by Tawny Weber
But Savino must believe there was a chance that Lansky was right, or Diego wouldn’t be here.
And Savino was never wrong.
So Diego’s reluctance to believe they’d been fucked over by one of their own didn’t matter. He had his assignment. He might not be wearing his dog tags, but he was on duty. It didn’t matter if he was stationed in the baking heat of Afghanistan, diving to the icy depths of the Pacific or watching a sexy blonde from the window of a piece of prime US real estate. And like any other assignment, he wouldn’t walk away until his mission was complete.
He pushed himself to his feet. He skirted around the fancy furniture that had come with the sublet. He would be fine with a sleeping bag and a crate to sit on, but if he had to do recon sitting on a cushy chair, hey, he was a SEAL. Trained to handle any conditions.
Any conditions and any situation. The SEALs were trained to kick ass, to do the impossible and to cover one another’s butts, no matter what.
No matter what...
Fury, tangled and confused, pounded through his head. He’d spent his entire adult life in the service. He’d gotten off the streets and joined the Navy at eighteen with one goal. To survive. It’d been twelve years since boot camp, and he’d learned that there was more to life than just survival. Oh, survival was still tops on the list. Doing the impossible against all odds would be straight-up stupid otherwise. But he’d learned to excel. He’d grown out of his in-your-face, badass attitude and learned to take—and value—orders. And he’d embraced the concept of brotherhood. Of trusting in others, and knowing without a doubt that his team had his back.
He’d trusted that.
He’d believed in it.
He’d put his life on the line for it, without a moment’s hesitation.
And now he was supposed to believe that trust was for naught? That a SEAL would betray his own team?
Diego growled, his chest as tight as his fists. He wanted to beat something, smash it, pummel it to dust. Screw the security deposit. He grabbed the bedside lamp, his fingers gripping the thick metal base. Before he could swing, he heard a buzz. The red haze blurring his vision dimmed, and he heard it again. It took another second before he realized it was his cell phone.
A deep breath, then two, cleared the haze.
“Yeah,” he answered, still clutching the lamp.
“Miss me, Kitty Cat?”
Like a smack upside the head, the words knocked Diego right out of his crappy mood. Laughter trumped anger every time. Even if the laughter was coated in bitterness.
“That’s El Gato to you, MacGyver,” he shot back. “What’s your status?”
Let it be an opening. Anything that’d get him the hell out of suburbia and away from the temptation of the blonde.
“Still digging in the dark,” Lansky said, his tone a verbal shrug. “Make my job easier. Tell me you saw Ramsey. Tell me you’ve got something we can take to the NI team.”
“First off, you don’t know that Ramsey is alive. All of the intel points to him being ash. Second, don’t assume that he’s the traitor. Assumptions are half-assed work, unworthy of a SEAL.”
Diego let the silence roll over him. He didn’t need words to hear Lansky’s fury, his pain and frustration. Hell, all he had to do was check himself, since he was sporting all those feelings and more. But sloppy intel wasn’t going to get them off the hook with the Naval Criminal Investigation team.
“Have you got anything at all?” Lansky finally asked, his words tight. Diego heard the clink of glass against glass and grimaced. The guy wasn’t going to have a liver left if they didn’t get this put to bed soon.
“I’ve had eyes on Ramsey’s ex. So far, nothing suspicious.” A whole lot of interesting, sure. But nothing that played into their situation.
He remembered the kid’s offhand comment about the two guys who’d lived there. Andy and Matt? But since neither had been Ramsey, it didn’t play into the situation. But it did feed a few of Diego’s fantasies.
“Ramsey showing his face is a long shot. But Savino’s sure if he taps anyone, it’ll be her or his parents. Did you see my report about Ramsey’s old man being in prison? Just shows you what a liar the guy was, saying his family was rich and powerful.”
That report had been a kick in the face. Everything Ramsey had said about his fancy family had been true enough, but a lie.
Diego frowned.
“The guy is doing time for running a Ponzi scheme. Doesn’t negate that the family is rich and powerful. Especially since the feds tagged less than a tenth of what they thought he’d scammed.”
“Maybe.” Lansky hesitated. “Speaking of lies, fact or fiction? Is she as hot as Ramsey always said?”
“Ramsey’s mother?”
“His ex, dude. Was he lying about that, too? She’s a dog, right?”
“Truth be told, she’s even hotter than he said.”
Diego stepped over to the window, his brows rising when he saw Blondie through the window of what he’d determined was her bedroom. The light pooled around her for a moment before she pulled the curtains shut. But he could still see her shadow against the white fabric.
She made one hell of a silhouette thanks to a body that was freaking amazing. The kind of body that would take a man a week to show his appreciation for, then inspire him to start all over again.
He puffed out a breath. She was hot.
“And? Observation and opinion only. Is she dirty or not?”
Now that was a question worth exploring, and one that would likely keep him awake well into the night. But given that Lansky wasn’t scoping out the hot blonde, Diego knew the guy’s question referred to their mission and not her kink preferences.
“It’s hard to tell at this point,” Diego sidestepped. “She’s been in residence the entire time, with company and a kid for most of it.”
“So, what? You’re saying you’ve got nothing?”
Yes, dammit. His career, his team, his fucking brotherhood was in the crosshairs and he didn’t have a thing. And how was he supposed to find anything sitting here in suburban hell watching a hot blonde and her fancy house? He wasn’t built to wait, to watch. He wasn’t made for inaction. He clenched his fist. But orders were orders.
“I’m saying that I’m still doing recon, the target hasn’t been sighted and that I’ll notify you as soon as anything changes.” He didn’t add that his orders had been specific. He wasn’t there to haul the woman off and interrogate her.
The phone did nothing to disguise the sound of Lansky grinding his teeth.
“I’ll figure this out, man,” Diego said in the same tone he’d used when he’d promised Lansky that he wouldn’t leave him wounded behind enemy lines. Quiet assurance.
“I’ll keep working on the electronics,” Lansky said after a couple of seconds. His tone was much less assured, but Diego knew he’d come through. He had to.
Because, yeah...
Their careers were on the line.
Diego hit the off button and tossed his phone onto the bed, watching it sink in the mattress before turning his gaze back to the window.
The moonless sky was a pitch-black backdrop to the lighted window. The curtains hid her features, but couldn’t disguise the shape of the woman undressing in her bedroom. Diego could see the curve of her breasts as she stretched her arms over her head, the slenderness of her waist and the fullness of her ass as she bent down to touch her toes.
Diego shifted his weight from one foot to the other, proof of what he had stiff and hard between his legs. The tapping of his fist against the window frame grew harder with each beat. He was here to prove, one way or the other, Ramsey’s status. The man had been declared presumed dead by the Navy, but things weren’t adding up.
Lusting after Ramsey’s ex wasn’t a part of the mission. And while it m
ight not be sanctioned by the Navy—yet—Diego was on a mission. He was going to settle the issue of Ramsey’s life or death. Once he did, he could clear his team and his own reputation. And expose a traitor.
So no matter how it shook out, Ramsey’s ex was trouble.
Diego glanced back at the darkened window and grimaced.
But there was trouble, and then there was trouble. When a man spent most of his life in danger, he became an expert on recognizing it. On knowing how to use it, how to diffuse it, how to make it explode. And how to simply make it go away.
And his current mission was to figure out which kind of trouble Harper Maclean was.
And deal with it.
* * *
“WE NEED TO FIND you someone sexy. Maybe intense, but not prison break intense. Not that prison break can’t be sexy,” Andi mused. “I’d imagine it could be given the right guy.”
“You have issues. You might consider talking with a professional.”
Harper made the halfhearted suggestion with most of her attention focused on finding just the right shade of blue to complement the yellow color scheme in the Andersons’ atrium.
She was working with a design board, three-by-four-feet in size, which was framed in the same wood that would cover the floors. Instead of paper, it was covered in a muscat-toned plaster she planned to use on the wall, and sketches of the furnishings and various swatches. She used digital software when necessary, but preferred a variety of boards. The colors were truer, the textures and contrasts more visibly appealing.
And she liked to touch.
“What sort of professional are we talking about?” Andi asked, her joking tone coming through the speakerphone as clearly as if she’d been sitting right there in Harper’s office with a smirk on her face.
“I was thinking a health care one, but given your obsession with sex, maybe other options would be more helpful.”
Harper draped a cobalt length of satin over the board and stepped back a couple of feet. Head tilted to the side, she considered the impact of that strong blue against the butter-yellow leather designated for the couches, the rich walnut of the floors and the creamy biscuit hue that would be the cement planters.
Mrs. Anderson wanted the space for friendly luncheons, cozy teas and the occasional intimate dinner party. Why she couldn’t use the dining room was beyond Harper, but who was she to question the rich and snobby? Mr. Anderson wanted a place where he could sit down for some peace and quiet and read a damned book, to paraphrase his only request.
She thought she’d achieved that balance with the comfortably stuffed couches, the feminine, curved lines of the chairs and the oval stained glass table for those intimate meals.
“Speaking of sex,” Andi said, bringing the conversation back in a direction Harper was trying to avoid. “Let’s find you a date.”
“I thought I’d made it clear that I’m not in the market for a guy,” she murmured under her breath as she switched the cobalt-blue swatch for cornflower and stepped back again.
Hmm, personally she preferred the bolder cobalt, but she was pretty sure the client would go for the softer shade. With that in mind, she began pulling various swatches in the same shade from the cedar box where she stored her fabrics. Cotton, linen, brocade, silk.
“Fine. If you don’t want a man, I’ll find you a woman. What type do you like?”
“Exotic brunettes who prefer tequila to champagne, sing off-key and sneak chocolate to my kid,” Harper reeled off, paying more attention to the play of shantung against the leather than to the conversation. Man or woman, doing either wasn’t on her agenda. If it had been, Brandon’s abrupt reentry into her life was enough of a reminder of just what stupid looked like. Since she’d already been there, she didn’t see any reason to go again.
“Please. We both know I’m not your type.”
“I don’t have a type.” Unless handsome, smooth-talking men with more money than morals were a type. If that were the case, she’d definitely prefer to avoid her type.
“Everyone has a type.” Andi dismissed that so easily that Harper’s fingers clenched around the silk. Did that mean Brandon was the template for hers? Oh, Lord, what a thought.
“Do you really plan to go another eight years without sex?” Andi asked, the words dangling in the air as if she’d read Harper’s mind. “Or forever?”
“Don’t be silly.” Harper tried to laugh, but the sound stuck in her throat. Forever? Sure, her memories of sex were on the vague side, and definitely tinged by the results. And while she was perfectly capable of taking care of the basics herself, suddenly the idea of forever didn’t sound very appealing.
With her typical skill for sensing a weakness and pouncing, Andi added, “Are you going to let him win? Forever?”
Was she?
Harper dropped the fabric over the top of the board before she made a mess of the silk. Then, feeling a little sick to her stomach at the idea of Brandon still having that kind of control over her life, she sank into a chair and blew out a long breath.
“I’m only talking about hooking you up with a great guy for one date. It can be during the day—just meet for coffee,” Andi wheedled. “You’ll like the guy. Whichever one I pick out, I swear, he’ll be likable.”
“No. No, no, a million times no.”
She remembered last night’s reaction to her new neighbor. The hot, intense awareness. The instant flood of lust so overwhelming that she’d actually considered licking the man. Her dreams had been a cacophony of images, slick and sweaty and filled with pleasure-drenched moans. She’d actually welcomed the distraction those dreams offered because it had meant she wasn’t plagued with thoughts of Brandon. She’d been grateful not to be awake all night, worrying about Nathan being fatherless—again. And, yeah, she’d kind of liked all the sexy fun.
Now that she’d rediscovered her sex drive, was it going to live only in her imagination?
Because of Brandon?
Or because she was afraid?
Neither sat well.
“Okay,” she finally said with a sigh. “Maybe a dozen times no.”
“You’re willing to do it?”
“I’m willing to consider, someday, going out with a guy past the first date,” she hedged. “But I can get that date myself. I don’t need you or your professional contacts.”
“Oh, sure you’ll...”
Harper got to her feet with a soft laugh as Andi’s accusation trailed off.
“You have someone in mind. You’ve already picked a guy. Tell Andi everything,” her friend cajoled. “I need details. Who is he? What does he do? Where’d you see him, and have you made first contact?”
“I didn’t say there was a particular somebody.” As soon as she did, Andi would put her matchmaking into overdrive.
“There’s somebody.”
Harper tacked the cornflower shantung to the pillow outline before opening the box of notions and trims. Tassels would be too fussy, but maybe fringe? Something with a subtle crocheted edge.
“It can’t be anyone you work with. There’s nobody new. Besides, most of those men are gay. Your clients are married—that rules them all out.” Andi continued her guessing, hitting everyone from the checker at the grocery store to the camp director Harper had met the previous day.
It wasn’t until she almost giggled—giggled, for crying out loud, something she never did—that Harper gave in.
“He’s subletting the house next door. He told Nathan he’s in security and that he’s single and childless.” Harper figured that covered Andi’s initial questions.
“And?”
“And what?”
“Is he hot? Sexy? What’s he look like? Did he give you the tingles? Nuh-uh-uh,” Andi chided before Harper could scoff. “Don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean.”
“Okay, fine. There were tingles,” she admitted. “The guy is gorgeous. He’s got a face worthy of the big screen and a body straight out of fantasyland. He was friendly with Nathan, he’s well spoken and he rides a Harley.”
She was so—admittedly—uptight. Who knew how sexy she’d find a Harley?
“He sounds delicious,” Andi decided, her words a purr. “I’m sorry I won’t get to meet him before I leave. He’ll still be there when I get back, won’t he?”
“How would I know?” How did she find out, Harper wondered as she made notes of the fabric and trim she’d chosen. “The Lowensteins’ place usually sublets by the week, not the month.”
“Well, that’s not good,” Andi mused, her tone making nerves dance in Harper’s stomach. “Maybe I should change my flight.”
“Don’t be silly,” Harper said, starting to feel as if the walls were closing in and cutting off any chance of escape. “I’ve only seen the man twice. I spoke with him for maybe three minutes. For all I know, he has a girlfriend. Or twenty. Or he likes men. Or he’s waiting for his cot to become available at a monastery.”
All of which was too depressing to contemplate. Wouldn’t it just figure that the first man to spark her fuse was completely off-limits?
“Or he’s free and clear and looking for love,” she continued, letting her insecurities take a deeper dive into the theme. “But that doesn’t mean he’d be interested in me. Maybe he prefers redheads or brunettes or older women. Maybe he’s anti-motherhood or hates the way I look or has some issue with my—”
“Harper, stop,” Andi interrupted with a laugh. “You’re talking yourself out of this before it even has a chance.”
Maybe it was better that she did. It wasn’t as if pursuing something with this guy would turn her life inside out. Going on a few dates, maybe enjoying an orgasm or two, that was normal, healthy. Nothing wrong with wanting to be normal and healthy. It wasn’t as if sex had to come with a heavy price.