by Johnson, Liz
She nodded, once again narrowing her eyes, and licked her lips. His gaze locked onto the tip of her tongue as it swept across her mouth, leaving her lips pink and glossy, and ripe for kissing.
Like a double attack, he felt like he’d gotten a kick to his gut at the same time she shoved against his chest, her hand covering his heart.
He dropped to the floor like a plebe attacked by a seasoned SEAL, his arms and legs spread against the blue mat, completely prone.
In an instant, Staci hovered over him, her hair swinging forward around her face. “Are you all right? Did I do something wrong?”
Yes. She’d wiggled her way into his life, when she should have just stayed in her own. He was fine before he’d ever met her. Sure, he’d be happy to run the rescue mission again. But the “after” part. The part where she’d shown up at his office, so cute and funny and, before long, so clearly in danger that it made him want to protect her. Keep her safe. Make her smile.
It had been ages since he’d thought about Phoebe, but suddenly spending his life with a woman had her on his mind. And that just brought back the guilt, and the resolve. Never again. Once was too often.
“I’m fine.” His voice was a little more growl than it should have been. Time to lighten the mood. He pushed himself off the mat with one hand and held the other out for her to help him up. When she latched on to his hand, he yanked it just hard enough to topple her. As she tumbled toward the floor, he swung his arm out and caught her back inches before she hit the mat.
She shrieked, pushing against his shoulder. “Let me go.” But her words were garbled by the humor in her voice, her attempts to free herself weakened by laughter.
“You had that coming, knocking me over like that.” He kept his words teasing for fear that she’d hear the truth of them. She had bowled him over. Not with her hands or force, but with her sweet presence in his life.
Having her near made him mourn what he’d been missing.
Matt and Ashley had found it. And he was glad they were happy.
But that didn’t mean he deserved it. He’d had his chance.
Staci landed a shove against his shoulder, the movement pushing up his T-shirt sleeve, before righting herself on the floor. “Hey,” he said. “Are you still trying to fight me?”
“Depends. Are you still trying to attack me?” She was sharp and funny, and when her smile grew, so did his heart.
Green eyes danced with glee as she leaned into him. Or maybe he was leaning toward her. It was hard to distinguish at the moment.
Their laughter died down until even her smile dimmed. It wasn’t unhappy, just thoughtful. Contemplative. And then she chewed on her bottom lip, all mirth gone.
Of its own accord, his hand reached to brush her hair behind her ear. His fingers connected with feather-soft strands at her temple, and his thumb stroked her scar. As he paid precious attention to the remnant of her time in that jail, she looked away from his eyes, instead following his arm up to his shoulder.
Suddenly her entire body tensed, and she lunged for the edge of his T-shirt, clawing at the sleeve as she pushed it up.
“What’s wrong? What’s—”
She jabbed at the edge of his tattoo, rolling the shirt partially out of the way, until just the lower half of the image was visible.
Her eyes wide and filled with alarm, she whispered, “He had that tattooed on his arm, too.”
Tristan froze for an instant, the hair on the back of his neck jumping to attention and his ears ringing.
After a long beat of silence, he managed to say, “Grab your stuff.”
“What—why? We just got here.” She looked around, her head whipping back and forth to follow his movements as he jumped to his feet. “I thought we were going to do more training.”
“Not right now.”
He didn’t bother waiting for her to pick up her gear; instead with one hand he snatched both of their bags from the floor. He rested the other on the small of her back as soon as she stood, ushering her out the door and into the noontime sun. Opening the passenger door of his truck, he helped her in, then slammed it closed when she was settled.
It wasn’t until he threw their bags in the backseat of the crew cab and yanked his door closed behind himself that he took a real breath. It was loud and uneven and foreign to his own ears.
“L.T., tell me what’s going on.” Her voice shook like her hands had before. He’d never been so severe around her before. Well, not since the mission.
He leaned his right shoulder toward her, rolling up the sleeve of his shirt to expose the entire piece of art. “This? You’re sure that this was his tattoo.”
She nodded, but then shook her head. As she pulled down the edge of his shirt, she covered more than half the badge he’d gotten at twenty-three with others in his SEAL class after earning the designation.
Ten minutes before, he probably would have only been able to focus on her cool fingers against his skin, but now he held his breath in anticipation. What she said next could change everything.
“I only saw about that much. Just the bottom of it. This curved line and some of the pitchfork. But what I saw was just the same as yours.” She shifted her gaze from his shoulder up to his eyes. Hers were big and round and filled with something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. “Why? What is it?”
His throat hurt just to say the words. “That’s an image of the trident pin given out only to United States Navy SEALs.”
NINE
Tristan growled low in his throat, emotions coursing through his veins faster than he could process them. Confusion. Disbelief. Suspicion.
Anger.
If her face was any indication, Staci was dealing with the same onslaught. Her lips thinned and eyes narrowed until he couldn’t see any of the dancing green behind her black lashes.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, anyone who gets one of these better have graduated BUDs and been pinned a SEAL.”
She was beginning to understand. He could see it in the tightening line of her lips and the tension in her jaw. “Everyone?” She wanted him to say that he was kidding or that some men just got the tattoo because it looked cool.
He wanted to be able to tell her that. But he couldn’t.
“There was a kid in my SEAL class who was so confident that he wouldn’t ring out that he’d gotten the trident tattooed across his back even before indoc.”
She shook her head, clearly not following his story. “Indoc?”
“Indoctrination. That’s the first three weeks of SEAL training. It’s where the first real cuts are made. It’s weeks of unending torture—”
“Weeks of torture?” She was incredulous, but he lifted a shoulder and tipped his head.
“Wading into the ocean and then rolling on the beach—fully dressed and in the freezing cold. They called it ‘getting wet and sandy.’ But it was more like ‘getting wet and trying to remember why I ever thought I’d want to be a SEAL.’ And then realizing I had six more months of that.
“Anyway, this cocky kid—a state champion swimmer or something—walked onto the bus, looking like he was guaranteed a spot on the teams. But the only thing guaranteed in BUDs is that you’ll have to work harder and be tougher than you ever thought you could.
“The kid rang out on his second day. He didn’t like the salt water much. And he didn’t like being harassed for that tattoo. I heard later that some guys didn’t like him wearing that tattoo without earning it, and they told him so hard that he had to get a couple new teeth.”
She shook her head, her eyes growing wide. “They beat him up for having a tattoo.”
Tristan hated to sound so harsh in front of a woman who had seen plenty of pain, but he nodded. “Don’t get me wrong, being a SEAL is hard work, but it’s also an earned privilege. It’s a brotherhood of the elite. Men have to earn that tattoo.”
She swallowed, the sound thick and strained, filling the cab of his truck. “Then the man I saw…”
<
br /> “Is or was a SEAL.”
“Isn’t there any possibility that he could have been like that kid? Maybe he got it but didn’t make it through? Or maybe he got it to honor a brother or something?”
She was clawing for anything that might make sense of what she’d seen. He wished he could pull her into his arms like he had the night before to comfort her through her turmoil, but the bucket seats weren’t exactly conducive to that. Besides, he had to think clearly. Having her close didn’t bode well for the precision and speed of his mental processes.
“Maybe,” he finally conceded.
“But not likely.” She didn’t even form it in a question.
“No. Not likely. The guy who left you the bomb is an expert demo man. Zig said he’d never seen that fail-safe line in action before, and Zig has seen nearly everything. And, like any SEAL, he has a full knowledge of the San Diego harbor and Coronado.”
But she already knew that. She’d been the one to bring him the map, after all.
“We’re not dealing with a wannabe or an admirer,” he continued. “This guy is a pro, and pros don’t usually run around getting ink they haven’t earned.”
“Will the tattoo at least help us narrow down our list of suspects?”
Only to every SEAL in history.
He bit back the quick remark. It wasn’t entirely true. The trident hadn’t been established until 1970, and the SEALs from the early years probably didn’t have the dark hair that Staci had glimpsed in the jail.
He nodded slowly. “Sure. Now we know we don’t have to bother with a guy who’s not connected with the teams.”
“And on the teams? How many guys would have that tattoo? A few?”
He shook his head. “Most.”
She fell back into her seat, once again pulling her legs up and wrapping her arms around them. It was her safety position. He’d found her like that the night before on his couch, in her bathtub and even in Lybania.
Lord, let me make sure she never has to curl up like that again.
He pulled on his seat belt and started the truck, torn between taking her to his home and heading out immediately to question every trident-tattooed sailor on Coronado until he identified the person planning an attack on his hometown.
One glance at Staci, and the battle was over, the decision made.
She needed rest and security.
And attacking sailors on the base was more likely to get him court marshaled than help him discover who was behind the pending assault.
But he would find the person responsible. He just had to get Staci the opportunity to see others. Maybe if she heard his voice, or saw his shape or his gait, she could recognize the man from her jail.
Then Tristan could make sure that he was brought to justice. Even if he was a sailor.
His stomach dropped.
Or—heaven forbid—an active SEAL.
*
Staci scribbled nonsense words on a pad of paper, leaning an elbow on Tristan’s table and holding her chin up with her hand.
The second will be first.
The second will be first.
“The second will be first.”
“Did you say something?” Ashley called from where she sat on the couch, reading a book about what to anticipate upon her baby’s arrival. Her hand moved in slow, absent-minded circles over her stomach.
Staci’s heart squeezed, more with affection for her new friend than with jealousy. When she offered a smile, it was genuine, and Ashley responded in kind.
“No. Just mumbling to myself.”
They had been forced to spend more time together than Staci had first counted on, but after the near hit-and-run and the revelation of the conspirator’s likely connection to the navy, Tristan had been adamant that they stay together and not leave the house without an escort.
After three days in the same house, she’d decided that if she had to be cooped up with a pregnant woman, Ashley Waterstone was her best option. She cooked like a pro, laughed easily and seemed sincerely concerned for Staci’s happiness. Perhaps most important, she didn’t ask too many questions. She seemed to know that whatever had brought Staci to Tristan’s house kept her there.
They hadn’t seen much of Tristan in the twenty-four hours since he’d dropped Staci off after her first self-defense lesson. He came home late and left early, but called at least three or four times while he was on the base.
When the phone rang, she knew somewhere deep in her stomach that it was Tristan. Or maybe it was deep in her heart, where the thudding picked up speed.
Ashley answered the phone. “Hello?…Oh, sure. Hang on.” She held the receiver out to Staci, not even bothering to try to get up to take it to her. “He wants to talk to you.”
“Me?” This was the first time he’d asked to talk with her, and she held the phone like it might bite her. “Hi?”
“Hey, Hayes. Everything going okay there?”
She stepped into the kitchen and lowered her voice. “All quiet on the home front, as they say.”
“Good. No strange calls or lurking solicitors?”
“Nope.”
“Good.” He’d already said that. But she didn’t remind him. Somehow talking with him on the phone was a flashback to high school. Her ten-year reunion was just over a year away, but on the phone with him, she was seventeen again, wondering what he was thinking and if he’d called just to hear her voice.
Which was beyond ridiculous.
She was twenty-seven, not seventeen. Men didn’t call just because. They certainly didn’t call women like her.
“I have an idea.”
See? This was more than a checkin call.
“The navy is commissioning a new aircraft carrier next week, and there’s a ball on Saturday night in honor of it. I have to go. Would you like to go with me?”
Suddenly she was a junior in high school again, her mouth going dry.
But this was better than being asked to the prom. More like Cinderella’s night out.
Only there would be no prince coming after her at the end of it. Princes—like any other men—wanted women who were whole.
As if on cue, he quickly added, “I thought this would give you a chance to meet a lot of men on the base—you know, so you can listen to their voices. See if you recognize any of them. It might give us a lead on who’s behind the map and bomb. It’s a long shot, but it’s the only way I can think to let you rub shoulders with nearly every officer on the base without drawing extra attention.”
“Right.” Of course. He was thinking about the mission. Like she should have been. “That’s a good idea. But what about being recognized? Don’t you think they’ll wonder why you’re bringing me? You’re not really supposed to be seen out with me, are you?”
The pause ran long, like he hadn’t thought that through. “The news shows and papers aren’t running pictures of you anymore. They haven’t been for about a week now, and the picture of you that they have is…”
“Not my best.” She filled in the words for him because he was too nice to verbalize just how terrible the picture they had of her was. Some news group had taken a shot of her walking off the plane, her first time on American soil since the raid. But the wind had whipped her hair around her head and she hadn’t been able to smooth it down, her arm still in a sling from the bullet she’d taken. She’d also been wearing the only thing the hospital on the base in Germany had—blue scrubs that added at least twenty pounds.
And it seemed to be the only picture the media wanted to use.
“Yes. I think in the dim lights of a party, wearing something that actually fits, with your hair and makeup all done up, no one will recognize you. Except maybe the man who’s looking for you. But he wouldn’t strike in a crowded situation like that—not when he still wants to make your death look like an accident.”
“I’m in.”
“Are you sure? I mean, if he’s there, you could end up face-to-face with the man responsible for the pipe bomb and running you
off the road and trying to run you over outside the shelter.” His voice dipped with concern. If he was second-guessing his decision to invite her, she wasn’t going to let him off the hook. This was her chance to point out the man who was not only trying to kill her but also putting thousands of innocent lives in danger with his bomb.
“I can do this. I want to.”
“Good.” His smile carried through the connection. “So, I’m off tomorrow,” he said. “Up for another trip to the gym?”
Her butterflies took off again, and she clutched the phone harder than could ever be necessary. This was a call about a serious issue, but her stomach wouldn’t listen to reason, so she tried to lighten the mood. “We’re not practicing running, are we?”
He laughed. “Not a bad idea, but I was thinking something more along the lines of hand-to-hand.”
Just the memory of their contact during their first session set her face aflame, her cheeks burning so bright that even from the living room Ashley gave her a strange look. Staci jerked her gaze away, staring out the window.
She took a deep breath. “Are you going to teach me how to take a man down with just my pinkie?”
He laughed, rich and throaty, like it had been a while since he’d used those muscles. Maybe since their last session. “Not quite. But at least how to hit him where it hurts the most.”
She laughed then, too. “All right. First thing in the morning?”
“Yes.”
He hung up without pomp, and she walked toward Ashley to place the house phone on the end table within her easy reach.
Without looking up from her book, Ashley asked, “What was that all about?”
“Nothing. He just wanted to see if I was up for—” She caught herself just before admitting to the self-defense training. That would just open the door to a world of questions she didn’t have answers for. “Um…he wanted to know if I’d go to a party with him. For the commissioning of an aircraft carrier.”
Dropping her book into her lap, Ashley clapped her hands. “We have to get you a dress. And shoes. And we’ll get your hair and nails done.”