Seal Team Ten

by Brockmann, Suzanne

  Bobby crossed the room and opened the curtains, letting in the bright late-afternoon sunshine. "Name it," he said.

  "I know we don't officially need your protection until we enter Tulgeria," she told him, "but remember I told you about that bon voyage party? It's tonight at the VFW right down the street from St. Margaret's—the church where I had that car wash?"

  Bobby nodded. "I know St. Margaret's." It was in that same crummy 'hood where the AIDS Center was creating a controversy among the locals.

  Colleen put her backpack down and came to help as he attempted to make the bed. "We just found out that the local Fox affiliate is sending TV cameras tonight. That's great news—we could use all the public support we can get." Together they pulled up the bedspread. "But..."

  "But the cameras are going to attract attention in the neighborhood." Bobby knew just where she was heading. "You're afraid John Morrison's going to show up. Crash your party."

  She nodded. "It wouldn't surprise me one bit if he caused trouble, just to get the news camera pointed in his direction."

  He took a deep breath. "There's something I should probably tell you. Don't be angry with me, but I checked up on John Morrison. I was worried about you, and I wanted to know how much of a wild card he was."

  "There's not much to find out," Colleen countered. "I did the same thing right after he and I...met. He served in the army, did a tour in Vietnam. There's an ex-wife and a kid somewhere in New York. He inherited his bar from his father, who got it from his father. He's dating one of his waitresses—she shows up in the ER every now and then for some stitches. After I found that out, I started carrying one of those little spray cans of mace."

  "Good plan. He's got the potential to be violent," Bobby told her. "Oh, I meant to tell you—I got a call right before I left the hotel. The woman who was attacked—Andrea Barker—she came out of her coma. Turns out it was her ex-husband who beat her up. He ignored a restraining order and..."

  Colleen touched his arm. "Andrea's out of her coma— that's great news."

  He stepped back slightly. "So is the fact that it wasn't Morrison who put her into the hospital. That fits with what I found out about him—that he never leaves his neighbor­hood. He rarely leaves his bar. In fact, his drinking pals are all still talking about the trips he made to New York—one about a year ago, the other just a few months back. I also found out he used to be a member of St. Margaret's but he stopped going to church about a year ago. I played out a hunch and called his ex in New York, and sure enough, a year ago was when he found out his son was dying of AIDS."

  Colleen closed her eyes. "Oh, no."

  "Yeah. John, Jr., died two months ago. He was living with Morrison's ex-wife in the Bronx. She's worried about John. According to her, he's angry and ashamed that even when his son was dying, he couldn't acknowledge the kid, couldn't bring himself to visit. God forbid anyone find out his son was gay, you know? And that's the thing, Colleen. No one up here knows anything. They don't even know that his kid is dead. He hasn't spoken to anyone about this. They still come into the bar and ask how Johnny's doing— if he's gotten that big break as an actor, if he's on Broad­way yet."

  Oh, God. "The poor man."

  "Regardless of that, this poor man is responsible for put­ting cinder blocks through the center's windows. If he gets near you tonight, his health will be at risk."

  "You'll be there?" she asked.

  "Absolutely. I'll bring some of the guys, too. Rio, Thomas and Mike. And Jim Slade. He'll definitely come. What time does it start?"

  "Eight. The camera crew's due to arrive at :."

  "We'll be there at seven."

  "Thank you." Colleen sat down on his bed. "I liked meeting Rio, Thomas and Mike...Lee, right?" She smiled. "They really think the world of you. Make sure you tell them what you told me about John Morrison. If he shows up, let's try to treat him with compassion."

  "We'll get him out of there as quickly—and compas­sionately—as possible," he promised. "I'm glad you had a chance to meet them—they're good men. All the guys in the squad are. Although some are definitely special. The senior chief—Harvard Becker. Did you meet him? I'd fol­low him into hell if he asked."

  "Big black man, shaved head, great smile?" she asked.

  "That's Harvard. Hey, whatdya think of Slade? Space­man?" Bobby tried to ask the question casually, as if he was just talking, as if her answer didn't matter to him. The stupid thing was, he wasn't sure if he wanted her to tell him that she liked the man or hated him.

  Colleen was gazing at him. "I thought he was nice. Why?"

  "He's a lieutenant," Bobby told her. "An officer who's probably going to get out of the Teams pretty soon. He's having a tough time with his knees and... He's not sure what he's going to do. For a while he was thinking JAG— you know, going to law school, getting a degree, doing a stint in the regular Navy as a lawyer. I just thought you'd, um, you probably have a lot in common. You know, with you going to law school, too?"

  Colleen shrugged. "Lawyers are boring."

  "You're not. Slade's not, either."

  She laughed. "Is there a reason you sound like you're trying to sell this guy to me?"

  It was Bobby's turn to shrug. "He's a good man."

  "You're a good man, too. A very good man."

  She was gazing at him with that look in her eyes that made him crazy. And she smiled that smile that made his knees weak as she leaned back on her elbows. "So why are we talking about your friend? Why are we talking at all? Wouldn't you rather help me make Wes really mad— and spend the next half hour or so naked?"

  Bobby was proud of himself. He didn't move toward her, didn't instantly strip off both his clothes and hers. "Col­leen, I love being with you, you know that, but I don't want to be a pawn in this war you've got going with your brother."

  She sat up, her smile instantly gone, wide-eyed. "Whoa—wait! Bobby, I was making a joke. I wasn't se­rious."

  She wasn't serious. "That's part of the problem here," he told her quietly. "You and me, we're not serious, but Wes is. He doesn't want you messing around, not with a man that you don't have a serious shot at having a future with, you know? He thinks that's wrong and..." And Bobby was starting to think it was wrong, too.

  It was one thing to have a casual sexual relationship with a woman who was older, someone his age, who lived near the Navy base, who'd maybe been through a nasty divorce and had no intention of repeating that mistake in the near future.

  But with Colleen there were expectations.

  Although, God help him, it sure seemed as if all the expectations were his.

  "Wes thinks what we've got going is wrong? Well, what's wrong," Colleen countered hotly as she got to her feet, "is strong-arming your best friend into proposing mar­riage to your sister. What if I'd said yes? Would you have married me just because Wes told you to?"

  "No," he said. He would have married her because he wanted to. Because unlike Colleen, this relationship was more to him than great sex. He turned away from her. "Look, maybe you should go."

  She moved in front of him, forced him to look at her. "And do what?" she said sharply. "Have an early dinner with Jim Slade?"

  He didn't nod, didn't say yes, but somehow the answer was written on his face. Slade was the kind of man she should be with. How could she meet men like him if she was wasting her time with Bobby?

  "Oh, my God," she said. "You were, weren't you? You were trying to set me up with your friend." Her voice caught as she struggled not to cry, and as she gazed at him, she suddenly looked and sounded impossibly young and so very uncertain. "Bobby, what's going on? Don't you want me anymore?"

  Oh, damn, he was going to cry, too. He wanted her more than he could ever say. He wanted her with every breath, with every beat of his heart. "I want to do what's right for you, Colleen. I need to—"

  She kissed him.

  God help him, she kissed him, and he was lost.

  Again.

  In truth, it was no ordinary kiss
. It was fire and hunger and need. It was passion and fury, with a whole lot of anger and hurt thrown in. It consumed him completely, until do­ing the right thing was no longer an option but an impos­sibility. Sure, he'd do the right thing—if the right thing meant sweeping her into his arms and carrying her to his bed. If the right thing meant nearly ripping her dress in his haste to get it off her, of pushing down his pants and cov­ering himself and thrusting, hard, inside of her as she clung to him, as she begged him for more.

  More.

  He was ready to give her all he had to give—body, heart and soul, and he did, disguising it as near-mindless sex, hard and rough and fast.

  She called out his name as she climaxed, shaking around him, and he joined her in a hot rush of pleasure so intense it was almost pain.

  And then there he was again. Back from that place of insanity and passion, back to this extremely familiar real world that was filled with rumpled bedclothes and mind-numbing guilt.

  He swore. "I'm sorry," he whispered as he rolled off her.

  She sat up on the edge of the bed instead of snuggling against him, and he realized she was getting dressed. Bra, dress, sandals. Her panties had been torn—damn, he'd done that—and she threw them in the garbage.

  She ran her fingers through her hair, picked up her pack. "I'm sorry that you're sorry," she said quietly, "but...I'm a fool—I still want to see you later tonight. Will you come to my place after the thing at the VFW?"

  Bobby didn't answer right away, and she looked at him. "Please?"

  "Yes," he whispered, and she let herself out the door.

  * * *

  The elevator door opened, and Colleen found herself face-to-face with Wes.

  He was getting off on this floor, Bobby's floor, followed by the trio of young SEALs she was starting to think of as The Mod Squad. Pete, Link and Mike Lee.

  Wes's expression was grim, and Colleen knew that she looked like a woman who'd just been with a man. She should have taken more time, should have gone into the bathroom and splashed water on her still-flushed face.

  Except then she would have been in Bobby's room when Wes knocked on the door.

  She went into the elevator, her head held high as her brother glared at her. "Don't worry," she told him. "You win. I'm not going to see him again after tonight."

  They were leaving for Tulgeria in the morning. While they were there, she would be sharing a room with Susan and Rene, and Bobby would be in with one or two of the SEALs for the week. There would be no place to be alone, no time, either. Bobby would have no trouble avoiding her.

  And after they got back to the States, he'd head for Cal­ifornia with the rest of Alpha Squad.

  He wasn't interested in a long-distance relationship.

  She wasn't interested in one that created limitless amounts of anguish and guilt.

  There was no way their relationship could work out. This was what he'd tried to tell her in his room. That was why he'd tried to spark her interest in his stupid friend.

  What they'd shared—a few days of truly great sex—was almost over. It was over, and they both knew it in their hearts. It was just taking their bodies a little bit longer to catch up.

  The elevator door closed, and Colleen put on her sun­glasses, afraid of who else she'd run into on the way to the lobby, and unwilling to let them see her cry.

  Bobby didn't answer the door.

  He knew from the weight of the knock that it was Wes— the last person in the world he wanted to see.

  No, Wes was the second to last person Bobby wanted to see right now. The first was Colleen. God forbid she see him and know that he'd been crying.

  Man, he'd screwed this up, big-time. He should have stayed away from her. He should have taken the T to Logan and hopped the next flight to Australia. He should have hung up the phone that first night she'd called him. He should have "Open the damn door, Taylor. I know you're in there!"

  Wes was the one person he should have been able to run to, the one person who could have helped him sort this out, to figure out what to do now that he'd completely messed it up by falling in love.

  "I love her." Bobby said it aloud, to the door, knowing Wes couldn't hear him over the sound of his own knocking. "I'm in love with Colleen."

  Still, it was a shock to speak the words, to admit these powerful feelings that he'd worked overtime to deny right from the very start.

  Right from her nineteenth birthday, when he and Wes had taken Colleen and a group of her girlfriends from col­lege to Busch Gardens. Bobby hadn't seen her in a few years, and suddenly there she was. All grown up. He'd gotten into an argument with her about some political issue, and she was so well-informed and so well-spoken, she'd convinced him that he was backing the wrong party. He'd fallen for her then—a girl-woman who wasn't afraid to tell a man that he was wrong.

  Yeah, he'd loved her for years, but it wasn't until this past week, until they became lovers, that his love for her had deepened and grown into this complete, everlasting force. It was bigger than he was. It was all-consuming and powerful. He'd never felt anything like it in his entire life, and it scared the hell out of him.

  "I can't say no to her," Bobby said to Wes, through the door. "She wants me to meet her tonight, and I'm going to be there, because, damn it, I can't stay away from her. It's tearing me up, because I know this isn't what you want for her. I know you wanted better. But if she came to me and told me she loved me, too, and that she wanted to marry me, I'd do it. Tonight. I'd take her to Vegas before she changed her mind. Yeah, I'd do it, even though I know what a mistake it would be for her.

  "But she doesn't want to marry me." Bobby wiped his face, his eyes. "She only wants to sleep with me. I don't have to worry about her waking up seven years from now and hating her life. I only have to worry about spending the rest of my life wanting someone I can't have."

  Bobby sat on the edge of the hotel room bed, right where Colleen had sat just a short time ago.

  "God, I want her in my life," he said aloud. "What am I going to do, Wes?"

  No one answered.

  Wes had stopped knocking on the door. He was gone.

  And Bobby was alone.

  As the TV news cameras arrived, Colleen glanced at her watch. It was about :.

  Bobby and his friends were already there, already in place—Thomas and Jim Slade seemingly casually hanging out on the sidewalk in front of the church parking lot, Rio and Mike up near the truck that held the camera.

  Bobby was sticking close to her in the crowd.

  "There's a good chance if Morrison's going to try any­thing, he's going to target you," he explained. He was dressed in jeans and a white button-down shirt with a jacket over it, despite the heat.

  "Are you wearing a jacket because you've got on a gun under there?" She had to ask.

  He laughed. "I'm wearing a jacket because I'm here pos­ing as a member of Relief Aid, and I wanted to look nice."

  Oh. "You do," she said. "You look very nice."

  "So do you." His gaze skimmed appreciatively down her denim skirt, taking in the yellow daisies that adorned her blouse. "You always do."

  Time hung for a moment, as she fell into the bottomless depths of his eyes. But then he looked away.

  "I'm sorry," Colleen said. "About this afternoon."

  "No." He glanced at her. "I was the one who was—"

  "No," she said. "You weren't."

  His eyes were apologetic. "I can't come over tonight. I'm sorry, but..."

  She nodded. Had to ask. "Are you sure?"

  "No." He met her gaze again, smiled ruefully. "I mean, five minutes ago, yeah, I was sure. But here you are and..." He shook his head.

  "Well, if you change your mind, I'll be home." Colleen tried to sound casual, tried to sound as if sharing this one last night with him didn't mean so much to her. She cleared her throat. "I should probably go inside pretty soon. If John Morrison were coming, he'd probably be here by now."

  Famous last words.

 
"Hey! Hey, hippie chick! Nice party you're throwing here. What are we celebrating? The fact that you're going away and won't be around to annoy us for a whole week?"

  It was John Morrison, and he was drunk, holding a bottle wrapped in a paper bag.

  As Bobby stepped in front of her, he seemed to expand, and Colleen realized that a baseball bat was dangling from Morrison's other hand.

  "How about we let those cameras cover some real news?" Morrison asked loudly—loudly enough for heads to turn in his direction.

  Loudly enough for the other SEALs to move toward them. But the crowd was thick, and they were having trou­ble getting through the crush. As were the police officers who'd been assigned to keep traffic moving.

  "I'm going down the street," Morrison continued, "just a block or so over, to that AIDS Center they're building down there. I'm going to break the windows in protest. We don't want it in our neighborhood. We don't want you in our neighborhood."

  He pointed at Colleen with the baseball bat, swinging it up toward her, and just like that, it was over.

  She barely saw Bobby move. Yet somehow he'd taken the bat away from Morrison and had the man down on the ground before she even blinked.

  The other SEALs made the scene a few seconds before the police.

  Bobby lifted Morrison to his feet, handed the man to Spaceman. "Take him inside. There are some empty rooms upstairs." He turned to Rio. "Find Father Timothy. Tell him it has to do with that matter I discussed with him earlier this week." He looked at Colleen. "You okay?"

  She watched as Spaceman hustled Morrison inside. "Yeah. I don't think he was going to hurt me."

  "What's going on here?" the police officer—a big, ruddy-cheeked beat cop named Danny O'Sullivan—planted himself in front of them.

  Bobby touched her arm and lowered his voice. "You want to press charges? Lifting the bat like that could be considered assault. At the least, we could get him for drunk and disorderly."

  She met his gaze. "No." Not if Father Timothy was getting involved. Bobby had talked to Timothy earlier in the week, he'd said.