Seal Team Ten

by Brockmann, Suzanne

  Lucky lingered, but aside from a quick wave from Lucy, neither woman gave him a second glance.

  "I did some research on sex crimes and serial rapists and serial murderers," Syd continued, "and—"

  "And you're thinking about what I said about the level of violence escalating," Lucy finished for her. "You want to know if I think this guy's going to cross the line into rape-homicide."

  Oh, God, Lucky hadn't even considered that. Rape alone was bad enough.

  Lucy sighed. "Considering the abuse the perp seems to enjoy dishing out, in my opinion, it could be just a matter of time before he—"

  "Heads up," Syd said in a low voice. "Barbie's coming this way."

  Barbie?

  Lucky looked up to see Heather heading toward them. Her body in motion made heads turn throughout the entire room.

  She was gorgeous, but she was plastic. Kind of like a Barbie doll. Yeah, the name fit.

  He wanted to stay, wanted to hear what Lucy and Syd had to say, but he'd saddled himself with Heather, and now he had to pay the price.

  He had to take her home.

  With Heather, there was always a fifty-fifty chance she'd invite him up to her place and tear off his clothes. Tonight she'd made a few suggestive comments at dinner that led him to believe it was, indeed, going to be one of those nights where they engaged in a little pleasure gymnastics.

  "Ready to go home?" Heather smiled at him, a smile loaded with promise. A smile he knew that Syd had not missed.

  Good. Let her know that he was going to get some to­night. Let her know he didn't need her to make fireworks.

  "Absolutely." Lucky put his arm around her waist.

  He glanced at Syd, but she was already back to her dis­cussion with Lucy, and she didn't look up.

  As Heather dragged him to the door, Lucky knew he was the envy of every man in the bar. He was going home with a beautiful woman who wanted to have wild sex with him.

  He should have been running for his car. He should have been in a hurry to get her naked.

  But as he reached the door, he couldn't stop himself from hesitating, from looking back at Syd.

  She glanced up at that exact moment, and their eyes met and held. The connection was instantaneous. It was crac-klingly powerful, burningly intense.

  He didn't look away, and neither did she.

  It was far more intimate than he'd ever been with Heather, and they'd spent days together naked.

  Heather tugged at his arm, pressed her body against him, pulled his head down for a kiss.

  Lucky responded instinctively, and when he looked back at Syd, she had turned away.

  "Come on, baby," Heather murmured. "I'm in a hurry."

  Lucky let her pull him out the door.

  The pickup truck was following her.

  Syd had first noticed the headlights in her rearview mir­ror as she'd pulled out of La Cantina's parking lot.

  The truck had stayed several car lengths behind her as she'd headed west on Arizona Avenue. And when she'd made a left turn onto Draper, he'd turned, too.

  She knew for sure when she did a series of right and left turns, taking the shortcut to her neighborhood. It couldn't be a coincidence. He was definitely following her.

  Syd and Lucy had talked briefly after Navy Ken had taken his inflatable Barbie home. She'd stayed in the bar after Lucy had left as well, having a glass of beer as she wrote her latest women's safety article on her laptop. It was far easier to write in the noisy bar than it would have been in her too-quiet apartment. She missed the chaos of the newsroom. And being home alone would only have served to remind her that Lucky O'Donlon wasn't.

  Miss Vapid USA was, no doubt, his soul mate. Syd won­dered rather viciously if they spent all their time together gazing into mirrors. Blond and Blonder.

  Lucy had volunteered the information that Heather was typical of the type of women the SEAL fraternized with. He went for beauty queens who were usually in their late teens, with an IQ not much higher than their age.

  Syd didn't know why she was surprised. God forbid a man like Luke O'Donlon should ever become involved with a woman who actually meant something to him. A woman who talked back to him, offering a differing opinion and a challenging, vivacious honest-to-God relationship....

  Who was she kidding? Did she really imagine she tasted integrity in his kisses?

  It was true that he'd protested admirably when she'd ac­cused him of trying to steal his XO's wife, but all that meant was that he had a line in his debauchery that he would not cross.

  He was hot, he was smooth, he could kiss like a dream, but his passion was empty. For indeed, what was passion without emotion? A balloon that, when popped, revealed nothing but slightly foul-smelling air.

  She was glad she'd seen Luke O'Donlon with his Barbie doll. It was healthy, it was realistic and just maybe it would keep her damned subconscious from dreaming erotic dreams about him tonight.

  Syd took a right turn onto Pacific, pulling into the right lane and slowing down enough so that anyone in their right mind would pass her, but the truck stayed behind her.

  Think. She had to think. Or rather, she had to stop think ing about Luke O'Donlon and his perfect butt and focus on the fact that a sociopathic serial rapist could well be following her through the nearly deserted streets of San Felipe.

  She'd written an article dealing with this very subject just minutes ago.

  If you think someone is following you, she'd said, do not go home. Drive directly to the police station. If you have a cell phone, use it to call for help.

  Syd fumbled in her shoulder bag for her cell phone, hes­itating only slightly before she pushed the speed-dial button she'd programmed with Lucky O'Donlon's home phone number. It would serve him right if she interrupted him.

  His machine picked up after only two rings, and she skipped over his sexy-voiced message.

  "O'Donlon, it's Syd. If you're there, pick up." Nothing. "Lieutenant, I know my voice is the last thing you probably want to hear right now, but I'm being followed." Oh, crud, her voice cracked slightly, and her fear and apprehension peeked through. She took a deep breath, hoping to sound calm and collected, but only managing to sound very small and pitiful. "Are you there?"

  No response. The answering machine beeped, cutting her off.

  Okay. Okay. As long as she kept moving, she'd be okay.

  And chances were, if she pulled into the brightly lit po­lice-station parking lot, whoever was following her would drive away.

  But what a missed opportunity that would be. If this were the rapist behind her, they could catch him. Right now. Tonight.

  She pressed one of the other speed-dial numbers she'd programmed into her phone. Detective Lucy McCoy's home number.

  One ring. Two rings. Three...

  "'Lo?" Lucy sounded as if she'd already been asleep.

  "Lucy, it's Syd." She gave a quick rundown of the sit­uation, and Lucy snapped instantly awake.

  "Stay on Pacific," Lucy ordered. "What's your license plate number?"

  "God, I don't know. My car's a little black Civic. The truck's one of those full-size ones—I haven't been able to see what color—something dark. And he's hanging too far back for me to see his plate number."

  "Just keep driving," Lucy said. "Slow and steady. I'm calling in as many cars as possible to intercept."

  Slow and steady.

  Syd used her cell phone and tried calling Lucky one more time.

  Nothing.

  Slow and steady.

  She was heading north on Pacific. She could just follow the road all the way up to San Francisco, slowly and steadily. Provided the truck behind her let her stop for gas. She was running low. Of course a little car like this could go for miles on a sixteenth of a tank. She had no reason to be afraid. At any minute, the San Felipe police were going to come to the rescue.

  Any minute. Any. Minute.

  She heard it then—sirens in the distance, getting louder and deafeningly louder as the police
cars moved closer.

  Three of them came from behind. She watched in her rear-view mirror as they surrounded the truck, their lights flashing.

  She slowed to a stop at the side of the road as the truck did the same, twisting to look back through her rear win­dow as the police officers approached, their weapons drawn, bright searchlights aimed at the truck.

  She could see the shadow of the man in the cab. He had both hands on his head in a position of surrender. The po lice pulled open the truck's door, pulled him out alongside the truck where he braced himself, assuming the position for a full-body search.

  Syd turned off the ignition and got out, wanting to get closer now that she knew the man following her wasn't armed, wanting to hear what he was saying, wanting to get a good look at him—see if he was the same man who'd nearly knocked her down the stairs after attacking her neighbor.

  The man was talking. She could see from the police of­ficers standing around him that he was keeping up a steady stream of conversation. Explanation, no doubt, for why he was out driving around so late at night. Following some­one? Officer, that was just an unfortunate coincidence. I was going to the supermarket to pick up some ice cream.

  Yeah, right.

  As Syd moved closer, one of the police officers ap­proached her.

  "Sydney Jameson?" he called.

  "Yes," she said. "Thank you for responding so quickly to Detective McCoy's call. Does this guy have identifica­tion?"

  "He does," the officer said. "He also says he knows you—and that you know him."

  What? Sydney moved closer, but the man who'd been following her was still surrounded by the police and she couldn't see his face.

  The police officer continued. "He also claims you're both part of a working police task force...?"

  Sydney could see in the dim streetlights that the truck was red. Red.

  As if on cue, the police officers parted, the man turned his face toward her and...

  It was. Luke O'Donlon.

  "Why the hell were you following me?" All of her emo tions sparked into anger. "You scared me to death, damn it!"

  He himself wasn't too happy about having been frisked by six unfriendly policemen. He was still standing in the undignified search position—legs spread, palms against the side of his truck, and he sounded just as indignant as she did. Maybe even more indignant. "I was following you home. You were supposed to go home, not halfway across the state. Jeez, I was just trying to make sure you were safe."

  "What about Heather?" The words popped out before Sydney could stop herself.

  But Luke didn't even seem to hear her question. He had turned back to the police officers. "Are you guys satisfied? I'm who I say I am, all right? Can I please stand up?"

  The police officer who seemed to be in charge looked to Syd.

  "No," she said, nodding yes. "I think you should make him stay like that for about two hours as punishment."

  "Punishment?" Luke let out a stream of sailor's lan­guage as he straightened up. "For doing something nice? For worrying so much about you and Lucy going home from that bar alone that I dropped Heather off at her apart­ment and came straight back to make sure you'd be okay?"

  He hadn't gone home with Miss Ventura County. He'd given up a night of steamy, mindless, emotionless sex be­cause he had been worried about her.

  Syd didn't know whether to laugh or hit him.

  "Heather wasn't happy," he told her. "That's your an­swer for 'what about Heather?'" He smiled ruefully. "I don't think she's ever been turned down before."

  He had heard her question.

  She'd spent most of the past hour trying her hardest not to imagine his long, muscular legs entangled with Heather's, his skin slick and his hair damp with perspiration as he...

  She'd tried her hardest, but she'd always had a very good imagination.

  It was stupid. She'd told herself that it didn't matter, that he didn't matter. She didn't even like him. But now here he was, standing in front of her, gazing at her with those impossibly blue eyes, with that twenty-four-carat sun-gilded hair curling in his face from the ocean's humidity.

  "You scared me," she said again.

  "You?" He laughed. "Something tells me you're un-scareable." He looked around them at the three police cars, lights still spinning, the officers talking on their radios. He shook his head with what looked an awful lot like admi­ration. "You actually had the presence of mind to call the police from your cell phone, huh? That was good, Jameson. I'm impressed."

  Syd shrugged. "It wasn't that big a deal. But I guess you just don't spend that much time with smart women."

  Lucky laughed. "Ouch. Poor Heather. She's not even here to defend herself. She's not that bad, you know. A little heartless and consumed by her career, but that's not so different from most people."

  "How could you be willing to settle for 'not that bad?'" Syd countered. "You could have just about anyone you wanted. Why not choose someone with a heart?"

  "That assumes," he said, "that I'd even want someone's heart."

  "Ah," she said, turning back to her car. "My mistake."

  "Syd."

  She turned back to face him.

  "I'm sorry I scared you."

  "Don't let it happen again," she said. "Warn me in advance all right?" She turned away.

  "Syd."

  She sighed and turned to face him again. "Quickly, Ken," she begged. "We've got a seven o'clock meeting scheduled at the police station. I'm not a morning person, and I'm even less of a morning person when I get fewer than six hours of sleep."

  "I'm going to follow you home," he told her. "When you go up to your apartment, flash your light a few times so I know everything's okay, all right?"

  Syd didn't get it. "You don't even like me. Why the concern?''

  Lucky smiled. "I never said I didn't like you. I just don't want you on my team. Those are two very different things."

  Chapter 5

  “Sit on the couch—or in the chair," Dr. Lana Quinn directed Sydney. "Wherever you think you'll be more com­fortable."

  "I appreciate your finding the time to do this on such short notice," Lucky said.

  "You got lucky," Lana told him with a smile. "Wes called right after my regular one o'clock cancelled. I was a little surprised actually—it's been a while since I've heard from him."

  Lucky didn't know the pretty young psychologist very well. She was married to a SEAL named Wizard with whom he'd never worked. But Wizard had been in the same BUD/S class with Bobby and Wes, and the three men had remained close. And when Lucky had stopped Wes in the hall to inquire jokingly if he knew a hypnotist, Wes had surprised him by saying, yes, as a matter of fact, he did.

  "How is Wes?" Lana asked.

  Lucky was no shrink himself, but the question was just a little too casual.

  She must have realized the way her words had sounded and hastened to explain. “He was in such a rush when he called, I didn't even have time to ask. We used to talk on the phone all the time back when my husband was in Team Six, you know, when he was gone more often than not—I think it was because Wes and I both missed Quinn. And after he transferred back to California, back to Team Ten, Wes kind of dropped out of touch."

  "Wes is doing good—just made chief," Lucky told her.

  "That's great," Lana enthused—again just a little too enthusiastically. "Congratulate him for me, will you?"

  Lucky was not an expert by any means, but he didn't have to be an expert to know there was more to that story than Lana was telling. Not that he believed for one minute that Wes would've had an affair with the wife of one of his best friends. No, Wes Skelly was a caveman in a lot of ways, but his code of honor was among the most solid Lucky had ever known.

  It did make perfect sense, though, for Wes to have done something truly stupid, like fall in love with his good friend's wife. And if that had happened, Wes would have dropped out of Lana's life like a stone. And Lucky sus­pected she knew that, psychologist that she was.

/>   God, life was complicated. And it was complicated enough without throwing marriage and its restrictions into the picture. He was never getting married, thank you very much.

  It was a rare day that went by without Lucky reminding himself of that—in fact, it was his mantra. Never getting married. Never getting married.

  Yet lately—particularly as he watched Frisco with his wife, Mia, and Blue with Lucy, and even the captain, Joe Cat, who'd been married to his wife, Veronica, longer than any of the other guys in Alpha Squad, Lucky had felt...

  Envy.

  God, he hated to admit it, but he was a little jealous.

  When Frisco draped his arm around Mia's shoulder, or when she came up behind him and rubbed his shoulders after a long day. When Lucy stopped in at the crowded, busy Alpha Squad office and Blue would look across the room and smile, and she'd smile back. Or Joe Cat. Calling Veronica every chance he got, from a pay phone in down­town Paris, from the Australian outback after a training op. He'd lower his voice, but Lucky had overheard far more than once. Hey babe, ya miss me? God, I miss you....

  Lucky had come embarrassingly close to getting a lump in his throat more than once.

  Despite his rather desperate-sounding mantra, Joe and Blue and Frisco and all of the other married SEALs made the perils of commitment look too damn good.

  As Lucky watched, across the room Sydney perched on the very edge of the couch, arms folded tightly across her chest as she looked around Lana's homey office. She didn't want to be here, didn't want to be hypnotized. Her body language couldn't be any more clear.

  He settled into the chair across from her. "Thanks for agreeing to this."

  He could see her trepidation in the tightness of her mouth as she shook her head. "I don't think it's going to work."

  "Yeah, well, maybe it will."

  "Don't be too disappointed if it doesn't."

  She was afraid of failing. Lucky could understand that. Failure was something he feared as well.

  "Why don't you take off your jacket," Lana suggested to Sydney. "Get loose—unbutton your shirt a little, roll up your sleeves. I want you to try to get as comfortable as possible. Kick off your boots, try to relax."