Breaking Through (Book 2 of the SEAL TEAM Heartbreakers)

by Reasor, Teresa

  “She was one of my nurses in the hospital.”

  “Oh.” The resentment she’d fed to help hold her attraction at bay dissolved. Shit.

  Chief Petty Officer Langley Marks and his wife Trish glided by in perfect rhythm. Brett set aside the soft drink, rose, and extended a hand. “Come dance with me.”

  Thus far she’d managed to keep a distance between them with a running barrage of questions. He’d answered every one. But it seemed that was at an end.

  She was supposed to be his date but … No, it would be okay. She was in control, as always. Besides, she wasn’t interested in getting involved with a man who would be as absent from her life as her father had been. She needed someone who would be there every day when she got home from work. Someone she could depend on when emergencies arose. Someone dependable in every way a dependable man was supposed to be.

  The moment she placed her hand in his, her breathing grew unsteady. He tugged her to her feet and into his arms with an ease that had her breath catching altogether. At five foot five and a hundred and twenty pounds, she’d thought herself sturdy, but held against Brett’s six-foot frame with his broad shoulders and chest stretched before her, she felt delicate.

  His hand splayed against her back, but he didn’t pull her in too close. He guided her just near enough for their bodies to brush as he led her into a slow, swaying rhythm, part seduction, part torture.

  She couldn’t have sex with him. He was a source.

  He was in trouble, but every time she looked into his baby blues, she just couldn’t believe him capable of cold-blooded murder.

  And the more she got to know him, the more she was drawn to him.

  But could she trust her instincts?

  She gnawed her lower lip.

  “Relax, I don’t bite,” he said, resting his cheek against her hair.

  “It isn’t that. I’m more at ease in the professional realm than I am the personal one.” Oh, shit. Did I just admit that?

  Dancing with this man was personal. She was sharing her space with him. But it didn’t feel like an invasion for him to hold her. It felt—amazing. She wanted to lean into him. He smelled like laundry soap and grill smoke, blended with the light fragrance of cologne and the underlying scent of him.

  The pressure of his hand guided her closer, and she had no choice but to relax when every muscle turned to liquid. A rush of need set afire every nerve. Her hand slid from his shoulder to rest against his chest, the muscle there evident beneath her touch. “This isn’t a good idea.” Her voice came out just above a whisper.

  “We’re just dancing. What’s not good about it?” His husky voice wreaked havoc on the aching heat growing between her thighs.

  What could she say when every inch of her was alive to every move he made? Had they been alone, she’d have been tempted to hook a knee around his hip and press against the growing bulge that brushed against her belly.

  Oliver Shaker spoke before either of them was aware of his approach. “Call me if you need anything, Cutter.” The baby lay nestled against his shoulder asleep, her little form so relaxed her limbs looked boneless.

  “Thanks, Greenback,” Brett said.

  “Good night,” Selena offered, her soft voice almost carried away by the stiffening breeze.

  Though Brett continued to hold Tess for several moments, the interruption had broken the spell. She pulled away and slumped back into her chair, feeling like a teenager caught necking in the back seat of a car.

  This was the first time she’d gotten so twisted up over a man that she actually wanted to throw caution to the wind. Brett Weaver was dangerous.

  CHAPTER 12

  Yasin al-Yussuf scanned the dusty streets. Every business they passed needed repairs, their facades pockmarked by shrapnel, bullets, or age. Every home lay behind short garden walls. What little privacy the walls provided, they didn’t block the sight of peeling window facings, broken glass, and dilapidated roofs. His driver, Aban, sped through the poor neighborhood with little regard for the people walking along the roads. The rule stated, the faster the vehicle moved, the harder it was to overtake. The man took the directive very seriously. The second rule was they never took the same route to Yasin’s home. Aban could be trusted to follow that one above all others.

  But the vehicle’s speed didn’t prevent Yasin from seeing the people’s struggle to overcome what war and terrorism had done to their neighborhoods, their lives. He had struggled to help his country rebuild. And what had he received in return? Betrayal from the very people he was working for. They viewed him as a traitor for dealing with the Americans, yet they wanted the money the Americans paid for services, and the opportunity to make more. It was not freedom they wanted, but money, and power for themselves and for their families.

  He ran a weary hand over his face. He had wanted to create a more stable homeland for his family. He’d wanted to fight al-Qaeda and rid his country of those who thrived on social unrest and tried to suppress their freedoms. It had been for his people he had worked so hard, but more for his son. And now Sanjay was gone. He studied the dismal landscape outside. It was growing harder to believe that what he did was worthwhile.

  His cell phone rang. He pushed the accept button and identified himself.

  “The bird has flown.” The caller disconnected.

  He did not recognize the gravelly voice speaking Kurdish on the other end of the phone, but he understood the message. He struggled to suppress the anguished cry that rose from deep in his chest. With this act, he had become one with the terrorists. Tabarek had made it through airport security and had boarded a flight for the United States. Now he had only to make it through Homeland Security when he landed in Los Angeles.

  When the SEALs who had transported his son home those many months ago were dead, he would know justice. But he would never know peace. Sanjay was dead. And he had become a murderer.

  ***

  Tess paced the floor of her apartment with the phone pressed to her ear. Through the living room into the kitchen, around the limited floor space of the bedroom, and back again.

  “Why do you think I’ll be interested in this story?” Ian, her father asked. The connection faded in and out as though he were on the move.

  “Because it has all the elements you love in a story. This has a wounded hero, falsely accused. A fifteen-year old boy who has disappeared. A government agency more interested in settling for the easiest answer than searching for truth. And it’s happening in Iraq where your contacts are strongest. And best of all, no one is going to scoop you on this, because no one else knows about it.”

  “And you’re giving the story to me because?”

  Was that suspicion she heard in his voice? Had he been burned recently and covered a story he couldn’t sell? She hadn’t seen his byline coming across the wire services as often. But sometimes it took time to cultivate leads and figure out the spin.

  “I can’t do the story myself. Being a woman in a Middle Eastern country trying to do a story like this would be impossible. I don’t have the international contacts you do. And as much as I’d like to say I was brave enough,” crazy enough, “to cover the story, despite bullets flying and bombs going off around me, I know I’m not cut out for that kind of journalism.”

  When his silence stretched long enough to be uncomfortable, she said, “Why don’t you fly in and meet Ensign Weaver? If you still aren’t interested, I’ll see who else might be.”

  “Are you sleeping with this guy?”

  Now an accusation. What was going on with him? “No, I’m not sleeping with him. He’s a SEAL. He’s gone nine months a year on training ops and deployed six months at a time. I’m not interested in an absentee lover.” She flinched. Was that not what her mother had said to him? For a moment, strident voices raised in argument battled in her head. They echoed inside the apartment. She closed her eyes and struggled to block the memories out.

  “You’re sounding more and more like your mother every time I speak
to you, Teresa. I hoped you could be your own adult rather than follow in her footsteps.”

  He always called her Teresa when he was about to make a point. And he’d made a valid one. What had happened between her parents those many moons ago was over. Had he not walked away from her as well, she might not still be feeling the sting of the divorce long after her parents had put the mess behind them.

  He drew a deep breath. “Why don’t you tell me why you’re so interested in this?”

  “I believe there’s someone high up pulling the strings to either make this international situation go away fast or milk it for all it’s worth. Whoever this Iraqi liaison is, he must be very important to the military, or someone else.”

  “Because?”

  “I don’t know yet. But there’s something more going on behind the scenes.”

  “I’ll never get the thing across an editor’s desk, Tess. And they won’t want your SEAL’s identity released. When their names are known it puts them and their families at risk. And makes them a target for every terrorist cell they’ve ever attacked. ”

  “You won’t have to release his name if you angle the story from the Iraqi point of view. Families have lost children to al-Qaeda and the Taliban. They indoctrinate those kids into their terrorist networks. And no one is looking for them.”

  “Your Special Ops friend believes this kid was kidnapped by al-Qaeda?”

  “Yes, he does. They’re using children in despicable ways. You know that better than I do. They’re turning them into terrorists whether they want to be or not. This is a human rights story.”

  Ian remained silent for a moment. When he spoke, there was resignation in his tone. Was he finally running down? Was the lifestyle he’d led all these years finally getting to him? “I’ll want to talk to this SEAL myself.”

  The very thing she’d asked for had come to fruition, but now dread hit her. If Ian came to San Diego, Brett would meet her father. Ian could be charming and resourceful, but he was single minded and relentless, and he’d bury Brett Weaver if he thought there was a story in it. She held the phone between her shoulder and her ear and rubbed her temples where a dull ache throbbed.

  “Do you want me to have him call you, or do you want to meet him face to face?”

  “Face to face, darlin’. I want to meet the man. I’ll fly out on Wednesday. I’ll call you with the details.”

  “All right.”

  Tess hung up the phone, but continued to stare at it for several moments. She hoped Brett Weaver knew what he was getting into.

  ***

  The thirty-eight foot deep sea fishing boat wallowed as a set of waves rolled beneath her. The sea was tinged battleship gray on the horizon, the early morning light dulled by a hint of a storm out to sea. Russell eyed Evan for signs of seasickness.

  Evan zipped his jacket, turned his face into the sharp pacific breeze, and smiled. “Relax, Dad. I’m fine. I have been on a boat before.”

  “I brought some Dramamine just in case,” Russell said, keeping his tone casual.

  “Your friend, Clark, seems pleased you’re on board,” Evan said.

  “He and I met about ten years ago when I chartered a larger vessel for a group of Naval medical staff. We had the idea that we would fish along the southern coast for a couple of days. Half were sick before we made it out of port and we had to turn around and drop them off.

  Evan laughed. “That didn’t include you.”

  “No. I usually reserve the right to puke my guts up during storms. As long as it doesn’t get any rougher than this, I’m good. We’ve been going out one or two days a year ever since. Monica is his private fishing vessel. He doesn’t charter it out.”

  They left the bay and the large inboard motor vibrated beneath their feet as the boat took on speed. Evan gripped the chrome bar that ran along the top of the starboard side of the vessel. Russell stepped in close in case he lost his balance.

  “If it gets too windy for you we can go below until we get to a place where the yellowtails are running,” he yelled close to Evan’s ear.

  Evan gave him a thumbs up signal and sat down on one of the low cushioned seats. He pulled his hood up and leaned into the bulkhead. He looked out across the choppy water.

  Russell fought off a wave of anxiety. Should something happen while they were miles from land—They could radio for a chopper. It would be okay. Evan had asked him to arrange the trip.

  Ten minutes later the boat slowed and Clark signaled him. “There’s a school of yellowtail off to port.”

  Russell handed Evan a pole already set with thirty-pound test line and a metal lead. Opening one of the built-in bait boxes, he grabbed a live squid and baited his hook. The fishy smell of the squid blended with oily smell of smoke from the idling inboard motor rumbling beneath their feet. “Throw it out and let out about fifty feet of line,” he instructed. He reached for his own pole.

  “How will I know if I’ve got anything?” Evan asked.

  “If a yellowtail hits the squid it’ll run the line and you’ll hear it.” He set up his own rig and took a seat to wait.

  “You remember when you took me fishing off the pier?” Evan asked.

  “Yeah, I do.” Evan’s face was partially blocked by the hood and he couldn’t read his expression. “You had to stand on a cooler to keep your pole over the railing.”

  “After the divorce I used to think about that a lot, Dad.”

  Russell swallowed against the pain. “Me, too.” The memory rose up to torment him. Evan’s small face had been pink and wind-chapped, and he’d just lost one of his front teeth. He’d insisted his hair be cut in a burr that summer so he could look like the Marine recruits he’d seen on post.

  “Did you know I was gay before I came out?” Evan asked. “You were the only one who didn’t freak out when I broke the news.”

  Evan had been so withdrawn, so solitary, it had been almost a relief to know what he’d been carrying so close. “No, I didn’t know. I’d worried that you were depressed, or worse, but you wouldn’t talk to me. And then when you told me, I was relieved you’d finally shared what you were hiding.”

  Evan remained silent for a beat, then another.

  Was he hiding something now? Was it something about his condition, or something else? And why the hell hadn’t Gloria called?

  When Evan looked up and turned to speak, Russell tensed.

  Evan’s pole jerked in his hand and the reel spun with a high-pitched zipping noise.

  “Raise the tip of your rod, Evan. Keep it up and pull it in toward you,” Russell said. He jammed his pole in the socket and stood.

  Evan leaned back as he gripped the pole with both hands and the tip of the rod bent.

  “You have to keep the pressure on or he’ll slip the hook. That’s it.”

  Watching him fight the fish for five minutes, then ten, the urge to help him was almost overwhelming. “You’re wearing him out, Evan,” he said instead.

  When the struggle stretched into fifteen minutes, Evan’s arms shook and his breathing grew ragged. The words ‘do you need me’ hung on the tip of Russell’s tongue just begging to jump off.

  The large fish surfaced and Russell grabbed the grappling hook. “One more pull and he’ll be up close to the boat, Evan.”

  He swung the hook and it pierced the fish along the spine where the dorsal fin ran, and he lifted him on deck. “He’s at least twenty pounds.” The fish’s gills still heaved, his yellow triangle-shaped tail whipping as he still fought for freedom.

  “You’ve caught dinner, young fellow,” Clark said from the helm on the deck above them.

  “I did, didn’t I, Dad?” Evan’s chest heaved with every breath, and he was shaking with exhaustion, but a wide smile of pure joy curved his lips that showed every tooth.

  Had he ever seen him smile like that before? Russell’s eyes blurred with tears, and he bent to put the fish in the fish-box to keep it cool until they cleaned it. “You did a great job, son.”

  “He
almost kicked my butt, but I’ll get even when we eat him tonight.”

  Russell laughed despite the tears, and turning aside, wiped his face with his sleeve. He reached for his own pole to reel it in. The bait was gone, nibbled away while he’d focused on Evan.

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  Russell steeled himself and turned to face him. “For what?”

  “For not helping me. I know you wanted too. I need to know I can do thing for myself. I’ll let you know when I can’t, okay?”

  The tears threatened again and he breathed through them. “Okay.”

  He rebated his hook and threw out his line. “What were you going to tell me before the yellowtail took your line?”

  “It wasn’t important.” Evan smiled again. A full-fledged smile just like before.

  Though he sensed that wasn’t quite true, Russell let it go.

  ***

  This was crazy. One minute she was nauseous as hell and the next starved. Zoe dropped butter in the skillet, and it immediately sizzled and began to melt. She poured milk into the eggs and beat them.

  What was she going to do? She couldn’t continue to get up an hour before Hawk to eat crackers and fight off morning sickness. He was bound to notice sooner or later. She had to tell him. Would he really be okay with being a father?

  Hearing his light tread behind her, she glanced over her shoulder. His hair, still damp from his shower, moulded to his skull. His t-shirt clung to his broad chest, and his khaki shorts rode low on his hips. The sight of him never failed to make her heartbeat kick into overdrive and inspired a tangled rush of feelings she’d never known existed—until him.

  He’d be good with the news. Trish was right. She’d tell him while they ate. The tension that gripped her shoulders every time she thought about keeping the secret from him eased with the decision. “I’ll have omelets and toast done in a moment.”

  “Zoe, I need to talk to you.”

  “Me, too. There’s something I’ve been meaning to discuss with you.”