Slumming.
God, it was an ugly word. But, so what? So she’d be slumming. Big deal. What was he going to do if she approached him? Was he going to turn her down? Yeah, right. Like hell he’d turn her down.
He could just picture the scenario.
Veronica knocks on his door in the middle of the night and he says, “Sorry, babe, I’m not into being used by curious debutantes who want a peek at the way the lower half lives and loves.”
Yeah, right.
If she knocked on his door, he’d fling it open wide. Let her go slumming. Just let him be the one she was slumming with.
Veronica stirred slightly, shifting to get more comfortable on the couch, and the legal pad she’d been holding fell out of her arms. Joe moved quickly and caught it before it hit the floor.
Her hair was starting to come undone, and soft red wisps curled around her face. Her lips were slightly parted. They were so soft and delicate and delicious. He knew that firsthand.
It didn’t take much to imagine her lifting those exquisite lips to his for another perfect kiss—for a deep, demanding, soulful kiss that would rapidly escalate into more. Way more.
And then what?
Then they’d be lovers until she got tired of him, or he got tired of her. It would be no different from any of the other relationships he’d had.
But so far, everything about this was different. Veronica St. John wasn’t some woman he’d met in a bar. She hadn’t approached him, handed him the keys to her car or her motel room and asked if he was busy for the next twenty-four hours. She hadn’t even approached him at all.
She wasn’t his type. She was too high-strung, too uptight.
But something he’d seen in her eyes promised a paradise the likes of which he’d never known. Hell, it was a paradise he was probably better off never knowing.
Because what if he never got tired of her?
There it was. Right out in the open. The big, ugly question he’d been trying to avoid. What if this noose that had tightened around his chest never went away?
But that would never happen, right?
He couldn’t let Veronica’s wealth and high-class manners throw him off. She was just a woman. All those differences he’d imagined were just that—imagined.
So how come he was standing there like an idiot, staring at the girl? Why was he too damned chicken to touch her, to wake her up, to see her sleepy blue eyes gazing up at him?
The answer was clear—because even if the impossible happened, and Joe actually did something as idiotically stupid as fall in love with Veronica St. John, she would never, not in a million years, fall in love with him. Sure, she might find him amusing for a few weeks or even months, but eventually she’d come to her senses and trade him in for a more expensive model.
And somehow the thought of that stung. Even now. Even though there was absolutely nothing between them. Nothing, that is, but one perfect kiss and its promise of paradise.
“Yo, Ronnie,” Joe said, hoping she’d wake up without him touching her. But she didn’t stir.
He bent down and spoke directly into her ear. “Coffee’s here. Time to wake up.”
Nothing.
He touched her shoulder, shaking her very slightly.
Nothing.
He shook her harder, and she stirred, but her eyes stayed tightly shut.
“Go away,” she mumbled.
Joe pulled her up into a sitting position. Her head lolled against the back of the couch. “Come on, babe,” he said. “If I don’t wake you up, you’re going to be madder than hell at me.” He gently touched the side of her face. “Come on, Ronnie. Look at me. Open your eyes.”
She opened them. They were astonishingly blue and very sleepy. “Be a dear, Jules, and ring the office. Tell them I’ll be a few hours late. I’m bushed. Out too late last night.” She smiled and blew a kiss into the air near his face. “Thanks, luv.” Then she tucked her perfect knees primly up underneath her skirt, put her head back down on the seat cushions and tightly closed her eyes.
Jules?
Who the hell was Jules?
“Come on, Veronica,” Joe said almost desperately. He had no right to want to hog-tie this Jules, whoever the hell he was. No right at all. “You wanted me to wake you up. Besides, you can’t sleep on the couch. You’ll wake up with one hell of a backache.”
She didn’t open her eyes again, didn’t sigh, didn’t move.
She was fast asleep, and not likely to wake up until she was good and ready.
Gritting his teeth, Joe picked Veronica up and carried her into the bedroom. He set her gently down on the bed, trying to ignore the way she fit so perfectly in his arms. For half a second, he actually considered climbing in under the covers next to her. But he didn’t have time. He had work to do. Besides, when he got in bed with Veronica St. John, it was going to be at her invitation.
Joe took off her remaining shoe and put it on the floor, then covered her with the blankets.
She didn’t move, didn’t wake up again. He didn’t give in to the desire to smooth her hair back from her face. He just stared down at her for another brief moment, knowing that the smart thing to do would be to stay far, far away from this woman. He knew that she was trouble, the likes of which he’d never known.
He turned away, needing a stiff drink. He settled for black coffee and set to work.
Chapter Eight
Veronica sat bolt upright in the bed.
Dear Lord in heaven, she wasn’t supposed to be asleep, she was supposed to be working and—
What time was it?
Her watch read twelve twenty-four. Oh, no, she’d lost the entire morning. But she must have been exhausted. She couldn’t even remember coming back here to her own room and—
Oh, Lord! She realized she wasn’t in her own room. She was in the prince’s bedroom, in the prince’s bed. No, not the prince’s. Joe’s. Joe’s bed.
With a dizzying flash, Veronica remembered Joe pulling her into his arms and kissing her so slowly, so sensuously that every bone in her body seemed to melt. He had rid them of their clothes like a seasoned professional and…
But…she was still dressed. Right down to her hose, which were twisted and uncomfortable. She’d only dreamed about Joe Catalanotto and his seductive eyes and surprisingly gentle hands.
The kiss had been real, though; and achingly, shockingly tender. It figured. Joe would know exactly how to kiss her to make her the most vulnerable, to affect her in the strongest possible way.
She’d expected him to kiss her almost roughly—an echo of the sexual hunger she’d seen in his eyes. She could have handled that. She would have known what to say and do.
Instead, Joe had given her a kiss that was more gentle than passionate, although the passion had been there, indeed. But Veronica was still surprised by the restraint he’d shown, by the sweetness of his mouth against hers, by the slow, lingering sensuality of his lips. She could very well have kissed him that way until the end of time.
Time. Lord! She’d wasted so much time.
Veronica swung her legs out of bed.
She’d told Joe to wake her up. Obviously, he hadn’t. Instead of waking her, he’d carried her here, into his bedroom.
She found one of her shoes on the floor, and searched to no avail for the other. Perfect. One shoe off and one shoe on, having slept away most of the day, her dignity in shreds, she’d have to go out into the living room where the FInCOM agents were parked. She’d have to endure their knowing smirks.
She was a wimp. She’d fallen asleep—and stayed asleep for hours—while on the job.
And Joe…Joe hadn’t kept his promise to wake her up.
She’d been starting to…like him. She’d been attracted from the start, but this was different. She actually, genuinely liked him, despite the fact that he came from an entirely different world, despite the fact that they seemed to argue almost constantly. She even liked him despite the fact that he clearly wanted to make their relationship
sexual. Despite all that, she’d thought he had been starting to like her, too.
Her disappointment flashed quickly into anger. How dare he just let her sleep the day away? The bastard…
Veronica fumed as she tucked her blouse back into the top of her skirt and straightened her jacket, thankful her suit was permanent-press and wrinkle-proof.
Her hair wasn’t quite so easy to fix, but she was determined not to emerge from the bedroom with it down and flowing around her shoulders. It was bad enough that she’d been sleeping in Joe’s bed. She didn’t want it to look as if he’d been in there with her.
Finally, she took a deep breath and, single shoe in her hand and head held high, she went into the living room.
If the FInCOM agents smirked condescendingly, Veronica refused to notice. All she knew was, Joe was not in the room. Good thing, or she might have lost even more of her dignity by throwing her shoe directly at his head.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” she said briskly to West and Freeman as she gathered up her briefcase. Ah, good. There was her missing shoe, on the floor in front of the sofa. She slipped them both onto her feet. “Might I ask where the lieutenant has gone?”
“He’s up in the exercise room,” one of them answered.
“Thanks so very much,” Veronica said and breezed out the door.
Joe had already run seven miles on the treadmill when Veronica walked into the hotel’s luxuriously equipped exercise room. She looked a whole lot better. She’d showered and changed her clothes. But glory hallelujah, instead of putting on another of those Margaret Thatcher suits, she was wearing a plain blue dress. It was nothing fancy, obviously designed to deemphasize her femininity, yet somehow, on Veronica, it hugged her slender figure and made her look like a million bucks. Her shoes were still on the clunky side, but oh, baby, those legs…
Joe wiped a trickle of sweat that ran down the side of his face. When had it gotten so hot in here?
But her greeting to him was anything but warm.
“I’d like to have a word with you,” Veronica said icily, without even a hello to start. “At your convenience, of course.”
“Did you have a good nap?” Joe asked.
“Will you be much longer?” she asked, staring somewhere off to his left.
That good, huh? Something had ticked her off, and Joe was willing to bet that that something was him. He’d let her sleep. Correction—he’d been unable to wake her up. It wasn’t his fault, but now he was going to pay.
“Can you give me five more minutes?” he countered. “I like to do ten miles without stopping.”
Joe wasn’t even out of breath. Veronica could see from the computerized numbers lit up on the treadmill’s controls, that he’d already run nine miles. But he didn’t sound winded.
He was sweating, though. His shorts were soaking wet. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, and his smooth, tanned skin was slick as his muscles worked. And, dear Lord, he had so many muscles. Beautifully sculpted, perfect muscles. He was gorgeous.
He was watching her in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors that covered the walls of the exercise room. Veronica leaned against the wall near the door and tried not to look at Joe, but everywhere she turned, she saw his reflection. She found herself staring in fascination at the rippling muscles in his back and thighs and arms, and then she started thinking about their kiss. Their fabulous, heart-stoppingly romantic kiss. Despite his nonchalant attitude, that kiss had been laced with tenderness and laden with emotion. It was unlike any kiss she’d experienced ever before.
Veronica had been well aware that Joe had been holding back when he kissed her that way. She’d felt his restraint and the power of his control. She had seen the heat of desire in his eyes and known he wanted more than just a simple, gentle kiss.
Veronica couldn’t forget how he’d searched her eyes as he’d leaned toward her and…
Excellent. Here she was, standing there reliving Joe’s kiss while staring at his perfect buttocks. Veronica glanced up to find his amused dark eyes watching her watch his rear end. No doubt he could read her mind. Of course the fact that she’d been nearly drooling made it all the easier for him to know what she’d been thinking.
She might as well give in, Veronica admitted to herself. She might as well sleep with the man and get it over with. After all, he was so bloody positive that it was going to happen. And after their kiss, despite her best intentions, all Veronica could think about was “When was he going to kiss her again?” Except he hadn’t woken her up, which meant that he probably didn’t even like her, and now she was mad as hell at him. Yes, kissing him had been a royal mistake. Although at the time, when she’d said those words, she’d meant another kind of mistake entirely. She’d meant their timing had been wrong. She’d meant it had been a mistake to add a romantic distraction to all of the other distractions already driving her half mad.
Then, of course, he’d said what he’d said, and…
The fact that Joe saw their growing relationship as one based purely on sex only added to Veronica’s confusion. She knew that a man like Joe Catalanotto, a man accustomed to intrigue and high adventure, would never have any kind of long-term interest in a woman who worked her hardest to be steady and responsible and, well, quite frankly, boring. And even if that wasn’t the case, even if by some miracle Joe fell madly and permanently in love with her, how on earth would she handle his leaving on dangerous, top-secret missions? How could she simply wave goodbye, knowing she might never again see him alive?
No, thank you very much.
So maybe this pure sex thing didn’t add to her confusion. Maybe it simplified things. Maybe it took it all down to the simplest, most basic level.
Lord knew, she was wildly attracted to him. And so what if she was watching him?
Veronica met Joe’s gaze almost defiantly, her chin held high. One couldn’t have a body like that and expect people not to look. And watching Joe run was like watching a dancer. He was graceful and surefooted, his motion fluid and effortless. She wondered if he could dance. She wondered—not for the first time—what it would feel like to be held in his arms, dancing with him.
As Veronica watched, Joe focused on his running, increasing his speed, his arms and legs churning, pumping. The treadmill was starting to whine, and just when Veronica was sure Joe was going to start to slow, when she was positive he couldn’t keep up the pace a moment longer, he went even faster.
His teeth were clenched, his face a picture of concentration and stamina. He looked like something savage, something wild. An untamed man-creature from the distant past. A ferocious, barbaric warrior come to shake up the civility of Veronica’s carefully polite twentieth-century world.
“Hoo-yah!” someone called out, and Joe’s face broke into a wide smile as he looked up at three men, standing near the weight machine in the corner of the room. As quickly as his smile appeared, the barbarian was gone.
Odd, Veronica hadn’t noticed the other men before this. She’d been aware of the FInCOM agents lurking near her, but not these three men dressed in workout clothes. They seemed to know Joe. SEALs, Veronica guessed. They had to be the men Joe had asked Admiral Forrest to send.
Joe slowed at last, returning the treadmill to a walking speed as he caught his breath. He stepped off and grabbed a towel, using it to mop his face as he came toward Veronica.
“What’s up?”
Joe was steaming. There was literally visible heat rising from his smooth, powerful shoulders. He stopped about six feet away from her, clearly not wanting to offend her by standing too close.
His friends came and surrounded him, and Veronica was momentarily silenced by three additional pairs of eyes appraising her with frank male appreciation. Joe’s eyes alone were difficult enough to handle.
Joe glanced at the other men. “Get lost,” he said. “This is a private conversation.”
“Not anymore,” said one of them with a Western twang. He was almost as tall as Joe, but probably weighed forty pounds less. He
held out his hand to Veronica. “I’m Cowboy, ma’am.”
She shook Cowboy’s hand, and he held on to hers far longer than necessary, until Joe gave him a dark look.
“All right, quick introductions,” Joe said. “Lieutenant McCoy, my XO—executive officer—and Chief Becker and Ensign Jones. Also known as Blue, Harvard and Cowboy. Miss Veronica St. John. For you illiterates, it’s spelled Saint and John, two words, but pronounced Sinjin. She’s Prince Tedric’s media consultant, and she’s on the scheduling team for this op.”
Lt. Blue McCoy looked to be about Joe’s age—somewhere in his early thirties. He was shorter and smaller than the other men, with the build of a long-distance runner and the blue eyes, wavy, thick blond hair and handsome face of a Hollywood star.
Harvard—Chief Becker—was a large black man with steady, intelligent brown eyes and a smoothly shaven head. Cowboy’s hair was even longer than Blue McCoy’s, and he wore it pulled back into a ponytail at the nape of his neck. His eyes were green and sparkling, and his smile boyishly winsome. He looked like Kevin Costner’s younger brother, and he knew it. He kept winking at her.
“Pleased to meet you,” Veronica said, shaking hands with both Blue and Harvard. She was afraid if she offered Cowboy her hand again, she might never get it back.
“The pleasure’s all ours, ma’am,” Cowboy said. “I love what you’ve done with the captain’s hair.”
“Captain?” Veronica looked at Joe. “I thought you were a Lieutenant.”
“It’s a term of endearment, ma’am,” Blue said. He, too, had a thick accent, but his was from the Deep South. “Cat’s in command, so sometimes he gets called Captain.”
“It’s better than some of the other things they call me,” Joe said.
Cat.
Admiral Forrest had also called Joe by that nickname. Cat. It fit. As Joe ran on the treadmill, he looked like a giant cat, so graceful and fluid. The nickname, while really just a shortened form of Catalanotto, wasn’t too far off.
Alpha Squad Page 10