Seal Team Ten

by Brockmann, Suzanne

  "Check out this lawyer I think Colleen's dating, would you?" Wes asked.

  "No," Bobby said.

  But Wes was already gone.

  Colleen Skelly was in trouble.

  Big trouble.

  It wasn't fair. The sky was far too blue today for this kind of trouble. The June air held a crisp sweetness that only a New England summer could provide.

  But the men standing in front of her provided nothing sweet to the day. And nothing unique to New England, either.

  Their kind of hatred, unfortunately, was universal.

  She didn't smile at them. She'd tried smiling in the past, and it hadn't helped at all.

  "Look," she said, trying to sound as reasonable and calm as she possibly could, given that she was facing down six very big men. Ten pairs of young eyes were watching her, so she kept her temper, kept it cool and clean. "I'm well aware that you don't like—"

  "'Don't like' doesn't have anything to do with it," the man at the front of the gang—John Morrison—cut her off. "We don't want your center here, we don't want you here." He looked at the kids, who'd stopped washing Mrs. O'Brien's car and stood watching the exchange, wide-eyed and dripping with water and suds. "You, Sean Sullivan. Does your father know you're down here with her? With the hippie chick?"

  "Keep going, guys," Colleen told the kids, giving them what she hoped was a reassuring smile. Hippie chick. Sheesh. "Mrs. O'Brien doesn't have all day. And there's a line, remember. This car wash team has a rep for doing a good job—swiftly and efficiently. Let's not lose any cus­tomers over a little distraction."

  She turned back to John Morrison and his gang. And they were a gang, despite the fact that they were all in their late thirties and early forties and led by a respectable local businessman. Well, on second thought, calling Morrison respectable was probably a little too generous.

  "Yes, Mr. Sullivan does know where his son is," she told them levelly. "The St. Margaret's Junior High Youth Group is helping raise money for the Tulgeria Earthquake Relief Fund. All of the money from this car wash is going to help people who've lost their homes and nearly all of their possessions. I don't see how even you could have a problem with that"

  Morrison bristled.

  And Colleen silently berated herself. Despite her efforts, her antagonism and anger toward these Neanderthals had leaked out.

  "Why don't you go back to wherever it was you came from?" he told her harshly. "Get the hell out of our neigh­borhood and take your damn bleeding-heart liberal ideas and stick them up your—"

  No one was going to use that language around her kids. Not while she was in charge. "Out," she said. "Get out. Shame on you! Get off this property before I wash your mouth out with soap. And charge you for it."

  Oh, that was a big mistake. Her threat hinted at vio­lence—something she had to be careful to avoid with this group.

  Yes, she was nearly six feet tall and somewhat solidly built, but she wasn't a Navy SEAL like her brother and his best friend, Bobby Taylor. Unlike them, she couldn't take on all six of these guys at once, if it came down to that.

  The scary thing was that this was a neighborhood in which some men didn't particularly have a problem with hitting a woman, no matter her size. And she suspected that John Morrison was one of those men.

  She imagined she saw it in his eyes—a barely tempered urge to backhand her—hard—across the face.

  Usually she resented her brother's interference. But right now she found herself wishing he and Bobby were standing right here, beside her.

  God knows she'd been yelling for years about her in­dependence, but this wasn't exactly an independent kind of situation.

  She stood her ground all alone, wishing she was holding something more effective against attack than a giant-size sponge, and then glad that she wasn't. She was just mad enough to turn the hose on them like a pack of wild dogs, and that would only make this worse.

  There were children here, and all she needed was Sean or Harry or Melissa to come leaping to her aid. And they would. These kids could be fierce.

  But then again, so could she. And she would not let these children get hurt. She would do whatever she had to do, including trying again to make friends with these dirt wads.

  "I apologize for losing my temper. Shantel," she called to one of the girls, her eyes still on Morrison and his goons. "Run inside and see if Father Timothy's coming out with more of that lemonade soon. Tell him to bring six extra paper cups for Mr. Morrison and his friends. I think we could probably all use some cooling off."

  Maybe that would work. Kill them with kindness. Drown them with lemonade.

  The twelve-year-old ran swiftly for the church door.

  "How about it, guys?" Colleen forced herself to smile at the men, praying that this time it would work. "Some lemonade?"

  Morrison's expression didn't change, and she knew that this was where he was going to step forward, inform her he didn't want any of their lemonade—expletive deleted— and challenge her to just try washing out his mouth. He'd then imply—ridiculously, and solely because of her pro bono legal work for the HIV Testing and AIDS Education Center that was struggling to establish a foothold in this narrow-minded but desperately needy corner of the city— that she was a lesbian and offer to "cure her" in fifteen unforgettable minutes in the closest back alley.

  It would almost be funny. Except for the fact that Mor­rison was dead serious. He'd made similar disgusting threats to her before.

  But now, to her surprise, John Morrison didn't say an other word. He just looked long and hard at the group of eleven- and twelve-year-olds standing behind her, then did an about face, muttering something unprintable.

  It was amazing. Just like that, he and his boys were walk­ing away.

  Colleen stared after them, laughing—softly—in disbelief.

  She'd done it. She'd stood her ground, and Morrison had backed down without any interference from the police or the parish priest Although at pounds, Father Timothy was a heart attack waiting to happen. His usefulness in a fist fight would be extremely limited.

  Was it possible Morrison and his clowns were finally hearing what she was saying? Were they finally starting to believe that she wasn't going to let herself be intimidated by their bogus threats and ugly comments?

  Behind her the hoses were still silent, and she turned around. "Okay, you guys, let's get back to—"

  Colleen dropped her sponge.

  Bobby Taylor. It was Bobby Taylor. Standing right there, behind her, in the St. Margaret's parking lot. Somehow, some way, her brother's best friend had materialized there, as if Colleen's most ferverent wishes had been granted.

  He stood in a Hawaiian shirt and cargo shorts, planted in a superhero pose—legs spread and massive arms crossed in front of his equally massive chest. His eyes were hard, and his face stony as he still glared in the direction John Morrison and his gang had departed. He was wearing a version of his "war face."

  He and Wes had completely cracked Colleen up on more than one occasion by practicing their "war faces" in the bathroom mirror during their far-too-infrequent visits home. She'd always thought it was silly—what did the expression on their faces matter when they went into a fight?—until now. Now she saw that that grim look on Bobby's usually so-agreeably handsome face was startlingly effective. He looked hard and tough and even mean—as if he'd get quite a bit of enjoyment and satisfaction in tearing John Morrison and his friends limb from limb.

  But then he looked at her and smiled, and warmth seeped back into his dark-brown eyes.

  He had the world's most beautiful eyes.

  "Hey, Colleen," he said in his matter-of-fact, no wor­ries, easygoing voice. "How's it going?"

  He held out his arms to her, and in a flash she was run­ning across the asphalt and hugging him. He smelled faintly of cigarette smoke—no doubt thanks to her brother, Mr. Just-One-More-Cigarette-Before-I-Quit—and coffee. He was warm and huge and solid and one of very few men in the world who could actu
ally make her feel if not quite petite then pretty darn close.

  As long as she'd wished him here, she should have wished for more. Like for him to have shown up with a million-dollar lottery win in his pocket. Or—better yet—a diamond ring and a promise of his undying love.

  Yes, she'd had a wild crush on this man for close to ten years now. And just once she wanted him to take her into his arms like this and kiss her senseless, instead of giving her a brotherly noogie on the top of her head as he released her.

  Over the past few years she'd imagined she'd seen ap­preciation in his eyes as he'd looked at her. And once or twice she could've sworn she'd actually seen heat—but only when he thought both she and Wes weren't looking. Bobby was attracted to her. Or at the very least she wished he were. But even if he were, there was no way in hell he'd ever act on that attraction—not with Wes watching his every move and breathing down his neck.

  Colleen hugged him tightly. She had only two chances each visit to get this close to him—once during hello and once during goodbye—and she always made sure to take full advantage.

  But this time he winced. "Easy."

  Oh, God, he'd been hurt. She pulled back to look up at him, and she actually had to tilt her head. He was that tall.

  "I'm a little sore," he told her, releasing her completely and stepping back, away from her. "Shoulder and leg. Nothing serious. You got me in the dead perfect spot, that's all."

  "I'm sorry."

  He shrugged. "It's no big deal. I'm taking some down time to get back to speed."

  "What happened—or can you not tell me?"

  He shook his head, smiling apologetically. He was such a good-looking man. And that little smile... What would he look like with his thick hair loose from the single braid he wore down his back? Although, she realized, he wasn't wearing a braid today. Instead, he wore his hair pulled back into a simple ponytail.

  Every time she saw him, she expected him to have his hair cut short again. But each time it was even longer.

  The first time they'd met, back when he and Wes were training to become SEALs, he'd had a crew cut.

  Colleen gestured to the kids, aware they were all still watching. "Come on, gang, let's keep going here."

  "Are you all right?" Bobby stepped closer to her, to avoid the spray from the hose. "What's the deal with those guys?"

  "You're why they left," she realized suddenly. And even though mere minutes ago she'd wished desperately for Bobby's and her brother's presence, she felt a flare of anger and frustration. Darn it! She'd wanted Morrison's retreat to be because of her. As nice as it would be, she couldn't walk around with a Navy SEAL by her side every minute of every day.

  "What was that about, Colleen?" Bobby pressed.

  "Nothing," she said tersely.

  He nodded, regarding her steadily. "It didn't feel like 'nothing.'"

  "Nothing you have to worry about," she countered. "I'm doing some pro bono legal work for the AIDS Edu­cation Center, and not everyone is happy about it. That's what litigation's all about. Where's Wes? Parking the car?"

  "Actually, he's—"

  "I know why you're here. You came to try to talk me out of going to Tulgeria. Wes probably came to forbid me from going. Hah. As if he could." She picked up her sponge and rinsed it in a bucket. "I'm not going to listen to either of you, so you might as well just save your breath, turn around and go back to California. I'm not fifteen any­more, in case you haven't noticed."

  "Hey, I've noticed," Bobby said. He smiled. "But Wes needs a little work in that area."

  "You know, my living room is completely filled with boxes," Colleen told him. "Donations of supplies and clothing. I don't have any room for you guys. I mean, I guess you can throw sleeping bags on the floor of my bed­room, but I swear to God, if Wes snores, I'm kicking him out into the street."

  "No," Bobby said. "That's okay. I made hotel reser­vations. This week is kind of my vacation, and—"

  "Where is Wes?" Colleen asked, shading her eyes and looking down the busy city street. “Parking the car in Ku­wait?"

  "Actually." Bobby cleared his throat. "Yeah."

  She looked at him.

  "Wes is out on an op," he told her. "It's not quite Ku­wait, but..."

  "He asked you to come to Boston," Colleen realized. "For him. He asked you to play big brother and talk me out of going to Tulgeria, didn't he? I don't believe it. And you agreed? You jerk!"

  "Colleen, come on. He's my best friend. He's worried about you."

  "And you don't think I worry about him? Or you?" she countered hotly. "Do I come out to California to try to talk you out of risking your lives? Do ever say, don't be a SEAL? No! Because I respect you. I respect the choices and decisions you make."

  Father Timothy and Shantel emerged from the church kitchen with a huge thermos of lemonade and a stack of cups.

  "Everything all right?" Father T. asked, eyeing Bobby apprehensively.

  Bobby held out his hand. "I'm Bobby Taylor, a friend of Colleen's," he introduced himself.

  "A friend of my brother, Wes's," she corrected him as the two men shook hands. "He's here as a surrogate brother. Father, plug your ears. I'm about to be extremely rude to him."

  Timothy laughed. "I'll see if the other children want lemonade."

  "Go away," Colleen told Bobby. "Go home. I don't want another big brother. I don't need one. I've got plenty already."

  Bobby shook his head. "Wes asked me to—"

  Damn Wes. "He probably also asked you to sift through my dresser drawers, too," she countered, lowering her voice. "Although I'm not sure what you're going to tell him when you find my collection of whips and chains, my black leather bustier and matching crotchless panties."

  Bobby looked at her, something unrecognizable on his face.

  And as Colleen looked back at him, for a moment she spun out, losing herself in the outer-space darkness of his eyes. She'd never imagined outer space could be so very warm.

  He looked away, clearly embarrassed, and she realized suddenly that her brother wasn't here. Wes wasn't here.

  Bobby was in town without Wes. And without Wes, if she played it right, the rules of this game they'd been play­ing for the past decade could change. Radically. Oh, my goodness.

  "Look." She cleared her throat. "You're here, so...let's make the best of this. When's your return flight?"

  He smiled ruefully. "I figured I'd need the full week to talk you out of going."

  He was here for a whole week. Thank you, Lord. "You're not going to talk me out of anything, but you cling to that thought if it helps you," she told him.

  "I will." He laughed. "It's good to see you, Colleen."

  "It's good to see you, too. Look, as long as there's only one of you, I can probably make room in my apartment—"

  He laughed again. "Thanks, but I don't think that would be a very good idea."

  "Why waste good money on a hotel room?" she asked. "After all, you're practically my brother."

  "No," Bobby said emphatically. "I'm not."

  There was something in his tone that made her bold. Colleen looked at him then in a way she'd never dared let herself look at him before. She let her gaze move down his broad chest, taking in the outline of his muscles, admiring the trim line of his waist and hips. She looked all the way down his long legs and then all die way back up again. She lingered a moment on his beautiful mouth, on his full, gracefully shaped lips, before gazing back into his eyes. She'd shocked him with that obvious once-over. Well, good. It was the Skelly family motto: everyone needs a good shocking every now and then.

  She gave him a decidedly nonsisterly smile. "Glad we got that established. About time, huh?"

  He laughed, clearly nervous. "Um..."

  "Grab a sponge," she told him. "We've got some cars to wash."

  2

  Wes would kill him if he found out.

  No doubt about it.

  If Wes knew even half the thoughts that were steam-rolling through Bobby's head
about his sister, Colleen, Bobby would be a dead man.

  Lord have mercy on his soul, the woman was hot. She was also funny and smart. Smart enough to have figured out the ultimate way to get back at him for showing up here as her brother's mouthpiece.

  If she were planning to go anywhere besides Tulgeria, Bobby would have turned around. He would have headed for the airport and caught the next flight out of Boston.

  Because Colleen was right. He and Wes had absolutely no business telling her what she should and shouldn't do. She was twenty-three years old—old enough to make her own decisions.

  Except both Bobby and Wes had been to Tulgeria, and Colleen hadn't. No doubt she'd heard stories about the war

  ring factions of terrorists that roamed the dirt-poor coun­tryside. But she hadn't heard Bobby and Wes's stories. She didn't know what they'd seen, with their own eyes.

  At least not yet.

  But she would before the week was out.

  And he'd take the opportunity to find out what that run-in with the local chapter of the KKK had been about, too.

  Apparently, like her brother, Wes, trouble followed Col­leen Skelly around. And no doubt, also like Wes, when it didn't follow her, she went out and flagged it down.

  But as for right now, Bobby desperately needed to re­group. He had to go to his hotel and take an icy-cold shower. He had to lock himself in his room and away—far away—from Colleen.

  Lord save him, somehow he'd given himself away. Somehow she'd figured out that the last thing that came to mind when he looked at her was brotherly love.

  He could hear her laughter, rich and thick, from the far end of the parking lot, where she stood talking to a woman in a beat-up station wagon, who'd come to pick up the last of the junior-size car washers.

  The late-afternoon sunlight made Colleen's hair gleam. With the work done, she'd changed into a summer dress and taken down her ponytail, and her hair hung in shim­mering red-gold waves around her face.

  She was almost unbearably beautiful.

  Some people might not agree. And taken individually, most of the features of her face were far from perfect. Her mouth was too wide, her cheeks too full, her nose too small, her face too round, her skin too freckled and prone to sun­burn.