The Mammoth Book of Special Ops Romance

by Trisha Telep

  “Waiting for you.”

  The unexpected answer had her searching his face for a motive, but in the gloomy hallway, she couldn’t read his expression. She knew that he was young and handsome, a favourite among the coeds, who discussed him with giggles and rolling eyes. According to his introduction to the staff that fall, he had been a Navy SEAL.

  “What can I do for you?” The realization that they were alone in a dark, locked building stitched through her thoughts, drawing her in tightly.

  “I was wondering if you had a copy of the faculty handbook.”

  His bland request mocked her overzealous imagination. “Of course,” she murmured, fumbling for her keys.

  What else would a man like Kimball want with her, anyway? As the lock gave, she groped for the light switch, only to leave the lights off as an afterthought. Halogen lighting was anything but complimentary to a woman her age – not that she was old at thirty-four, but she was certainly older than he was.

  The cold grey light pouring through her office window would suffice. Depositing test booklets on her desk, she crossed to her bookshelf to locate the handbook, all the while aware that Mr Kimball was staring at her.

  What was his impression? She was slim, with unruly auburn hair she kept pinned in a loose knot, held with bobby pins she could never keep track of. Thick but stylish glasses concealed her best feature: moss-green eyes identical to her older brother’s, only he had twenty-twenty vision.

  “Here you are,” she said, handing him the booklet, expecting him to leave.

  Instead, he moved right past her, towards the window, to take advantage of the muted sunlight. Snow flurries bumped into the windowpane as he flipped through the pages.

  “Can I help you find something?” Her lack of contact with the opposite sex was so telling. Here she was, alone in the building with the best-looking single young man on campus and she couldn’t wait to get rid of him.

  “I’ll find it,” he said, in no apparent hurry to leave.

  Turning towards her desk, Libby began to pack her briefcase with ungraded exams and her grade book. All the while, she studied him covertly, waiting awkwardly for him to finish.

  Kimball was an inch or so taller than her brother who stood an inch over six feet. Broad shoulders and a trim waist gave testament to his military training. His light-brown hair had grown out of the flat-top he’d first arrived in. A crooked nose suggested it had once been broken. With full lips and smouldering grey eyes, she could see why the co-eds were so taken with him.

  He reminded her of Heathcliff, she decided, from Emily Brontë’s Wuthering Heights. There was something brooding and unpredictable about him, something that kept a woman breathless.

  Glancing up suddenly, he caught her studying him. “Thank you,” he said as she flushed self-consciously. He closed the book, stepped closer, and handed it back, brushing her fingers with his in the trade off.

  Libby’s ears began to ring – from alarm or sexual awareness? It had been so long, she’d forgotten how to flirt. His cologne, rakish and subtle, stole into her nostrils.

  “You’re very pretty behind those glasses,” he remarked, shocking her into silence.

  Pleasure bubbled in her breast like a geyser, moving up her neck to heat into her cheeks. “Green eyes,” he added, on an inscrutable note. “Of course.”

  Was he flirting with her? Befuddlement kept her paralysed.

  “But not much to say,” he added, flashing strong but crowded teeth as he smiled at her reticence.

  Libby pushed the glasses higher on her freckled nose and broke away. “Have a good vacation, Mr Kimball,” she managed, moving pointedly towards the door.

  With his smile still in place, he followed her out. “I will. You do the same.” He raked her with a lingering look then walked away.

  Libby suffered sudden ambivalence. What was she doing dismissing a man who’d actually paid her a compliment? Not only was he virile and intelligent, he was a former Navy SEAL. “Mr Kimball!” she called.

  Halfway down the hall, he turned back, his smile returning. “Call me Bruce,” he invited rather smugly.

  “Bruce,” she repeated, half-regretting her impulse. What if he laughed at her presumption or called her an old maid? “Are you . . . heading anywhere for Christmas?”

  “No.” His eyes seemed to gleam as he waited patiently for her to continue.

  “Me neither,” she said with an awkward shrug. She grappled wildly for words to suggest they should get together.

  Abruptly, he retraced his footsteps. The soles of his shoes barely squeaked on the marbled floor as he approached. Libby held her ground as her former wariness resurfaced. His cologne floated out to meet her as he stopped about a yard away.

  “Would you like to go out?” he asked, sparing her the humility of asking.

  Excitement shimmered through her. “Oh. You mean to dinner, or . . .?”

  “A movie,” he corrected, still smiling.

  “That would be nice,” she agreed, both elated and terrified.

  “OK. I’ll pick you up tomorrow at seven.”

  She blinked. They hadn’t even discussed what they would like to see. “Pick me up where?” she asked in confusion.

  “At your house.” His gaze dropped briefly to her lips then he turned and walked away a second time. The shadows began to envelope him.

  “Wait,” called Libby. “You don’t know where I live!”

  Without a backwards glance, he rounded the corner to the stairwell and disappeared.

  With a worried sigh, she gripped the door jam. What have I gotten myself into? He hadn’t exactly taken her thoughts into consideration. But then she couldn’t afford to be choosy if she wanted an honest-to-God date in this calendar year. Her brother would be pleased to learn she hadn’t spent the holidays completely alone.

  Maybe Bruce was the prince she’d been holding out for.

  Four months later

  Libby approached the modest office building on leaden feet. It was her brother who’d convinced her to come here. At first she’d resisted. After all, why look a gift horse in the mouth? She’d seen substantial evidence proving Bruce a war hero. She had traced the scar on his shoulder, sustained while saving a fallen teammate. He’d let her hold his Bronze Star, issued by the Commander-in-Chief himself. But somewhere in the back of her mind lurked a certain cynicism. If Bruce was so young, so brave, so decorated, then what was he doing going out with her?

  The sign on the office door read VERISEAL. According to her brother, it was staffed by members of the military who maintained the Naval Special Warfare Archives. Not only did they perform background checks on phonies claiming to be Navy SEALs, but they publicly denounced them on their “Wall of Shame”.

  Hauling the heavy door open, Libby edged into an empty waiting room and stood there, uncommitted. The scent of fresh coffee and the cosy seating area drew her one step deeper. Suddenly, a closed door opened and a man poked his head and shoulders out. “Can I help you?” he asked, looking surprised.

  “I . . . I don’t have an appointment,” she stammered. “You must be busy.”

  He let the door fall shut behind him. Shorter than Bruce and more darkly complexioned, he was nonetheless fit and cleanshaven. “Not presently,” he countered with a rueful smile. That smile, paired with his dark-as-night eyes made him suddenly appealing. As they flickered over her, she was certain he’d noticed every detail from her practical teaching shoes to the way she clutched her purse ready to flee.

  “What can I do for you?” he repeated.

  Libby drew a deep breath. “Well, I’ve come to check up on a . . . a colleague,” she finished, wondering why she didn’t just say boyfriend. “He says he was a decorated Navy SEAL, and I’m sure he’s telling the truth, but—” She laughed to conceal her awkwardness. But sometimes I’m not so sure.

  “Ma’am, for every real Navy SEAL there are 350 men who claim to be one,” the man pointed out.

  “That’s what my brother said,” sh
e admitted. But Bruce was the real deal. He had to be.

  “Commander Todd Lawson.”

  Seeing the stranger’s hand extended, Libby took it. The tempered strength of his warm fingers brought her sharply to the present. He smelled of soap and ironing starch. His white collared shirt had been loosened at the neck, his tie discarded. He looked rumpled and approachable.

  “Elizabeth Granger,” she replied. He had to be older than he looked with a title like Commander.

  “What do you do, Miss Granger?” he asked with interest.

  She realized she could see her reflection in his dark eyes. “I teach British Literature at the college.”

  “Doctor Granger?” he amended, surprised.

  She acknowledged her degree with a shrug. “Yes, well, I’m book smart but not always practical.”

  Her comment drew a quizzical look. “And your colleague? He also teaches?”

  “Oh, no. He’s a graduate assistant in the history department.” A younger man.

  “I see. Have a seat, doctor,” he invited. “I’m going to grab my laptop.” In the blink of an eye, he disappeared, his stealth reminding her of Bruce’s.

  Libby settled into a wingback chair and waited.

  She was glad now that she had come. Soon her doubts and worries would be gone. She would deepen her relationship with Bruce and, by the time Daren pulled in port, who knew what kind of news she’d have to share?

  As Todd Lawson re-emerged, she flushed at the direction of her thoughts, not that he could possibly know them. He placed the laptop on the coffee table then lowered his lean, compact frame on to the settee next to her. With a glance in her direction, he opened up the computer and toggled a key. “Let’s start with your colleague’s name,” he suggested.

  “Kimball,” she supplied, suddenly uneasy that Bruce might discover what she’d done. “Bruce Kimball. Will he know I’ve been here?” she added anxiously.

  “Not unless you tell him,” Lawson said.

  Aware of his sidelong glance, she bit her lower lip and nodded.

  “Has Bruce Kimball told you the number of his BUD/s graduating class?”

  “Yes. Class 232.” Twisting her hands in her lap, she watched Todd Lawson enter the information in his laptop. His features were unremarkable, but pleasant to look at, she decided. Certainly, his straight nose had never been broken. Those dark eyes, rimmed with even darker lashes, were mesmerizing, really.

  He turned them on her now. “Has Kimball told you something that made you doubt his authenticity?”

  “Well, I’d like to know if he really earned a Bronze Star,” she answered honestly.

  “What has he told you?”

  “That he saved a teammate’s life in Fallujah,” she cited, “about a year ago.” She’d heard the story half a dozen times, each version more elaborate than the last, making her wonder how much Bruce recalled of the event or whether he had possibly just made it up.

  Lawson’s brow furrowed as he listened intently.

  “He was shot in the shoulder,” she added. “And that’s why he quit the Teams.”

  “The marines have safeguarded Fallujah for the past several years,” the commander commented carefully. “I don’t recall any SEALs operating there recently.”

  “Maybe it was somewhere else,” she decided, unwilling to accept his implication. “Maybe I’m remembering wrong.”

  Lawson looked back at his laptop, which had stopped clicking and processing. His face hardened as he skimmed the information available to him and Libby’s stomach clenched. When he looked up to intercept her gaze, she knew the news was troubling. “We have a problem,” he informed her gravely.

  “What?” she breathed, bracing herself.

  “Bruce Kimball of Class 232 died in a helicopter crash over the Hindu Kush in 2007.”

  Libby’s mouth went dry. The blood rushed from her face to her thudding heart, leaving her light-headed. “What?” she cried.

  “That’s what the archives say,” he added, gently. “They wouldn’t be wrong about this.”

  “But they have to be wrong,” she insisted. “Bruce was injured. Maybe they just thought he was dead.”

  There was pity in his dark gaze as he turned his attention once more to his laptop, typed a few more words, then turned it so that she could see the scanned image of an obituary: “Navy SEAL Bruce Kimball one of six to perish in helicopter crash.”

  Libby sucked in a sharp breath and the room seemed to spin. “This isn’t right,” she insisted. “Maybe there are two Bruce Kimballs.”

  “Not in class 232,” Commander Lawson assured her. He clicked a button taking him to a related link. “Or in any other graduating class,” he added on a measured note.

  A chill breeze blew through Libby’s mind. She stared at the VeriSEAL representative, struck dumb by his certainty, her tongue in knots. Apparently, her magic carpet ride was over. It ended right here.

  Lawson’s gaze flicked to the fist she held against her abdomen. “Is Bruce Kimball more than a colleague, Dr Granger?” he asked gently.

  Visions of Bruce undressing her, whispering his intentions, brought heat flooding back into her face. “He’s my boyfriend,” she admitted, chagrined. How could he have lied to her – to everyone so cavalierly? “Was my boyfriend,” she amended, feeling nauseated. Why would he have gone to such great lengths, even taken someone else’s name?

  Lawson’s hand, both a comfort and a distraction, touched her shoulder briefly. “Let’s not make any assumptions just yet,” he advised. “I need to do more research.”

  “I don’t understand,” she lamented, thinking back over the last four months with Bruce. Their romance had been sporadic, unpredictable, yet so intoxicating. “I’ve seen his Bronze Star.” It was one of the first things he’d shown her.

  “You can buy them on eBay for twenty dollars,” Lawson pointed out.

  She didn’t want to hear that. “But he has the scar on his shoulder,” she persisted, recalling how she’d often traced it as a reminder of his heroism. “I have to go,” she exclaimed, reaching blindly for her purse.

  He put a hand on her shoulder, keeping her from rising. “Have some coffee first,” he recommended with a worried look. “You shouldn’t leave like this.”

  She sank back down, deflated. He was right, of course. She’d be a liability on the road.

  “Cream or sugar?”

  The mundane question steadied her. “Both, please,” she replied, and he rose to fetch a cup.

  She rubbed her forehead with trembling fingers. Thank heavens she’d acted on her brother’s advice and double-checked Bruce’s story. But who would have predicted he’d stolen a dead man’s identity. Why? Had the Navy SEAL story been his ticket into graduate school? Or did he use it to pick up women? God knew, she’d believed his lies so willingly. How pathetic that she’d been so desperate for Mr Right, she could no longer discern Mr Wrong.

  “Here you go.” Lawson stood before her holding out a steaming cup.

  She took it gratefully, blinking back the tears that blinded her.

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself, doctor.” Lawson’s deep voice held the power to soothe. “Posers can be very convincing. They’ve found their way into positions of prestige, even senators’ seats. Most of the time, people accept their stories blindly. You, at least, had the sense to check first.”

  Unable to look at him, she took a bracing sip of her coffee.

  “With your permission,” he added, “I’d like to find out who Bruce Kimball really is.”

  Her heartbeat accelerated. “You mean investigate him?” she asked, picturing Bruce hauled off in handcuffs.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “So you’ll tell the police?”

  “VeriSEAL works with the FBI,” he clarified.

  “I’m confused,” she admitted, recalling his title. “Are you military or civilian?”

  “I’m a reservist,” he clarified, “with SEAL Team 17.”

  “You’re a Navy SEAL?”<
br />
  “Part-time.” His dark eyes glinted at her astonishment, but there was no boasting, Libby noted. No recounting acts of heroism. His demeanour was humble, even modest.

  I should have come to VeriSEAL four months ago, she thought. “Go ahead. Investigate him,” she agreed, her heart heavy with bitterness. “I hope he goes to jail for lying,” she added thickly.

  “If he’s assumed a dead man’s identity then he might. A federal grand jury could indict him under Title 18,” Lawson assured her. “But if his name is really Bruce Kimball, and all he’s done is lie about being a Navy SEAL, there’s no law against that. I can list his name on the “Wall of Shame”. The college might dismiss him, but he won’t go to jail for lying.”

  Appalled, Libby placed her cup on the table. “How is it not against the law to impersonate a Navy SEAL?”

  “Talk is just talk,” he explained. “Unless you’ve forged military documents, display medals or insignia in public, you can lie all you want. And even those crimes carry just a six-month sentence.” He sent her an apologetic grimace. Obviously the limits of the law did not please him.

  “So, what do I do?” she asked, reeling. “How do I talk to him, knowing he’s lied to me?”

  His expression sobered as his gaze rested on her. “You’re better off pretending we never had this conversation,” he told her gravely.

  She gave an incredulous laugh. “What?” How could she possibly treat Bruce the same, knowing everything he’d ever said had been a lie?

  “Elizabeth—” The sound of her first name focused her thoughts abruptly. “May I call you Elizabeth?”

  The question made her sharply aware of herself as a woman, him as a man. “My friends call me Libby,” she admitted, as unexpected pleasure simmered inside her.

  “Libby.” His dark gaze enjoined her cooperation. “You need to know that posers sometimes react violently when they’re called on the carpet.”

  It was all too easy to envision Bruce blowing up at being called a liar. “So I pretend I don’t know,” she finished, breaking into a clammy sweat. “I don’t know if I can do this,” she added fearfully. “I’ve never been a good liar, Commander Lawson.”