“I doubt that,” he answered easily. “But if you’ll indulge a guy’s curiosity—why is that?”
“Three reasons: because I’m bound and determined to avoid this business, my dad and I barely get along, and I’m in love with a photographer named Wesley Elliott.” Sam tipped her glass, finishing her whisky. “I wish you luck making it through The Aeneid Lord knows you’re going to need it,” she teased, pushing herself up from the comfy chair. “Now if you’ll excuse me…”
“Have a good night, Samantha,” Travis murmured, standing. “Carpe noctem.”25
“Oh, I will,” she answered with a brazen smile.
Sam stole across the garden separating the main house from the guest cottage, too buzzed to care if she got caught. She knocked once on the door but didn’t hear an answer. Wondering if Wes was asleep already, Sam opened the door tentatively. When she heard no sounds in the cottage, she moved through the cozy sitting room, approaching the bedroom quietly.
Wes lay on his back, arms behind his head. He was still in his jeans, but he’d stripped off his shoes and his shirt. If he’d heard her, he didn’t indicate it, looking lost in thought, his eyes on the ceiling, watching the fan overhead make lazy rotations.
Sam knocked gently at the open door, startling him. Wes looked surprised to see her as she padded toward the bed. She sank down on the edge, feeling a little wobbly from the drink. He lifted a hand to slide it down the leg beside him. He squeezed the sensitive place over her knee with just enough pressure to turn her on, and Sam leaned in, kissing him.
Wes tasted like toothpaste and smelled like heaven, the scent from his warm skin intoxicating. He made her want to strip off her clothes and curl up right beside him. Sam smiled giddily, like she’d won a prize.
“You been hittin’ the sauce, Sammy?” he asked teasingly, tugging a little at her thick braid.
She flushed. “Uncle Grant’s truth serum.”
“You taste like good liquor, and you look a little naughty,” Wes told her with a slow grin. “Two of my favorite things.”
He pulled her in for another kiss, and Sam went willingly, reveling in the way he maneuvered her over him, the heat from his body shooting a little zing of exhilaration through her. Sam tugged at her sweater, struggling with the mechanics of the movement without breaking the kiss. She jerked her arm out of the sleeve too hard and nearly fell off the bed. Wes snatched her up just in time, laughing a little against her neck.
“Whoa there, nelly,” he teased. “How much have you had?”
Sam giggled, half in, half out of her thick-knit cardigan. “I might be slightly drunk.”
“Slightly?” Wes lifted a brow.
The room spun a little. “Okay, maybe more than slightly.”
“Come here, darlin’,” Wes murmured, bringing her down beside him on the bed. They lay there for a while, Sam waiting for the room to stop spinning while Wes stretched out beside her, stroking her arm.
“What were you thinking about when I came in?” she asked, tracing a finger along the bristles lining his jaw.
“Nothing much.”
Sam wasn’t sure if it was the inflection in his words or the half-second he stopped stroking her arm—but she knew he was holding back.
She raised herself up on her elbow. “I thought we didn’t lie to each other,” she mumured, running her finger over his lips.
Wes caught her hand and kissed it. He didn’t say anything for a moment, maybe thinking she’d forget. Sam nuzzled his cheek, his jaw, nipped his ear lobe.
“You can talk to me, you know. You can tell me anything,” she told him, mimicking his words from the morning.
Wes released a slow sigh. Closed his eyes. “It’s stupid.”
“What is?”
“What’s in my mind,” he admitted, looking troubled. “I know it’s stupid, but I’m letting it get to me.”
“What’s getting to you?” she asked, having a hard time tracking the conversation, owing to the alcohol and the relaxation stealing over her body.
Wes sighed again, clearly reticent. “Just something Travis said.”
Sam looked at him in askance.
“At dinner, he said we were on divergent paths,” Wes reminded her.
Sam looked at him, puzzled. “What do you care what he thinks?”
“He’s not wrong,” Wes pointed out.
“Doesn’t make him right either. What does he know about it?” she replied, snuggling into him. When Wes said nothing, Sam kissed his shoulder. “I can’t believe I’m going to say this to you of all people, but you’re worrying too much, Wes.”
“Am I?” he murmured into the darkness after a long pause.
Sam closed her eyes, fighting sleep.
“Am I, Sammy?” he asked again.
“You’re worrying over nothing, Wes.” She wrapped an arm around his waist, marveling in how good he felt, how right.
“I don’t think I am, Sammy,” he murmured, holding her close. “I look at a guy like Travis, and I can’t help but think he’s just trying to get my goat. But he’s not all wrong, is he?”
“Why are you letting some little thing he said get you all worked up, baby?” she asked, feeling the pleasure of her buzz wilt toward fatigue. The weight of the day started to take its toll, and Wes’s frame of mind wasn’t helping.
Wes must have seen it in her face, because he wrapped an arm around her as he kissed her. “I’m sorry. I told you it’s stupid.”
“He’s just trying to curry a little favor is all,” Sam murmured on a yawn. “No harm, no foul.”
Wes returned her gaze with a look of amused disbelief. “Your dad’s boy thinks he’s got a chance with you, Sammy. He wants what’s mine.”
“I barely know him.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Wes countered. “We know what we want the moment we see it.”
“Well, you don’t have to worry,” she assured him. “I’m with you.” She yawned widely, fighting to stay awake. “It’s been kind of an emotional rollercoaster the past twenty-four hours,” she admitted. “I know I came in here going strong, but can you do me a favor and just hold me for a little bit?”
“I’ll hold you all you want, Sammy,” Wes whispered into her hair.
“Just don’t let go, okay?” Sam asked, closing her eyes as the room spun a little bit. “Just don’t let go.”
*
October—Early Sunday Morning
Wyatt Ranch, Texas
W E S L E Y
Wes stayed awake long after Sam had fallen asleep in his arms. He released her braid and stroked her hair loose, careful not to wake her as he continued to think about the future. He thought about the patient, almost insightful, look in Travis’s eye as he watched Sam during dinner, surreptitious enough not to be noticed, except by him.
Wes didn’t like him one iota. Maybe because he recognized a guy like Travis was everything he was not. And in his heart of hearts, Wes knew that Travis was exactly the kind of guy Sam should probably be with. Calm and collected, vetted and approved of—an almost certain part of her future—and clearly part of Robert Wyatt’s plans.
Robert may have been a polite host for the duration of Wes’s visit, but he could see Robert’s assessment of him clear as day. He didn’t think Wes had staying power, so his hospitality was merely conciliatory, like tolerating a necessary evil, maybe even finding a little amusement in it, just to pass the time.
Wes held Samantha for a long time, listening to the nighttime lullaby of crickets and katydids outside, trying hard not to dwell too hard on his dilemma. Because every time Wes imagined it, all he could see was his future blended into the background of Sam’s certain meteoric rise. And the very man he was struggling to become, faded into obscurity behind the blaze of her incandescence. Whatever Sam chose to do, she’d be a certain star. And whomever she chose to be with while she rose to glory would need to have the self-possession and equanimity to handle that eventuality.
“I love you, Sammy,” Wes whispered into t
he darkness, though he just wasn’t sure which one of them he was trying to convince that the love they shared was enough…
Chapter 32
October—Wednesday Morning
Criminal Psychology Lecture, Texas A&M
S A M A N T H A
Professor Hammond’s class seemed to drag on mid-week—unusual, considering how interesting Sam typically found it. But everything was feeling a little less bright, a little less engaging, since she’d returned from the ranch over the weekend, and Wes had all but disappeared.
Sam wasn’t the cloying, needy type—not by a long shot—so she’d tried to overlook it, but it had been nearly three days since she’d seen or heard from him beyond a couple of hasty calls and quick emails citing work or class or the article he was working on with Miranda. Sam fought to ignore the nagging worry lodged in the back of her mind, worry that something was wrong in their still-budding paradise, and she began to question whether bringing Wes home with her had been too bold a move too soon in their fledgling relationship.
“You okay?” Chris asked after class as she was shoving her book and notes into her bag, distracted.
“I think so,” she answered, not at all sure if she was lying to him or pretending for herself.
Chris paused, considering her.
Sam sighed, recognizing the jig was up without him having to say anything. “I haven’t seen Wes in almost three days. That’s all.”
“You haven’t?” Chris replied, clearly surprised.
“He said he had to work and get caught up on a couple photography projects when we got back Sunday.”
Chris’s brow creased as he slung his bag over his shoulder.
Sam’s heart skipped a beat. “That’s not what’s happening, is it?”
“Uh…” Chris made a show of looking at his watch. “I’m running late for my next class.”
“Jesus, Chris. You can’t lie for a damn,” Sam huffed, cheeks reddening as she slid out of her desk chair. “If there’s something going on that you think I should be aware of—I’d rather hear it from you.”
“I just wasn’t sure is all,” Chris replied, backpedalling. “I haven’t seen him much either over the past few days.”
“Then why did you ask if I’m okay?” Sam responded.
“Ms. Wyatt, a word?” Professor Hammond asked as she and Chris filed past the podium, heading for the door.
Chris glanced back at the professor, visibly relieved.
“I’ll catch up with you later,” Sam told him with a pointed look.
Chris nodded, leaving class at a fast clip. Professor Hammond waited patiently at the front of the class, organizing her lecture notes into a polished leather portfolio as Sam approached.
“Professor Hammond, great lecture today,” Sam lied, switching gears from vaguely anxious girlfriend to serious student. She couldn’t really recall much from the lecture, as distracted as she’d been. But she wasn’t about to admit that.
“Thank you.” Her teacher smiled briefly. “Have you gotten around to the Reid manual I gave you?”
Sam nodded. “I’m almost done. I was actually thinking of using it as the main reference for the next paper, identifying people suffering from malignant narcissism.” She smiled grimly. “I think I know a few people who’d fit that profile pretty accurately,” she said, thinking of Alejandro.
Professor Hammond smiled. “Don’t we all?”
“Yeah, well, I have to admit that it’s pretty interesting,” Sam went on. “I didn’t know much about criminal behavior profiling or archetypes before this class. It’s been eye-opening. I was actually going to schedule an appointment with you as soon as I was done with the book.”
Her teacher nodded. “Good to know you’re getting something useful out of it. I’ve done a little fact-finding since we last spoke, Ms. Wyatt, and I hear you’re pretty serious about enlisting as an officer when you graduate,” she commented, crossing her arms as she leaned against her desk.
“That’s right,” Sam confirmed with a nod.
“Assuming you graduate with honors, you’d have the unusual and enviable position of pursuing a specialty almost immediately, would you not?”
“I believe so.” Sam tucked her hair back. “I mean, I certainly hope so.” To her mind, that was the point of all this intense training—being good enough to pick and choose where she wanted to be an officer candidate.
“And have you given any more thought to my suggestion of considering a double major in linguistics and behavioral psychology?”
“I have.” Samantha nodded. “I’m seriously considering it, depending on how I do in this class.”
“You’re one of my top students, Ms. Wyatt,” Professor Hammond told her frankly. “And since you find the topic of criminology interesting, I wanted to discuss your final paper, due in December, since it’s worth a third of your grade.”
“It’s a little early to discuss that, isn’t it?” Sam asked. “I have some time before we get there, don’t I?”
“Technically, yes, though logistically, no,” Hammond responded. “I’d like to suggest that you write your paper on the work they’re doing at the Kennedy Irregular Warfare Center in Houston.”
“Ma’am?” Sam asked in confusion. She could have sworn the syllabus said the final term paper would be open topic. Why was Hammond assigning her a topic now and in October?
“You’ve never heard of it, have you?” Hammond asked her, crossing her arms.
Sam shook her head.
“It’s the United States Navy’s preeminent center for warfare-centric intelligence. They support the Navy, the Department of Defense, and Naval Special Warfare groups.”
Sam’s mind rushed to connect the dots. “Like the Navy SEALs?”
“The SEALs can be the instruments used to carry out the recommendations and decisions made at the Kennedy Center,” Hammond confirmed. “This program is actually very unique. The Center is host to a combination of military and civilian intelligence specialists. They have far more than mere analytical capabilities—they can be deployed to support missions and expeditions that require a certain level of sophisticated specialization.”
“Like what?”
“That’s what I’d like you to research and find out.” Professor Hammond cocked her head. “Specifically, I’d like you to outline how a person with demonstrated skills in linguistics and an avid interest in behavioral and criminal psychology could benefit and be benefited by this program.”
Sam wondered briefly if her father had something to do with this recommendation.
“How do you know about this?” she asked cautiously.
“I know someone who works there.” Hammond smiled briefly. “My husband, actually. I can ask him to make himself available for an interview with you,” Hammond told her. “Thus the reason why I’m bringing this up in October.” She shrugged. “I never know when he’ll be stateside or out on mission.”
“Married to a Navy man?” Sam asked in surprise.
“Fifteen years,” she answered with a smile. “I’m a sucker for a man in a uniform.”
“No, I get it,” Sam returned with a grin. “But I think you should know that I’m actually thinking of joining the Army when I graduate.”
“And perhaps you will, Ms. Wyatt,” Hammond responded with a shrug. “But you don’t have to decide that today. I’m asking you to consider using this research to help expand your knowledge base as well as to think of how you can best integrate your intellectual interests with your natural proclivity for truth seeking. How you choose to implement that in the future will be up to you, naturally.”
Sam thought about it for a split second before reaching into her messenger bag for her notebook. She snapped it open it and clicked open her ballpoint pen. “May I have your husband’s contact information?” she asked, back to business. “I’ll reach out to him this week about setting up a time.”
Hammond smiled. “I thought you might say that.”
*
October—Wednesday Afternoon
Language Lab, Texas A&M
S A M A N T H A
A few hours later Samantha sat in language lab, far too distracted by her conversation with Professor Hammond and Chris’s slip-up about Wes’s disappearance to pay attention to the rapid fire dialogue.
On the one hand, Sam was excited and intrigued by the idea of talking with Professor Hammond’s husband about his work with the Kennedy Center. On the other hand, she wanted to put Chris into a headlock until he told her what the hell was going on with Wes—and Sam completely missed the conversation she was trying to translate—again. Sighing, she pressed the stop button and tried to figure out how far back to go as she hit the replay a few times, perhaps a little harder than absolutely necessary.
“You break it, you buy it,” Miranda drawled as she sat down in the empty seat next to Sam.
Sam pulled off her headphones, sending Miranda a tired smile. “At this rate, I probably should, so I can just take the whole damn thing home with me and try to translate it, because I’m absolutely no good trying to do it right now,” she admitted.
“I know what you need,” Miranda told her with a knowing look.
“A Xanax?”
“A coffee!” Miranda replied, smacking her leg. “Which is basically the same thing for students the world over. Come on—I’m buying!” she offered cheerfully. “I just finished my translations, and we could both use a break.”
Sam followed her outside to their beloved and much-frequented coffee cart, blessedly free of the usual line. Miranda ordered sizable lattes for the two of them, looking like her usual glamazon self in sky-high espadrilles and hot pink shorts. Sam swiped a hand over her messy ponytail, wishing she looked a little less like the tomboy she was.
“You look tired, honey. What’s going on?” Miranda asked, doctoring her drink with a bit of sugar.
“Name it. That’s what’s going on,” Sam replied, rubbing her brow as she took a deep drink. “Class is a bear with midterms coming up, and the Ranger Challenge is this weekend.” She didn’t mention Wes. “I feel like I’ve been playing catch up ever since I got back in town Sunday night.
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