The Defiant Hero

by Suzanne Brockmann

  She looked down at the wet wad of fabric she held in her hand. “I can’t take the chance that you’re lying to me about this.”

  “Fair enough.” He reached over and took the briefs and threw them out the window.

  He could have just as easily done the same thing with her gun. She tightened her grip on it as she turned slightly to face him. She had to watch him, and oh, Lord, in the greenish light from the dashboard, all his muscles seemed to glow, like some exotic living anatomy textbook. “Keep both your hands on the steering wheel,” she ordered him.

  “You’re the boss.”

  Was she? It didn’t feel that way. Meg kept her eyes carefully on his face. Only his face. Now what?

  It wouldn’t be long until the sun came up, until truckers going past could look down, into her car and see—her gaze drifted—that.

  Oh, my God.

  She was going to have to find him something to wear. Some of the truck stops sold T-shirts and running shorts. But how was she going to get them? Leave John and Razeen in the car while she went inside? No way. Even if she took the keys, John would probably be able to hot-wire the car in the time she was inside the store. She’d come out, and he’d be gone. With Razeen.

  But she certainly couldn’t send John in, naked. Not that he’d ever willingly get out of the car.

  Unless he took the car keys . . .

  She was going to have to figure something out. And soon.

  Meg took off her jeans jacket using the method she’d seen John use to take off his jacket while out on the hood. One arm at a time, the other hand firmly holding on—in this case to her gun—while she finally shook the jacket free.

  She held it out. “Take this.”

  He glanced at her, and wisely didn’t make any kind of comment about the fact that she’d told him to keep both hands on the wheel. He took her jacket and covered himself.

  It didn’t help.

  Five miles wasn’t enough.

  Sam had run hard, pushing the pace until Jenk and WildCard started to whine. They’d both been up too late the night before, WildCard surfing the Internet, and Jenk with some woman he’d met at the hotel, in town on a business trip—lucky little son of a bitch.

  Sam had slept badly, too, but he didn’t have as good an excuse.

  He hadn’t seen Alyssa Locke once since he’d left the hotel for PT with a small group of the other SEALs early this morning. Yet ever since he’d stepped out the door, he’d had this little jangly sixth sense buzz that made him believe she was out there, watching him.

  Somewhere.

  As Wolchonok led Jenk and WildCard back toward the hotel, Sam picked up his pace and headed out toward the Lincoln Memorial. On a hot, restless morning like this, with the humidity starting to build and the weather threatening to storm by the late afternoon, he was good for at least five more miles.

  If he tried to go back to the hotel now, without running any farther, he’d jump out of his skin.

  He ran faster and faster, with that little jangle still making the hair on the back of his neck twitch, before he realized what it was exactly that he was trying to do.

  He was trying to shake Locke.

  Not so that he could lose her, but just so that he could see her.

  He was dying to see her.

  No, he was dying to do more than that.

  Yeah, like that was ever going to happen.

  Still, a man could dream. He could talk to her, watch her face, look into her incredible eyes, and carry that memory with him when he went back to the hotel to take a shower.

  But Sam lost her before he got close enough to see Lincoln looming over him. He didn’t know how he knew it, but he knew that she was gone.

  He circled back, retraced his steps.

  And there she was.

  Sitting on a bench, bent over, head way down between her legs, like she was going to faint or barf or both.

  Sam sprinted the last few hundred yards. “You okay?”

  Her eyes were tightly shut, and she didn’t open them. “Go away.”

  She was soaked with sweat. That was no big surprise, he was drenched, too. But she was wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt, while he wore only a pair of running shorts.

  He touched her neck, checking her pulse. She was much too hot and her heart rate was too high. She was on the verge of overheating.

  “What the hell are you doing wearing all these clothes?” He pulled her T-shirt up. She was wearing a colorful running bra underneath it, so he yanked the shirt over her head.

  “Hey!”

  A reaction. Thank God. It wasn’t time to call the ambulances. Yet.

  He pulled at the waistband of her sweats and—Jesus—she had shorts on under there.

  “What is wrong with you?” he asked, as he half lifted her up, peeling the sweats down her legs. Damn, she had gorgeous legs, with mocha-colored skin that was smooth as silk. He tried not to touch her, aware of how uncool it would be to take advantage of her that way, yet wanting to just the same.

  “Get away from me!” She kicked him feebly in the leg.

  “Then do it yourself.”

  She struggled to get her sweatpants over her feet, and Sam impatiently grabbed her running shoes and pulled them off.

  And there she was. Alyssa Locke. Dressed only in a barely there pair of running shorts and a yellow sports bra. “I don’t need your help.”

  At least she’d had the good sense to sit on a bench that was in the shade.

  “Don’t move,” he ordered her, and sprinted back to where he’d run past a hot dog cart. Four plastic bottles of water cost the entire ten dollar bill he carried in his shoe. Damn. He could practically guarantee that when this was over, she wasn’t even going to say thank you.

  He opened one of the bottles, took a slug himself as he dashed back to Alyssa.

  He shoved that bottle into her hands as he opened another and poured it on her.

  “Hey,” she sputtered, “don’t get my cell phone wet!”

  He took it from her, stuck it in her sneaker, then kept going. He used the third bottle to drench her T-shirt and wrap it around her head.

  Then he sat next to her, opened the last bottle of water, and took a drink.

  “Just answer one question,” he said. “Just one. You live in DC. You know how hot it can get. It had to be in the high seventies before we even left the hotel. Why the hell did you even think you’d need sweatpants on a day like today?”

  She looked at him. And she leaned one arm along the back of the bench, stretching her legs out in front of her. Even with her T-shirt tied around her head, she was amazing to look at, with those five-mile-long legs and all that bare skin showing. She wasn’t stacked, not by any definition of the word, but in his book, huge breasts were way overrated.

  Alyssa Locke managed to be both athletic looking and delicate.

  Sam had a real thing for delicate.

  She was all woman, and even though he knew she was going to smack him any minute, Sam couldn’t keep himself from looking at her. Somehow he managed to keep from drooling. But just barely.

  “That’s why,” she said.

  It took him a minute to realize what the hell she was talking about, but then he understood. She’d worn sweatpants even though it was promising to be a million degrees today because she didn’t want to stand out in the crowd.

  Jesus. That was one hell of a problem to have.

  “You should wear light colors,” he said, thinking aloud. “Shorts that are longer than those—the dorkier looking the better. And I’ve seen these lightweight T-shirts—they’re kind of like a really fine mesh. Air goes right through them.”

  “I have that stuff,” she told him. “I just haven’t had time to do the laundry in about three weeks.” She reached down and picked up her cell phone, checking to see that the power was still on.

  She was waiting for a phone call.

  Sam looked at her closely. She looked exhausted, and not just from the heat. She had circles beneat
h her eyes, as if she hadn’t slept well in a long time.

  He watched as she put her shoes back on, as she stared at her phone again.

  He would have expected her to be talking up a storm, in self-defense. Explaining that she’d never let the heat get the best of her before, trying to turn this into no big deal, deflating the situation so that he’d have no story to tell when he got back to the hotel.

  Instead, she was a million miles away.

  Someone wasn’t calling her. Someone was keeping her from sleeping at night. It had to be a man. Some complete jerkoff who needed his head examined.

  “So, what’s up?” he asked. “Something’s going on with you. What is it?”

  She turned to look at him, and for a fraction of second, he thought she might just tell him. But then—as if she suddenly realized who she was talking to, a shuttered expression came into her eyes. She shook her head.

  It was just as good. He wasn’t sure he was feeling up to hearing about Wayne or Alfonse or Joey or whoever the hell was messing with Alyssa Locke. In more ways than one.

  “Want to share a cab back to the hotel?” he asked.

  She got defensive. “I can walk.”

  Screw that. “I’m taking a cab—or at least I would if I hadn’t spent all my money buying water to pour on your head. I know saying thank you is outside your abilities, but the least you could do is pay for the freaking taxi.”

  “I’ll pay you back for the water, of course.”

  Oh, Jesus. “I don’t want you to pay me back for the water. I want you to pay for the cab. And then I want you to sit with me. In it. Okay?”

  Somehow she nodded. Somehow they made it to the street where they flagged down a taxi.

  They rode to the hotel in silence, and Locke paid the fare.

  “Thank you,” he said to her in the lobby. “Look, I’m going to be over at the K-stani embassy until probably around thirteen hundred. That’s when my watch ends. We’re doing only four hours on—Paoletti’s trying to make this kind of like a vacation for us, so . . . Anyway, you can relax for those four hours. Maybe even get some sleep?”

  She checked her phone again.

  Or . . . maybe not.

  “I wasn’t going to faint,” she said. “Out there. You know. I was fine. I didn’t need your help.”

  Jeez, she was worse than some of the men he knew. “Okay,” he said easily, exactly the way he spoke to the guys when they hit some kind of physical limit and wanted to pretend that the entire world didn’t already know about it. “Glad to hear it. My mistake. See you later.”

  Sam turned to go.

  “Thanks, Starrett,” he thought he heard her say.

  But then again, maybe it was just wishful thinking.

  Nils drove in silence.

  Meg was sitting as far from him as she possibly could, while still being in the front seat of the car.

  Why didn’t you call me when Daniel died? Nils kept his teeth tightly clenched over the words. Now was probably not the best time to ask her that, although, god damn it, he really wanted to know.

  She wouldn’t look at him.

  Taking off his clothes had worked to get him into the car, but now that he was here, she wouldn’t even look at him.

  And it was drafty.

  He had to get something to wear.

  He knew he should be talking. He should be sending out a continuous stream of words, trying to talk her into seeing the logic of letting the FBI do their job, of turning herself and Razeen in.

  But he was exhausted. Just sitting here in a car with Meg beside him was harder than hell. He’d made so many mistakes in the past, he needed to do this right.

  And he didn’t know how or where to begin.

  In the past, he’d made the mistake of thinking that being with her would be enough—that things would work out if only they could share the same air in the same room for long enough to have a conversation.

  He’d thought if he could simply convince her to let him escort her to that embassy party, he’d have a chance. A chance for what, he wasn’t sure. To set their friendship back on track? To sleep with her? To frigging marry her? No. Yes. Maybe. Christ, he didn’t know. And maybe that had been a part of the problem.

  And thinking that simply getting together with her would fix everything had been about as wrong a thought as he’d ever had.

  Instead of clarity, things had gotten even more muddy and confused.

  The party at the embassy had started at 2000 hours.

  It was a postdinner birthday celebration for the K-stani ambassador. It was more than politically correct for Meg to put in an appearance since most of her freelance translating work came out of the birthday boy’s office. It was a necessity for her to show.

  Nils had planned to go with her. It was the closest thing to a real date that they’d made—even though it wasn’t real and it wasn’t a date. It was work. She was working and he was simply her escort. His job was to wear his dress uniform and look good. And to make sure that the K-stanis wouldn’t be affronted or offended by the concept of a woman showing up at an official function all alone.

  She’d left an apology on his voice mail at the hotel, canceling their plans, and he’d called her back. Going to this thing scandalously alone would be nearly as potentially damaging to her career as the implied insult of not going at all.

  Surely she could trust him to behave himself at a formal function, in a crowd of hundreds of people?

  She’d finally relented—after he’d told her that the inquiry was set for the morning. And that tomorrow, after that inquiry—whether it was postponed for the five millionth time or not—he was going wheels up. He was going to meet the rest of SEAL Team Sixteen on the other side of the world. He couldn’t tell her specifics, couldn’t say for how long he’d be gone.

  But he was leaving. And Meg had agreed to see him that one last time.

  He’d picked her up at 19:45, and they’d taken a taxi to the embassy.

  She looked beautiful, dressed in a formal black gown and a modest jacket that kept her shoulders and arms covered. She wore her hair up and more makeup than he’d ever seen her wear before. She looked elegant and sophisticated. Remote and untouchable.

  She looked like Mrs. Daniel Moore.

  She hadn’t looked at Nils once, not once that entire endless taxi ride.

  But he offered her his arm as she got out of the cab, and she finally met his gaze. There were tears in her eyes but she blinked them back. And she smiled, although tremulously.

  “Did you have to look so good tonight?” she whispered.

  “Did you?”

  “This can’t happen,” she told him.

  They were out on the sidewalk in front of the Kazbekistani embassy. He hadn’t yet shut the cab’s door. They could still get back in, blow off this party, go back to Meg’s apartment and . . .

  “It can’t, John,” she said as if she’d been able to read his mind.

  Nils nodded. Closed the taxi’s door. “I know.”

  “I’m sorry for what I did yesterday.”

  “Don’t be.” They started up the stairs. Meg still held his arm, and he put his fingers over hers. They were both wearing gloves, but that didn’t matter. He was touching her.

  “I’m sorry for a lot of things,” she said as they went past the checkpoint, as Meg handed the K-stani guard her invitation and Nils took off his hat and gloves. They went through the metal detectors and into the embassy lobby.

  “Maybe after this party ends we can go someplace and talk. I think we should talk, Meg.”

  “About what? About the fact that Daniel will be back in town tomorrow?”

  A waiter went past with a tray of champagne flutes, and Meg grabbed two. She handed one to Nils. “Here’s to doing the right thing. Or maybe doing the stupid thing. It’s a little less clear tonight, isn’t it?”

  Nils clinked his glass with hers, catching and holding her gaze. “Here’s to two of the very best weeks of my life.”

&
nbsp; “Well, there’s a toast designed to chill a husband’s blood.”

  Meg nearly dropped her glass and Nils knew without even turning around that Daniel Moore was standing behind him.

  He stepped around Nils, taking Meg’s hand and bringing it to his lips. “Darling. Obviously you weren’t expecting me until tomorrow. I’m sorry I didn’t give you appropriate warning, but I was able to catch an earlier flight.”

  “Daniel, this is my friend, Ens. John Nilsson. He’s with the U.S. Navy—”

  “SEALs,” he finished, smiling tightly at Nils. “I know who your friend is. I’ve spent the past six months trying to get him court-martialed.”

  “What?” Meg looked from Daniel to Nils, her eyes wide.

  “Congratulations, Ensign—brilliant move to get back at me by seducing my wife. Bravo.”

  “You said it was just an inquiry,” Meg said, still gazing at Nils.

  “It is,” he told her. Christ, this was awkward. He looked at Daniel Moore, trying to judge how upset the older man was. Had he been drinking? Nils didn’t think so. Still . . . “Maybe we should take this conversation outside.”

  “First an inquiry and then a hearing,” Daniel said. “And then, if I’m lucky, a court-martial. Maybe, Ensign, we should do nothing. Maybe you should go home and let me talk to my wife.”

  Nils didn’t move. “What Meg is going to tell you, sir, is that despite what you thought you overheard, our friendship has not overstepped any bounds—”

  Meg stopped him with a hand on his arm. “John, will you excuse me for a minute?”

  He looked into her eyes. “Do you want me to leave?”

  “Yes,” Daniel said.

  She ignored her husband, shook her head. “No. I want to leave.” Her voice shook. “I want to go home. Would you mind flagging down a cab? I’ll be out in a minute.”

  He nodded, holding her gaze for a moment longer. I’m sorry, he told her silently.

  Somehow she managed to smile. “It’s okay.”

  “You’ve got him well trained,” he heard Daniel say as he walked away. “I suppose that’s one of the benefits of having an affair with a teenager.”