Hard Landing Page 13

  The urge to hug her again nearly overpowered Brant. Obviously the wine was going to his head already. And that kiss that had been tingling on his lips for days now demanded an imminent delivery. "Are you sure you want to pursue this?" he asked her.

  The fish sizzled under the broiler as she fell thoughtfully quiet. Brant filled his empty wine glass, half regretting that the topic of Max had come up so quickly. Up to this point, he'd really been enjoying himself. At the rate things were unraveling, they might never get to share an evening together like this, ever again.

  "Tell you what," he proposed, topping off her glass, as well. "Don't answer that yet. For the next thirty minutes, let's pretend Max doesn't exist." He met her startled, searching gaze. "Tomorrow, with your permission, I'll tell Master Chief Kuzinsky what we know. If we're going to take this information to the FBI or to NCIS, then we need his help."

  She swallowed visibly at getting Max's right-hand man involved.

  "Is that what you want?" he pressed. "Or do you want me to forget what Hack found on Max's laptop or what that creep, Tony, did to you?"

  For a moment she appeared torn, but then resolve firmed her lips and she shook her head. "No, I don't want you to forget it. Max is breaking the law. If I want what's due to me, then I have to prove it. Besides, if he's getting paid to assassinate people, that makes him a murderer. I can't let him get away with that!"

  He hoped he got the chance one day to deck Max for causing Rebecca the distress that tightened her sweet face. "Okay," he agreed, though not without a pang of concern. "I'll let you know what Master Chief has to say after Hack and I talk to him, hopefully tomorrow. In the meantime, let's finish every conversation we've ever started but had to cut short for obvious reasons. What do you say?"

  He could see her putting aside the implications of their discovery and concentrating on the present. Summoning a smile that made her eyes sparkle, she said, "We can actually enjoy a full-length conversation. Imagine that!"

  And talking is all you've got in mind, remember, Adams? "I'll set the table," he offered.

  Under her guidance, he found placemats, silverware, and napkins and laid them on a small table that used to be in Max's gazebo, out by his pool. Rebecca, meantime, sliced up a loaf of wheat bread and placed it in a basket. Then she poked the fish with a fork and pulled it out from under the hot broiler. Taking the steaming green beans off the burner, she proceeded to transfer their dinner onto a platter, placing it in the center of the table.

  They sat across from each other, and Rebecca bowed her head, saying a quick prayer. As Brant studied her, he could feel his contentment returning. "What's new at the hospital?" he began as they filled their plates with the fare before them.

  A tired but contented smile teased her dimples into view. "Let's see. Today we had a record number of cardiac arrests—three in one afternoon. Two of them were splitting wood for the fall." She cut into her broiled fish with the side of her fork.

  "That's hard work," he commiserated, having split plenty of wood in his youth. "So, I take it that even though the ER is stressful, you still like your job."

  "I love it. Helping people when they need you most is truly rewarding."

  Her words made him think about the unclaimed body. "Did anyone come for that dead guy who looks like me?"

  She looked down at her plate and shook her head. "No, not yet."

  "That really bothers you, doesn't it?"

  She glanced up with wide eyes. "Am I that transparent?"

  "To me, you are." Watch it, Adams. His tongue seemed to have a mind of its own tonight.

  "His circumstances remind me of my father," she admitted, ignoring his remark.

  "What was he like, your father?"

  She rolled her eyes, but a fond smile came to her face. "Oh, he was something else—a dreamer, a visionary, an idealist. He was always searching for himself, never content with what he found." She forked up another morsel of her fillet. "Do you think your father was like that, too?" she asked, popping it into her mouth.

  He considered his famous father with a frown. "Not at all. He seems perfectly content with himself."

  She blinked at the bitterness that he couldn't conceal. "How well do you know him?"

  He looked down at his half-empty plate. "I mother first introduced us when I was a kid. He didn't pay much attention to me at first. But I was so starstruck that I decided to follow in his footsteps, and we eventually became friends. My mom always said we were two peas in a pod."

  "You did the rodeo thing to be like him," she guessed. "Except you rode broncos instead of bulls."

  "Broncs," he corrected her.

  "Sorry—broncs. Why did you ride them and not bulls?"

  He shrugged. "Wanted to carve my own path, I guess. Plus, horses are less intimidating than bulls." He sent her a wry smile.

  "But you still had your fair share of injuries as I recall," she pointed out. He had regaled her with stories of his bronc-riding days the first time they'd met, at the Team Twelve Christmas party. "Good thing, too, or you would never have become a SEAL."

  He had told her at a different party how he'd broken his arm in three places and wound up sharing a hospital room with a former frogman. The retired SEAL had convinced him to quit the rodeo circuit and take on a beast called terrorism. Not long after, he had joined the Navy and gone straight from basic training in the Great Lakes to Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL training in Coronado.

  "You have an excellent memory," he pointed out, impressed by her recall.

  "Not really." She smiled at him. "Your stories are memorable, that's all. Tell me more about your father," she pleaded.

  He looked away, picturing his handsome but haggard father. "Fun to be with, great sense of humor. You can listen to him commentate on the Professional Bull-Riding Network any day of the week."

  She searched his expression. "And yet, I get the feeling that he disappointed you," she guessed.

  "No, he's a great human being," he protested, but since she'd glimpsed his true feelings, he told her something he didn't normally tell anyone, not even his teammates. "He just wasn't around for me when I was growing up. Other kids had dads, but all I had were my mom and my grandparents. I felt like I was missing out on something. Plus, my mom seemed lonely. I wanted her to fall in love again, but she said Quinn Farley had broken her heart, and she couldn't ever love like that again."

  Rebecca's eyes turned limpid. "That's so sad." She heaved a sigh. "I'm starting to think there's no such thing as a perfect mate," she lamented.

  She had to be thinking of her father and then Max, of course. "For you, there is," he insisted. "You're a good person. You deserve to be happy." Growing suddenly self-conscious, he lightly scratched the stitches on his face, itchy now that his cut was healing.

  "Are you going to tell me how you got that?" she inquired.

  He deliberated how much he could tell her. "I was hit by an electrical component, probably a circuit board."

  "Probably?"

  "It hit my face at over a hundred miles an hour, too fast to see and hard enough to concuss me."

  She frowned and put her fork down. "You're lucky it didn't kill you."

  "Yes, I am." He decided to add a few more details. "Right after that, we had a three-mile underwater swim, and I could barely stay awake." He left out the part about the great white shark accompanying the squad the whole way out to the sub.

  Rebecca's gaze narrowed. "Why do I get the feeling you were operating near the hurricane?"

  Wow, she was far too astute for him to say any more. He snapped a crispy bean between his teeth and simply looked at her.

  She glanced down at his nearly empty plate. "More fish?"

  "Sure, unless you want it. I like your cooking."

  "Thanks." Her face took on a rosy hue as she dished the last fillet onto his plate. He dug into it with gusto.

  "Who's your best friend on the team?" she asked him. "Is it Sam or Bullfrog?"

  He reflected a moment. "Har
d to choose," he answered. "Sam's a little busy these days, doesn't hang out with the guys as much, not that I blame him."

  "Maddy's so lucky." She sent him a smile, but it struck him as terribly sad.

  "You'll have a baby one day," he assured her.

  His words seemed to startle her. "Are my thoughts written on my face or something?"

  He contemplated her honest countenance. "I guess I have a knack for reading your mind."

  His reply seemed to unsettle her. She got up again and crossed to the refrigerator. Opening the freezer, she studied the contents. "I wish I could offer you some dessert, but I can't keep ice cream around or I'll eat it all myself. Oh, I do have a bar of dark chocolate." She pulled it off the shelf in the freezer and showed it to him. "Ghirardelli. Would you like a piece?"

  The thought of her indulging in occasional squares of chocolate made him like her so intensely that it hurt. "Sure, why not?"

  She peeled back the wrapper and brought him several squares, resuming her seat across from him and nibbling on her own piece.

  "Becca, I have to tell you something." He needed to give her an inkling of the challenges that lay ahead. The frozen bit of chocolate melted instantly in his mouth, filling it with delicious sweetness.

  She visibly braced herself. "Go ahead."

  "I really like you." Wait, what? He wasn't supposed to say that! But the pleasure that lit up her face kept him from denying it.

  Her cheeks turned even pinker. Momentarily she lowered her gaze, then swept her lashes up and looked right at him with her chestnut-brown eyes. "I really like you, too." Her voice seemed to have gone a little husky.

  To keep from lunging across the table to kiss her, he took another bite out of his chocolate. "But that's a problem," he pointed out.

  "Is it?" She took a quick little breath and added. "Why?"

  The real reason was because he didn't dare connect with a woman as wonderful as she was. But he heard himself blame his commander. "Because Max did follow you here tonight," he explained.

  At her look of horror, he kicked himself for dropping the news like a bomb.

  She clutched the edge of the table. "Are you certain?"

  He tipped his head toward the window where he'd been standing. "I saw his Tahoe in the parking lot. He probably doesn't know which apartment is yours, but he sure as hell saw my Bronco parked right in front of your door."

  All suggestion of color drained from her face. "Oh God."

  "And if he suspects that you're telling me about what happened with Tony the other night, then we're both in over our heads."

  "What have I done?" She stood up so suddenly that her chair skidded across the linoleum. Crossing the empty living area, she went straight to the window to look outside. "He's not supposed to come anywhere near me. I put that request in the separation agreement."

  "Is that something that he has signed off on?"

  She shook her head. "No, and he probably won't. More likely, he'll go to his own lawyer and file for a fault-grounds divorce, claiming I deserted him. Since I moved out first, I'll lose all the money that I put into that house, which was everything I had."

  Brant trailed her to the window. "And now he knows approximately where you live. Plus he knows you've been talking to me."

  She whirled to face him. Troubling thoughts flickered in her eyes the way the firelight flickered on her face. "Oh, Bronco, I'm so sorry."

  Not any sorrier than he was. "It's not your fault, Becca." He fisted his hands to keep from reaching for her.

  "Yes, it is!" She crossed her arms and hugged herself. "Max is going to go after you now, I just know it. He's going to ruin you, and it's my fault! I should never have involved you in our business."

  "Hey." Despite his best intention, he reached out and clasped her shoulders, giving her a gentle shake. "I made you tell me what was bothering you, remember? Mad Max is the one who's doing something wrong, not us."

  "Mad Max?" She'd clearly not heard the nickname before.

  "Sorry," he said with a grimace. "That's what the team guys call him. Not to his face, of course, but..." he trailed off.

  She pursed her lips and nodded. "I have a few nicknames for him myself."

  He could imagine that she did.

  She took a ragged breath. "I tried so hard to make my marriage work." Tears sparkled in her eyes. "I shouldn't have to lose everything."

  It was all he could do not to reach for her. "Don't worry. We're going to take our evidence to NCIS. If Max is breaking the law, they'll expose him, and you'll get what's rightfully yours."

  Her eyebrows flexed. "But in the meantime, Max is going to make your life a living hell," she predicted.

  He had come to the same conclusion. "Don't worry about me. I know I can count on the master chief's support."

  The time had come to say good-bye. If he stayed any longer, he was going to hate himself, sooner rather than later. "Maybe you should take a vacation, Becca," he suggested. "Doesn't your mother live in Hawaii? Why don't you fly out and visit her?"

  She shook her head. "That would only validate Max's claim if he goes forward with a fault-grounds divorce."

  "But there's Tony to think about," Brant insisted. "He's used you as a pawn once already. What's to stop him from doing it again? Maybe NCIS can offer you protection."

  Thoughts shifted behind her wide eyes. "I wish you could protect me," she stated on a poignant note.

  Her words both flattered and terrified him. There was nothing he would rather do. But then who would protect her from him?

  "Honey, I can't." The endearment slipped out before he could halt it. He put his hands over hers, fighting to keep his touch platonic, but the effort backfired the instant their skin touched. Desire leapt between them as their fingers coiled together. He found himself wedging his digits between hers the same way he wanted to wedge himself between her thighs.

  "Becca," he groaned her name in warning even as he tugged her close, covering her lips with his.

  And then he was lost. Her soft, sweet mouth received him with such welcome that he couldn't have halted the kiss to save his life. She tasted like the chocolate they'd both consumed moments before. And when her tongue touched his, it sent such a shaft of need pulsing through him that he released her hands to pull her hips closer. The sound she made in her throat did nothing to restore his self-control.

  "Tell me to stop," he begged against her lips.

  She wrapped her arms tighter around him. "Please, don't stop," she demanded, and he dipped his head to blaze a trail of kisses down her sweet-smelling neck.

  Lured by her candy scent, his nose dipped to her neckline and his hand slipped beneath her top to glide over the silken curves of her torso. She arched her back, lifting her breasts in invitation, her heavy-lidded eyes communicating desire.

  Damn you, Adams.

  In the face of her encouragement, he knew he'd never find the willpower now to walk away. It was exactly as he feared. He should never have sought her out in the state that he was in. Not that being celibate these last weeks had made it any worse. Even if he'd gotten laid last night, he'd still be this hot for Rebecca. The prospect of being with a woman so thoughtful, so classy, and whom he admired so much proved too tempting to deny himself.

  Watching her expression, he brushed his thumb over the lace cup of her bra. Her gasp and the way her nipple stiffened aroused him instantly. He repeated the motion, his groin throbbing with anticipation as her tongue darted out to touch her upper lip.

  Oh, hell. He was about to violate his own personal code of ethics by making love with a woman he both liked and respected. He'd have no one to blame but himself if he ended up hurting her.

  Chapter 11

  Rebecca's senses gloried in the pleasure of Brant's touch. His confident and sensual caress awakened every cell in her body, causing them to clamor for more.

  "I should leave," he muttered on a regretful note.

  "Stay," she pleaded, clutching his broad shoulders for support.
If he walked away now, her quaking knees wouldn't hold her up. "Please. It's okay," she added, wanting to dispel whatever doubts he harbored.

  The conflict inside him registered on his face as he slowly lowered it to kiss her again. His restrained hunger warned her that there'd be no stopping if she let it go on much longer. With no intention of stopping, she sank her fingers into his golden mane, holding his clever mouth captive against hers, luxuriating in the softness of his hair, the warmth of his lips, and the certainty of his tongue.

  He kissed exactly as she'd fantasized he would—not with Max's demanding force, but with such sensual consideration she was already damp with anticipation.

  "God, Becca, you're so—" Seeming at a loss for words, he gazed down at her. "So beautiful," he finished, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear and searching her flushed face. "Come over here." He drew her closer to the fire, gathered the hem of her lace top in his hands, and pulled it over her head, leaving her standing in her bra.

  Insecurity stabbed at her briefly, but the hunger blazing in his blue eyes immediately dispelled it.

  "Nice," he said, pausing to appreciate the way the pretty lace bra cupped her modest breasts. Releasing the bra's single catch, he drew one strap over her shoulder, then the other, heightening her self-awareness. By the time the cups fell away, both pink nipples stood stiff and taut. "Exquisite," he declared, cupping her reverently.

  His lean, tanned hands looked like a work of art against her fairer flesh. Ducking his head, he swirled his tongue over one peak, then the next, and her entire body trembled. She reached for his long sleeve T-shirt, tugging it up in a desperate need to expose the six-pack abs she'd beheld at the Labor Day party. He dragged it over his head, fueling her fantasy. With a gasp of wonder, she smoothed her palm over his lean, sculpted torso while his open mouth descended over her left breast and suckled gently. Her heart trotted at the decadence of the moment.

  He straightened abruptly. "Lie down here with me," he suggested.

  "Not the bedroom?"

  "I want to see you in the firelight."