Breaking Through (Book 2 of the SEAL TEAM Heartbreakers)

by Reasor, Teresa

  “Yeah. I’ll finish up on a public speaking gig about three. Can we meet somewhere private afterwards?” he asked.

  Where could she take him? Her apartment? Did she feel comfortable taking him there?

  Did she trust herself taking him there?

  What was she, a teenager? He was a source to a story big enough to put her name on the journalism map. She was an adult and a professional. She could meet with a man for an interview without jumping his bones.

  But most of the men she met didn’t affect her in the ways Brett Weaver did. Grow up, Tess. It’s your job.

  “My apartment around three-thirty.” She said in her best professional tone and gave him the address.

  “I’ll be there. Thanks.” He disconnected.

  She ran her hand over her forehead, pushing back the bangs feathering her brows. She’d have time to double-check the facts she’d learned so she could share them with him. And while at the apartment, they could start on the interview she needed to do for the paper.

  The key to dealing with Brett Weaver was to keep everything professional. She’d never dated any of the men she’d interviewed. She didn’t intend to break that rule with Brett Weaver.

  ***

  “Can I have your autograph, Ensign Weaver?”

  Of all the things he’d been asked, that was one Brett had never heard before. He’d never expected to be a keynote speaker at a political luncheon, either. The guests had asked a hundred questions at least. They’d exhausted the subject of Iraq, Afghanistan, and all portions of the war on terrorists. He’d dodged at least a thousand political hot potatoes lobbed at him. Thank you, Jesus and Master Chief O’Hara, who’d prepped him for the gig.

  And now this. He stared at the teenage girl’s face taking in her Cupid’s bow mouth and heavy eye shadow. “I’m not a rock star or any kind of celebrity, miss.”

  “You’re a SEAL. And that’s a whole lot more.”

  The way she said more flashed embarrassed heat into his cheeks. Jesus, she was just a kid. To move her along quickly, he took the small notebook the girl thrust at him and signed his name, purposely scribbling a bit.

  “My name’s Candy.”

  Of course it was. Her beaming smile of thanks made him glad he’d signed the paper, even as an uneasy tightness cuffed the back of his neck.

  He shook hands, and attempted to respond appropriately to the women’s greetings and their breathless words of thanks. For the most part the men in attendance hung back and offered nods. Which suited him fine. Sometimes there were assholes determined to prove to their wives or girlfriends they were just as tough as he was, and it never ended well—for them. He certainly didn’t need any bad press generated by an incident. Especially not now.

  Fifteen minutes later, he said his last good-bye and headed outside to collect his car. He handed the claim ticket he’d been issued to a young teenager there and the valet took off.

  One of the young men working at the valet station approached him. “Are you Ensign Weaver?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  The man removed an envelope from his shirt pocket and handed it to him.

  Brett recognized the name Candy, but not the address and phone number written across the envelope. The handwriting swirled with dips and curls. Brett tucked his bonnet beneath his arm and tore the end of the envelope open. A tiny scrap of fabric fell out onto the ground, and he scooped it up. He raised the stretchy scrap, a petite pair of thong panties.

  The man who’d handed him the envelope grinned. “It certainly doesn’t suck to be you, sir.”

  Heat crept into Brett’s face again. Jeez, what had that kid been thinking? Shaking his head, he stuffed the paper and panties into his pocket. Wonder what her parents would think if he mailed the panties back with a thanks, but no thanks?

  The valet pulled up in his car and he exchanged places with him behind the steering wheel. He set his bonnet on the seat beside him, and fastened his seat belt. The guy with the envelope was still grinning as he pulled away.

  CHAPTER 14

  What did it say about him that he was sitting in a reporter’s apartment instead of turning to his teammates for answers to this problem?

  Brett tracked the sway of Tess’s hips and the way she placed one foot in front of the other like a model on a runway. Just watching her as she walked from the minuscule kitchen to the living room was enough to make him hard.

  The apartment was smaller than his, though he knew she came from a wealthy family. While the furniture was expensive and tasteful, there wasn’t much of it. The observations tweaked a momentary curiosity, until she came into the living room with two glasses of tea.

  She should have been a model. She wasn’t as tall as some, but she naturally had the kind of willowy figure most women had to work hard to achieve. Her movements had a grace that captured his attention. The silky camisole thing she was wearing bared her shoulders and arms. Though her skirt nearly reached her knees, her calves and ankles were an instant distraction.

  “My father will be here tomorrow,” she said as she set the glass on a coaster on the coffee table in front of him. “He wants to meet with you. And I have some information I thought you’d want to know.” She sat down in the chair across from him, took a sip of her tea, then set the drink aside.

  “What information?” Brett asked.

  Tess leaned forward, her expression intent. “There are three senators determined to cut military funding. Rob Welch, Frank Skidmore, and Eli Drummond. Welch is the ringleader, but the other two are following hot on his political heels. All three come from states with only a few military bases and a small population of enlisted personnel. Who wouldn’t guess that?”

  She laced her fingers together. “From what I’ve been able to discover, only one of them has access to military intelligence. And he has just filled a position on an arms committee.”

  “Rob Welch,” Brett guessed. He’d heard things about the man from some of the other Special Ops guys, and learned more from articles he’d read in the last couple of months.

  “This is just speculation at this point, but three suspicious situations cropping up around the same SEAL team in a matter of months is just too good an opportunity for him to pass up. If he puts pressure on the right people, the situation could prove problematic for your unit and the whole Naval Special Warfare Group. The events, if they’re played just right in the press, and before Congress, could significantly dig into the group’s funding as well.”

  His injury in Iraq had triggered all of this. There had been too many inconsistencies in the reports. He’d read them all. Doc had seen him going back into the building after the charges had been set. Why would he set charges, and then go back in. Who had hit him?

  If one of the terrorists had bashed him, they’d have raised the alarm and the rest would have bugged out. That was the anomaly that led NCIS back to the six of them.

  And it led NCIS to the missing Iraqi boy. It gave the person who’d attacked him motive.

  Had Derrick really done something to the kid?

  I wouldn’t have let him.

  But what if he’d been too late to stop him?

  The thought had his gut roiling. Tess’s voice barely pierced the panicked sound of his heartbeat filling his ears.

  “If we had access to his corporate or private bank accounts, we might find a money trail, but it’s doubtful. From what I’ve read he seems pretty cagey,” she said.

  “We have to find the boy, Tess.” He fought hard to keep his voice even. “Once we find the boy, part of the house of cards will collapse.”

  “But first we’ll have to make it worthwhile for the military to find him. That’s where my father will come in. He has strong contacts in Iraq. He’s been covering things over there since Saddam was in power. He’s going to go at the story about the missing boy from the Iraqi citizens’ point of view. Build up sympathy for the families and lay it on the military to see that their children are found. With the satellite capabilities
we have now, we might be able to search for and find the training camps.”

  She was so idealistic. “We find them all the time. As soon as we knock out one, they rebuild somewhere else and take up shop again. There’s no guarantee the kid hasn’t been killed in a bombing raid.” Unable to sit still any longer, he rose and moved to the one large window in the room.

  His heart pumped like a piston. The guys with them would have reported it if something happened, even if they couldn’t file the report until they reached base. They’d have said something on the radio. He had to believe that.

  ***

  Brett’s silence, the way he stood looking out the window yanked Tess to her feet. She ached to offer him some kind of comfort. She saw herself going to him, sliding her arms around him from behind, and pressing close against his back. But she couldn’t. She had to maintain her professional distance. He was just a source. Maybe if she said it enough she’d begin to believe it.

  She was getting too close to him, beginning to care. But how could she not?

  “Dr. Stewart released me for duty.” His voice sounded hoarse and he cleared his throat.

  The words gave her a jolt. He’d just recovered from a head injury and he was going back? Though concern snagged her heart and gave it a squeeze, she forced enthusiasm into her tone and expression. “That’s wonderful, Brett.”

  “My CO won’t send me back to my team until all this is squared away.”

  Shit. His life had been put on hold for months because of his injury. For someone so driven, so focused, it would be hell.

  “I could be in—” He paused and his jaw worked. She studied the look of concentration on his face. His lips moved though he remained silent. “Lim—limbo for months.” His expression of relief was followed by frustration.

  Sunlight lanced off the scar on his temple. The reason behind the hesitation in his speech suddenly struck her like a blow. An ache settled in her chest, and quick tears burned her eyes.

  He’d stood up there on stage in front of two hundred women. Knowing his speech might freeze up. Knowing he’d feel humiliated if it did. The courage it must have taken.

  And how hard had he worked in the past two months to get this far? Probably harder than she’d ever worked at anything in her life.

  “Doc Stewart thought being back with my team might smooth things out for me. I convinced him of it. And now I’m stuck.” He thrust his hands out, palms up.

  “Whose idea was it for you to do the public relations thing, Brett?” she asked.

  Confusion flickered across his face. “My CO’s.”

  That asshole. Outrage tumbled through her.

  The need to touch Brett, to offer him comfort, rose like a tide. She raised a hand to his cheek. The warmth of his skin seeped into her fingertips. His pale blue gaze focused on her.

  “You’re going to get through this, just as you have everything else.” If it was humanly possible, he would. But what if he didn’t?

  His muscular bulk, the strength of his personality, and the focus he projected, made her more aware of his vulnerability than she’d ever been of anyone’s. She rose on tiptoe to slide her arms around his neck and hold him.

  His arms went around her and he stepped into the embrace, bringing their bodies close. His heart beat against her hard and fast. Too hard. Too fast. And his skin felt feverish.

  She caressed the back of his neck soothing him. “We’re going to find the kid. I know we will.” She rested her cheek against his and breathed in the clean scent of soap and man.

  The longer she held him, the more she relived those moments when they’d danced, but the memory was a sad substitute. Her breasts ached with the need to be touched. The row of bars and medals on his uniform pressed into her, stiff, unyielding. She shifted, and his arms tightened. The thrust of his erection lay like a tormenting promise against her belly. Oh God, if she raised herself on tiptoe, it would be so close.

  “Brett … ” her voice came out breathy and weak. She drew back to look up at him, and his mouth was there, covering hers, his arm tightening around her even while his hand ran down over her buttocks to mold her against him. Responding to the open hunger he exhibited, her heart thundered against her ribs. Her mouth parted, offering him access, and his tongue thrust forward to find hers.

  I have to stop this. I have to. The kiss went on and on. Oh God, have I ever been kissed like this? He cupped her breast and ran his thumb over the erect nipple that pushed against the fabric of her blouse. Her will wavered, and she leaned into his touch, encouraging him. And when his mouth left hers to follow the line of her cheek and jaw to her throat, all she could do was drag in enough air for a sigh instead of the words she needed to say.

  The stiff ribbons on his shirt snagged the neckline of her blouse. Brett hastened to unbutton his shirt one handed, and then dragged it free of his pants, shaking free of it and peeling his t-shirt over his head.

  Wasn’t that what she’d wanted? Yes.

  Her breathing grew choppy at all the golden-hued skin laid open to her view, her touch. And as his lips took hers again, she stroked her palms over the patch of light brown hair on his chest, then over his wide shoulders layered with muscle.

  She wanted—more. She wanted him inside her, moving.

  His hand trailed upward beneath her shirt and found her bare breast. He seemed to know just how to touch her, how much pressure to exert as he kneaded and caressed her.

  “I want your legs around me, Tess.” His voice sounded deeper, huskier.

  She wanted them there too, but—Her father’s accusation, ‘Are you sleeping with this guy?’ rose up to slap her out of her sensual haze. If she did this, he’d know. He already thought so little of her as a journalist … “We can’t—I can’t—”

  Brett nibbled at the sensitive area between her shoulder and neck. She shivered and caught her breath. His heart was thundering again, but so was hers.

  Tears stung her eyes. “I can’t, Brett.”

  He froze, and for a moment continued just to cradle her breast in his hand. The warmth of his touch seeped into her flesh, and it took all her self-control not to move against it in response. His breath was hot against her shoulder, and her nerves seemed to quiver beneath that, too. She’d never been so aroused in her life.

  He withdrew his touch, but continued to hold her. When he drew back, his cheeks were flushed and his pale eyes looked dark. The open expression of desire in his gaze triggered a rush of heat to her cheeks.

  “I need to cool down a minute,” he said. He scooped up his shirt and disappeared down the hallway to her bathroom. A few seconds later she heard water running.

  Tess clenched her hands and pressed them hard against her cheeks. “Damn it.” This couldn’t happen again. And why the hell did she feel like crying? This was what she wanted.

  She’d apologize to him. She stepped toward the hallway and her foot kicked something soft ahead of her. Was that a ponytail scrunchy? She bent and picked it up. The soft fabric spread out as she hooked her fingers in the elastic. A pair of black thongs spread damningly between her hands. What the— Shock hammered her heart. Color once again surged into her face hot on the heels of the anger that sang in her ears.

  The whole time he’d been kissing her he’d had a trophy from some other woman, where? In his pocket? A sound, half screech, half growl thrust up into her throat, but she choked it back.

  Apologize hell.

  She was going to kill him.

  CHAPTER 15

  Jesus! His heart hammered, his face felt hot, and his dick pushed painfully hard against the zipper of his pants. Just touching her had almost been enough. If she’d even attempted to touch him, he’d have embarrassed himself. He’d never been this worked up over a woman.

  Eleven months was too long. And then to have Tess kiss him, hold him like she was as hungry for him as he was for her. Oh, man. But why had she called a halt to things?

  Brett splashed water on his face and slapped a wet washcloth to the
back of his neck. He understood the professional distance she was trying to keep. It would probably be smart for him to maintain one, too. But as far as he was concerned, it was too late for that now.

  He had to calm down so they could have a reasonable discussion about this, about them. He wiped his face with the washcloth, then set it aside. Disappointment thrummed through him as he buttoned his shirt and straightened his uniform. At least he presented an outward impression of calm and control. He dragged in several deep breaths before he opened the bathroom door and stepped out into the hall.

  Something whizzed at him and hit him in the eye. It stung like hell. “What the—” He slapped one palm over his eye and snagged the object as it fell with the other hand. He stared at the thing one-eyed taking in the color and texture of the fabric. Recognition struck him. “Oh, shit.”

  “Damn you.” Tess stomped toward him. “How dare you come in here and kiss me like—like—”

  For once he wasn’t the one looking for the right word. “Like I’ve been wandering in the desert for eleven months without a canteen and you were my first drink of water?”

  Her lips moved, but no sound emerged as she mulled that over. “But I wasn’t, was I? Otherwise you wouldn’t be running around with a thong in your pocket.” She stabbed a finger at the panties.

  Was she jealous? He studied her expression. Oh yeah. He fought off the urge to smile. “Yes, you are, and I can explain.”

  She propped her hands on her hips. “Oh, I’m sure you can.” Her eyes narrowed.

  He withdrew the envelope from his pocket. “This is what they came in. I had a speaking engagement at Giorgio’s before I came here. A valet at the restaurant handed them to me when I went out to get the car.”

  “You’re obviously interested in the woman who left them for you. You kept them.” Tess folded her arms against her waist. “Not that it’s any of my business.”

  “No, I’m not interested in her. She’s just a kid. Sixteen, seventeen at the most. I’m not a pervert. I prefer adult women.” He approached her, caution in every step. Petty Officer Langley Marks said women were like landmines. You step on their feelings, and they’ll go off. Lang was almost always right. “Call the restaurant. Ask to speak to the skinny kid with the diamond in his ear. He’s the one who handed me the envelope.”