into while he was gone." He sighed again. "As far as I was aware, the first time you used a bed at the First Church shelter was the only time. The night you were brought in was my fifth night on in a row. Rico's brother got arrested down in Natchez, and I was covering for him, working more nights than usual. So unless you were drinking hard for more than a week, and sleeping somewhere else, which of course is entirely possible..." His eyes were dark with sympathy. "How many days of blackout you trying to recall?"

  Becca was watching him, and Mish glanced at her only briefly. He liked Jarell, but the truth made him uncomfortably vulnerable. He didn't want to tell anyone about his amnesia. "Too many," he answered vaguely.

  "Hmm." Jarell frowned down at his celery. "Is it good news or bad news if I tell you a couple of men were in here a few days ago, flashing your picture around, looking for you?"

  Damn. "One of them have barbed wire tattooed around his biceps?" Mish asked, managing to sound matter-of-fact. "Other one blond, dresses like he comes from California?"

  "Barbed-wire tattoo, yes," Jarell said.

  Becca exclaimed softly, and Mish looked up to see her nursing her finger where she'd nicked it with the knife.

  "But his friend was Native American. Big man. Dark hair. Quiet. Reminded me of Chief from Cuckoo's Nest." Jarell gestured with his head toward the sink. "Run it under cold water," he advised Becca. He glanced back at Mish. "They also wanted to know if you'd been here more than just one night. They seemed friendly enough..."

  "But...?"

  "But dangerous," Jarell admitted. "It was just a hunch, a gut feeling, but they were the kind of guys you'd want to make sure were playing on your team. Whether the game's softball or something else, you wouldn't want 'em to be part of the opposition." He paused. "You want to leave a message in case they come back?"

  "No," Mish said. "Thanks, but I know where to find them."

  "You want me to tell 'em you've been here if they come back, asking, or...?" The old man's eyes were knowing. He'd done his share of hard, harsh living.

  Mish shook his head. "I'd appreciate if it you could forget to mention we were here, but I wouldn't want to ask you to lie."

  Jarell smiled. "Wouldn't have to lie. I'd just have to start spouting scripture. I'm sure you know what would happen then. They'd be done with their questions soon enough."

  Mish laughed. "I'd appreciate it."

  "No problem, my man."

  Mish glanced inside the bag again. He wanted to examine the jacket and shirt more closely, but not here. Somewhere more private. Like maybe back in Becca's motel room. Maybe after they'd pulled the curtains and spent an hour or two naked....

  He was staring at her. And she was gazing back at him, trepidation in her eyes.

  She hadn't truly believed him when he'd told her about recognizing the men in the van. But she did now. And now she was realizing that—what had she called it?—this Clint Eastwood thing wasn't a movie, but was, in fact, Mish's real life.

  Mish pulled his gaze away from her, and forced a smile in Jarell's direction, holding out his hand again. "Thank you so much. For everything."

  Jarell slapped him five. "You're welcome so much. I'm glad I could be of help."

  Mish opened the door to the parking lot and stepped back, waiting for Becca to go first.

  "Just remember," Jarell called after them. "One day at a time, Father. Just one day at a time."

  "Father?" Becca said. Had Jarell just called Mish Father?

  Outside the church kitchen, the early-afternoon sun seemed brain-searingly bright. Mish was scanning the surrounding neighborhood, as if searching for any sign of the tattooed man or his friends from the surveillance van. God, could those men really be looking for Mish?

  Mish shook his head, obviously distracted. "He's full of weird nicknames."

  She unlocked the passenger side door to her truck, then crossed around the front. "Why did he call you Mission Man?"

  Mish reached across the cab to unlock her door. "I don't know." He glanced down at the bag he was holding before he went back to scanning the world outside the truck's windshield. "Do you mind if we go back to the room?"

  "So we can pull the curtains and hide?" she wondered aloud as she started the truck and pulled out of the parking lot. "Mish, maybe you should just walk up to these guys, find out who they are and why they're looking for you."

  He was silent, unwilling to give her a long list of reasons why approaching these men could be a terrible mistake. It was possible they had been sent to fix the bearded man's botched job. Maybe they would grab him, pull him into the van, drive him someplace isolated and pop him— plug two bullets into the back of his head. It was also possible that before they did that, they'd take him somewhere isolated and ask him questions he couldn't possibly answer, no matter the pain they inflicted upon him. And wouldn't that be fun?

  But the thought that they might get their hands on Becca and threaten her safety
to get him to talk made his blood run cold.

  "Or maybe," Becca said, "we should just get our things, check out of the motel, and go back to the Lazy Eight. You can work for me as long as you want to—as long as you need to. If you want, I could teach you how to care for the horses. I could teach you to ride. I could—" She broke off, as if suddenly aware of how desperate she sounded. "I like you, and care about you," she tried to explain. "You know that. I haven't exactly tried to hide that from you. All I'm saying is that if you do want to put whatever this is behind you, I'm here to do whatever I can to help."

  Mish felt a rush of emotion that pressed behind his eyes and made his chest feel constricted. I'm here... He didn't have to be alone in this—he wasn 't alone. Yet at the same time, he felt this odd mixture of disappointment and relief because she hadn't told him that she loved him. The disappointment didn't make sense—he was already terrified of hurting her, terrified of getting her inextricably involved in any of this, of putting her into physical danger.

  And heaven help them both if she decided that she loved him....

  “Thanks," he told her. "I just... I want to look at this jacket and shirt before I decide what my next move is going to be."

  "I don't suppose there's a name tag sewn inside the jacket?" Becca laughed. "Probably not. It's probably been a few years since your mother sent you to summer camp."

  Mish couldn't manage more than a wan smile. "Look, Bee, I know you need to get back to the ranch—”

  "I can call Hazel, find out what the guest load is like, find out if I can take a few more days. Last I knew, the week was only lightly booked, so unless we've had a party check in at short notice, I won't need to get back right away."

  She pulled into the motel lot and parked near her room, turning to look at him almost challengingly. "Unless you still want me to leave."

  Mish got out of the truck, unwilling to sit there on display, where anyone could see them. "I don't want you caught in the crossfire. If someone's gunning for me—"

  "Then let's both leave Wyatt City." Becca had to run to catch up with him. "Right now."