"I'm so sorry," he finally said. "What kind of world do we live in?" He laughed, but it wasn't laughter that had anything to do with humor. It was a burst of frustrated air. "The really embarrassing part is that I've been that guy. Not the one who actually says those things, I'd never do that. But I'm the one who looks and even whistles. I never really thought something like that might frighten a woman. I mean, that was never my intention."
"Think next time," she told him.
"Someone really said that to you?" He gave her a sidelong glance. "In those words?"
She nodded, meeting his gaze. "Pretty rude, huh?"
"I wish I'd been there," he told her. "I would've put him in the hospital."
He said it so matter-of-factly, but she knew it wasn't just an idle threat. "If you had been there," she pointed out, "he wouldn't have said it."
"Maybe Wes is right." Bobby smiled at her ruefully.
"Maybe you should have a twenty-four-hour armed escort, watching your every move."
“Oh, no," Colleen groaned. "Don't you start with that, too. Look, I've got a can of pepper spray in my purse and a whistle on my key ring. I know you don't think so, but I'm about as safe as I can be. I've been keeping the truck doors locked, I've called ahead to set up appointment times, I've—"
"You forgot me," Bobby interrupted. "You should have called me, Colleen. I would have gladly come along with you right from the start."
Oh, perfect. She knew without even asking that he was not going to leave, that he was here in the cab of this truck until she made the last of her pickups, dropped off both the donations and the truck, and took the T back to Cambridge.
"Has it occurred to you that I might not be overly eager to spend the day with you?" she asked him.
She could see his surprise. He'd never dreamed she would be so blunt and to the point. Still, he recovered nicely. And he surprised her back by being equally straightforward.
"It's already too late for our friendship, isn't it?" he said. "I really blew it last night."
No way was she going to let him take the blame. "I was the one who kissed you first."
"Yeah, but I was the one who didn't stop you right then and there," Bobby countered.
She jammed the truck into gear, silently cursing herself for being stupid enough to have even just a little hope left to be crushed. Yet there it was, flapping about like a deflated balloon on the gritty floor of the truck, right next to her shredded pride and pulverized heart.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I should have been able to control myself, but I couldn't. I'm..."
Colleen looked at him. She didn't mean to. She didn't want to. God forbid he see the total misery that his words brought her reflected in her eyes. But there was something in his voice that made her unable to keep from turning her head.
He was looking at her. He was just sitting there, looking at her, and it was the exact same way he'd looked at her last night, right before he'd pulled her close and kissed the hell out of her. There was hunger in his eyes. Heat and need and desire.
He looked away quickly, as if he didn't want her to see those things. Colleen looked away, too, her mind and heart both racing.
He was lying. He'd lied this morning, too. He didn't want them to stay just friends any more than she did.
He hadn't given her the "let's stay friends" speech because he had an aversion to women like her, women who actually had hips and thighs and weighed more than ninety pounds, wet. He hadn't made that speech because he found her unattractive, because she didn't turn him on.
On the contrary...
With a sudden clarity that should have been accompanied by angelic voices and a brilliant light, Colleen knew.
She knew. Bobby had said there was more to it, but there wasn't. This was about Wes.
It was Wesley who had gotten in the way of her and Bobby Taylor, as surely as if he were sitting right there between them, stinking of stale cigarette smoke, in the cab of this truck.
But she wasn't going to call Bobby on that—no way. She was going to play—and win—this game, secure that she knew the cards he was holding in his hand.
Bobby wasn't going to know what hit him.
She glanced at him again as she pulled out of the parking lot. "So you really think Andrea's attack had something to do with her being an AIDS activist?" she asked.
He glanced at her, too, and this time he managed to keep his eyes mostly expressionless. But it was back there—a little flame of desire. Now that she knew what to look for, she couldn't help but see it. "I think until she comes out of that coma and tells the police what happened, we should err on the side of caution."
Colleen made herself shiver. "It's just so creepy—the thought of her being attacked right outside of her own home."
"You don't have to worry about that. I'll go home with you after we're done here."
Jackpot. She had to bite the insides of her cheeks to keep from smiling. She somehow managed to twist her mouth around into a face of displeasure. "Oh," she said. "I don't know if that's necessary—"
"I'll check your place out, see what we can do to heighten the security," he told her. "Worst-case scenario, I'll camp out in the living room tonight. I know you probably don't want me to, but..."
No, indeed, she did not want him camped out in her living room tonight.
She wanted him in her bedroom.
"Wait," Colleen said, when Bobby would've opened the truck door and climbed down, after she parked outside the next senior center on her list. She was fishing around in her backpack, and she came up brandishing a hairbrush. "The wild-Indian hairstyle needs a little work."
He had to laugh. "That's so completely un-PC."
"What, telling you that your hair is a mess?"
"Very funny," he said.
"That's me," she said. "Six laughs a minute, guaranteed. Turn around, I'll braid it for you."
How had that happened? Ten minutes ago they'd been fighting. Bobby had been convinced that their friendship was badly strained if not completely over, yet now things were back to where they'd been when he'd first arrived yesterday.
Colleen was no longer completely tense, no longer looking wounded. She was relaxed and cheerful. He would even dare to call her happy.
Bobby didn't know how that had happened, but he wasn't about to complain.
"You don't have to braid it," he said. "A ponytail's good enough. And all I really need help with is tying it back. I can brush it myself."
He reached for the brush, but she pulled it back, away from him.
“I’ll braid it," she said.
"If you really want to." He let her win. What harm could it do? Ever since he'd gotten injured, he'd had to ask for help with his hair. This morning he'd gone into a beauty salon not far from his hotel, tempted to cut it all off.
Back in California, he'd gotten help with his hair each day. Wes stopped by and braided it for him. Or Mia Francisco—the lieutenant commander's wife. Even the captain—Joe Cat—had helped him out once or twice.
He shifted slightly in the seat so Colleen had access to the back of his head, reaching up with his good arm to take out the elastic.
She ran both the brush and her fingers gently through his hair. And Bobby knew immediately that there was a major difference between Colleen braiding his hair and Wes braiding his hair. They were both Skellys, sure, but that was where all similarities ended.
"You have such beautiful hair," Colleen murmured, and he felt himself start to sweat.
This was a bad idea. A very, very bad idea. What could he possibly have been thinking? He closed his eyes as she brushed his hair back, gathering it at his neck with her other hand. And then she was done brushing, and she just used her hands. Her fingers felt cool against his forehead as she made sure she got the last stray locks off his face.
She was going to braid his hair, and he was going to sit here, acutely aware of each little, last, barely-touching-him movement of her fingers. He was going to sit here, want
ing her, thinking of how soft she'd felt in his arms just last night, how ready and willing and eager she'd been. She wouldn't have stopped him from pushing up her skirt and burying himself inside of her and Sweat trickled down his back.
What harm was there in letting her braid his hair?
None—provided no one at the Parkvale Senior Center had enough of their eyesight left to notice the uncomfortably tight fit of his pants.
Provided Colleen didn't notice it, either. If she did, she would realize that he'd lied to her. It wouldn't take her long to figure out the truth. And then he'd be a dead man.
Bobby tried thinking about death, about rats, about plague, about pestilence. He tried thinking about sharks— all those teeth, those mean little eyes coming right at him. He thought about the day—and that day was coming, since he was no longer in his twenties—when he'd have to leave the SEAL teams, when he'd be too old to keep up with the newer recruits.
None of it worked to distract him.
Colleen's gentle touch cut through it all. It was far more real than any of his worst-imagined nightmares.
Yet it was remarkably easy to picture her touching him like that all over—not just on his head and his hair and the back of his neck, but all over. Oh, man...
"If I were a guy," Colleen murmured, "and I had hair like this, I'd wear it down. All the time. And I would have women falling at my feet. Lining up outside my bedroom door. All the time."
Bobby choked. "What?"
"Most women can't keep their hands off guys with long hair," she explained. "Particularly good-looking guys like you who are completely ripped. Hey, did you pack your uniform?"
She thought he was good-looking and ripped. Bobby had to smile. He liked that she thought of him that way, even though he wasn't sure it was completely true. He was a little too big, too solid to get the kind of muscle definition that someone like Lucky O'Donlon had.
Now, there was a man who was truly ripped. Of course, Lucky wasn't here right now as a comparison, which was just as well. Even though he was married, women were still drawn to him like flies to honey.
"Hello," Colleen said. "Did you fall asleep?"
"No," Bobby said. "Sorry." She'd asked him something. "Um..."
"Your uniform?"
"Oh," he said. "No. No, I'm not supposed to wear a uniform while my hair's long—unless there's some kind of formal affair that I can't get out of attending."
"No this one's not formal," she told him. "It's casual— a bon voyage party at the local VFW the night before we leave. But there will be VIPs there—senators and the mayor and... I just thought it would be cool for them to meet a real Navy SEAL."
"Ah," he said. She was almost done braiding his hair, and he was simultaneously relieved and disappointed. "You want me to be a circus attraction."
She laughed. "Absolutely. I want you to stand around and look mysterious and dangerous. You'd be the hit of the party." She reached over his shoulder, her arm warm against his slightly damp, air-conditioner-chilled T-shirt. "I need the elastic."
He tried to hand it to her, and they both fumbled. It dropped into his lap. He grabbed it quickly—God forbid she reach for it there—and held it out on his open palm for her to take.
Somehow she managed to touch nearly every inch of his palm as she took the elastic.
"You know what you're asking, don't you?" he said. "I'll spend the evening fending off all kinds of personal questions. Is it true SEALs know how to rip out an opponent's throat with their bare hands? How many men have you killed? Have you ever killed anyone in hand-to-hand combat? Did you like it? Is it true SEALs are rough in bed?" He let out a burst of exasperated air. "As soon as people find out I'm a SEAL, they change, Colleen. They look at me differently. The men size me up, and the women..." He shook his head.
She laughed as she sat back, finally done. “Yeah, right, Taylor. You tell me that you and my brother haven't taken advantage of the way women react when they find out you're a SEAL."
"No," he said. "You're right. I have taken advantage— too many times. It's just...these days I don't get much enjoyment out of it. It's not real. You know, I didn't tell Kyra I was a SEAL until we were together for two months."
"Did she treat you differently when she found out?" Colleen asked. Her eyes were more green than blue today, so luminous and beautiful.
"Yeah, she did," he had to admit. "It was subtle, but it was there." And she'd slept with him that very same night. Coincidence? Maybe. But unlikely.
"I'm sorry," she said. "Forget I asked. You don't even have to come to this thing. It's just...I have to go, and since you're doing this twenty-four-hour bodyguard thing, I thought—"
"I'll call Harvard, have him send my uniform."
"No," she said. "You can go incognito. With your hair
down. Wearing leather pants. I'll tell everyone you're a supermodel from Paris. See what kind of questions you get asked then."
Bobby laughed as Colleen climbed down from the cab of the truck. "Hey," he said, sliding across the seat and keeping her from closing the door by sticking out his foot. "I'm glad we're still friends."
"You know, I've been thinking about this friend thing," she said, standing there, hands on her hips, looking up at him. "I think we should be the kind of friends who have wild sex three or four times a day."
She shot him a smile and turned toward the seniors center.
Bobby sat there, staring after her, watching the sunlight on her hair and the gentle swaying of her hips as she walked away.
She was kidding.
Wasn't she?
God, maybe she wasn't.
"Help," he said to no one in particular as he followed her inside.
6
Bobby caught Colleen by the arm and pulled her back, almost on top of him, almost down the stairs that led to her third-floor apartment.
At first she thought she'd won. At first she thought that all the little glances and smiles, and all the thinly veiled— and some not so thinly veiled at all—comments she'd made all afternoon were finally paying off, that she'd succeeded in driving him crazy. She thought he was pulling her toward him to kiss her, the way he'd kissed her in Harvard Square last night.
Yeah, right, Colleen. Dream on.
Kissing her was the last thing on his mind. "Stay behind me," he ordered, pushing her so that her nose was practically pressed into the broad expanse of his back.
She realized then that her apartment door was ajar.
Someone was in her apartment.
Andrea Barker had come home, too, to find someone breaking into her house.
And had been beaten so badly she was still in a coma.
Colleen grabbed Bobby—it was about as effective as grabbing an aircraft carrier. "Don't go in there!"
"I won't," he said. "At least not before I get you out of here." He was holding on to her then, too, turning toward her and practically lifting her up, about to carry her down the stairs.
For the first time in her life Colleen actually felt fragile and petite and in need of rescue.
She wasn't quite sure she liked it.
She was scared, yes. She didn't want Bobby charging in, a one-man assault team, to find John Morrison and his gang in her living room. At the same time, if John Morrison and his gang were in her apartment, she didn't want to run away and lose the opportunity to have them all arrested.
"Put me down," she ordered him. They could go downstairs, call the police from Mr. Gheary's apartment.
To her surprise he did put her down, none too gently pushing her away from him. As she struggled to regain her balance, she realized he was charging up the last few stairs toward her apartment door. Toward a man who was coming out.
Wearing an unbelievably loud plaid shirt.
"Bobby, don't!"
She wasn't the only one shouting.
The owner of that shirt was shouting, too, shrieking, really, in pure terror.
It was Kenneth. Bobby had him against the entryway wal
l, his face pressed against the faded wallpaper, his armed twisted up behind his back.
"Bobby, stop! He's a friend of mine," Colleen shouted, taking the stairs two at a time, just as the door to her apartment opened wide, revealing the equally wide eyes of Ashley and her brother, Clark. She did a double take. Ashley's blue-haired brother, Clark.
"What are you doing here?" she asked Ashley, who was supposed to be spending the entire summer working at her father's law firm in New York.
"I escaped from Scarsdale," Ashley said faintly, staring at Bobby, who still had Kenneth pinned, his feet completely off the ground. "Clark and Kenneth came and broke me out."
That explained the blue hair. Nineteen-year-old Clark knew he'd be seeing his extremely conservative father. Say no more.
"Bobby, meet my roommate, Ashley DeWitt," Colleen said. "Her brother, Clark, and his friend, Kenneth. Guys, this is my brother's friend, Chief Bobby Taylor."
"I'm your friend, too," Bobby reminded her as he gently lowered the kid back to the floor. "Sorry."
The kid was shaken, but he pulled himself together quickly. "That was...somewhat uncomfortable, but the adrenaline rush is quite nice, thanks."
"Kenneth's from England," Colleen told him.
"Yeah," Bobby said, following them all into her apartment. "I caught that from the accent."
Man, Colleen hadn't been kidding. It was worse in here than he'd imagined. The small living room was filled, in some cases from floor to ceiling, with boxes. Colleen was in the process of writing, in big, block letters, what seemed to be a Tulgerian address on each of them. As far as he could tell, she was only about a third of the way done.
"So you're a chief, huh?" Clark said as Bobby closed the door behind him. "What tribe?"
"Oh, God! Clark, he's not that kind of chief." Ashley gave Bobby an apologetic smile. She was what he thought of as a New York blonde. Average height and slender, with a figure that was just barely curvy enough to be considered feminine, but certainly not curvy enough to be lush. Ev erything about her was neat and perfectly in place, nothing too extreme. She was cool and beautiful—kind of the way a stone statue was cool and beautiful. You didn't mind looking, but you wouldn't want to touch.
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