Next To Die Page 8

  “Well, that’s something.” He lay back down again.

  “So . . .” She swept a hand up his spine to play along the ridges of his shoulders. “How much do you want that shoulder massage?”

  “I’ll keep an eye out,” he promised grudgingly.

  “Thank you.” With a satisfied smile, Penny tackled his shoulders. Never in her life had she gotten to mold shoulders so broad, so powerful, or so tight. She pressed and rolled his muscles, pleased to hear the groans of ecstasy he couldn’t keep to himself.

  “God, you’re good at that,” he admitted.

  “Too bad I’m not a masseuse,” she countered, reaching for wet wipes to clean the gel off his back. She sprinkled him with powder and briskly spread it out to absorb the gel. “Other patients are waiting for me,” she added, concealing her disappointment.

  The face he lifted looked sleepy and satisfied. “Thanks,” he said gruffly. “When do you want to see me next?”

  “Let’s say Monday,” she decided, dismissing the thought that he looked like a man who’d just had sex.

  “I won’t be back till Monday night.”

  “You’re going out of town?”

  “Quick trip to Florida,” he said shortly.

  “Are you driving or flying?” she wanted to know.

  “Why so many questions?” he fired back.

  “Because you shouldn’t sit still for more than two hours at a stretch,” she retorted, coolly.

  “I’m flying to Orlando and driving to Daytona.”

  One of the SEALs who’d died was from Orlando. Penny had read that in one of the articles yesterday. Joe was going to pay his respects to the family, she guessed. “That’ll be good for you,” she said with sympathy.

  He narrowed his eyes at her. “What will?”

  “Paying your respects.”

  A long silence, fraught with tension, passed between them. “Did Admiral Jacobs tell you something?” Joe demanded.

  “Admiral Jacobs? No, do you know him?”

  “No, I don’t. But he knows me and, apparently, you do, too,” he accused.

  She sighed and clutched his chart closer. “Why is that such a threat to you?” she asked, watching in fascination as his expression darkened. “I have no reason to tell anyone that you’re the one survivor of the Special Ops disaster.”

  There, she’d said it and he didn’t deny it. But the look that crossed his face nearly broke her heart. “I’m so sorry for what happened,” she added quietly. “I know this has got to be a nightmare for you.”

  His eyes glazed over with that horror-filled look she’d seen before. He couldn’t even answer her.

  “Be careful in your travels,” she said, wanting to spare him the indignity of losing his composure—again. “I’ll see you Tuesday.”

  She left the room quietly, leaving him to grapple with his demons.

  Joe put his weight back into his couch cushions and sought oblivion. If he could turn off his thoughts and let Barbara have her wicked way, it might yet come. But that wasn’t as easy as it sounded, not even when her itty-bitty red dress rode high enough to reveal that she wasn’t wearing panties.

  The tall blonde straddled him, breasts brushing his chest as she nibbled the column of his throat, interspersing words of desire.

  Had she had another breast enhancement? Or was he comparing her curves to someone else’s?

  “Oh, Monty,” she whispered, sliding down his legs to kneel at his feet. “I’ve missed you so much.” Unzipping his jeans, she murmured her appreciation, finding what she was looking for.

  Barbara was practiced and lusty, the way Joe liked his women. Her mouth felt nice—hot, wet, and hungry. Yet he could scarcely maintain his enthusiasm, especially when she fumbled to sheathe him with a condom.

  She climbed on board and kissed him. Her lips strayed to his jaw, his ear, his cheek as she lowered herself atop him. “Mmmm, I love the scar,” she murmured, tracing it with her tongue. “It makes you look like such a bad, bad boy.”

  Her words brought everything back in an instant: the explosion, the fireball, body parts flying at him as he reeled backward. His arousal fled. He felt suddenly sick to his stomach. “Get off,” he said quietly.

  Barbara pulled back, her eyes enormous. Immediately she seemed to realize her mistake. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  “It’s not your fault,” he forced himself to say. “I’ve got some issues right now.”

  “Is there . . . anything I can do?”

  “No. Thank you. I think you should go home,” he suggested.

  With a gasp of hurt and disbelief, she leapt off him, yanked her dress down, and sought her shoes. Joe got up and went into his bathroom.

  Splashing water on his face, he stared at the scar marring his reflection. How could any woman find that attractive? Every day for the rest of his life he would look at it and think of the men he’d watched die—men who’d been like brothers and sons to him. He detested the scar. At the same time he vowed never to surgically fix it. It was part of him, as much as those men had been part of his life.

  The front door thudded shut. Joe let Barbara leave, knowing he’d never see her again. He didn’t particularly care. Their attachment had been physical and little more. She wasn’t the kind of woman he could trust with confidences.

  She wasn’t like . . . Penny.

  Thoughts of his neighbor had him glancing out his bathroom window. The lights in her house were on. She was home, as was her sister, who’d pulled up in her Oldsmobile when Barbara rang his doorbell.

  Joe found himself heading for the door. He’d made a promise to keep an eye on Ophelia while Penny was at work. As far as Joe was concerned, both sisters were susceptible while working with the FBI to catch a criminal. If their father’s partner was that ruthless, what was to stop him from seeking retribution?

  Jamming his feet into sneakers, Joe donned a denim jacket and left the house. Barbara’s car was already gone.

  It was a brisk October night. The full moon illumined the lawn as he crossed it to Penny’s house. Since he was leaving in the morning, this was a good time to tour the perimeter and gauge any vulnerabilities.

  Penny didn’t have a fenced yard like his. As he rounded her house, he noted the thick garden beds. An early frost had left her rosebushes bare. If their thorns weren’t enough to deter intruders, the prickly holly bushes planted under each window would.

  He came to a neat brick patio, complete with an outdoor fireplace, wrought-iron table, and chairs. The cozy setup tempted him to take a seat and listen to the crickets chirping in the dark corners of the yard.

  But then a light came on overhead, and he glanced up to find the shutters of a bay window standing open. To his astonishment, a naked Penny appeared at the glass and closed the shutters, oblivious to his presence below.

  Joe’s head spun. Her uniform had definitely downplayed the curves she possessed. His body tingled unexpectedly before he ripped his gaze away, annoyed.

  He didn’t want to find his neighbor appealing. On his first day home, she’d rocked his world, like some kid at the swimming pool doing cannonballs and making the water choppy. She’d been a thorn in his side ever since. Sure, she was his physical therapist, and she meant well. She had magic in her fingers and the ability to dispel his physical complaints, at least for days at a stretch. But he didn’t need or want to know her any better.

  And yet she was making demands on his time, worming her way into his cloistered existence.

  With a scowl, Joe went back to assessing her home’s security. He checked the French doors that led to the patio. They were tightly locked, but with the kind of deadbolt that could be twisted from the inside. Any intruder could break out a pane of glass and reach inside to unlock it.

  He continued around the house, finding the remainder of the windows and the front door secured. At least she wasn’t careless.

  Obligated to point out the vulnerability, he approached Penny’s front door and knocked, eyeing her
scarecrow as he waited.

  Awful Ophelia opened the door.

  “Hi,” he said, nonplussed to see her. “Tell your sister to get a different deadbolt for the French doors in the back. She needs to buy one that locks with a key.”

  “Okay,” said Ophelia, looking puzzled. She wore a silk bathrobe. “You want to come in?” she asked.

  He didn’t trust her as far as he could throw a stick. “No, thanks.”

  “Suit yourself,” she said with a shrug, “but Penny’s baking a pie.”

  She was trying to set him up with Penny, Joe realized. “Sounds good,” he said backing away. Oh, no. Penny Price was not his type. He dated women who weren’t into long-term relationships, women as adventurous and thrill-seeking as he was. “Next time.”

  “You don’t know what you’re missing,” she called as he all but ran for his door.

  There wouldn’t be a next time, not for Penny. The women he got involved with understood that a love affair was just a temporary thrill. He liked it that way, and as long as he remained a SEAL, it was going to stay that way.

  Perhaps when he settled down, stopped traveling, he’d consider emulating what his parents had—a close-knit symbiosis of passion, affection, and trust. But for now, he couldn’t trust his heart to any one woman. Women came to him because of what he was, not who he was. That wasn’t the foundation he wanted to build on, and so he refused to build any foundation at all.

  Heading straight to his kitchen, Joe found Felix waiting for his evening meal. He fed the cat, then opened his liquor cabinet. “Guess it’s just us guys tonight,” he said to his cat. “You, me, and J. D.”

  He poured himself a shot of whiskey and tipped it back, feeling the burn all the way to his stomach. The vision of Penny, naked from the waist up, seared his memory.

  He poured himself a second shot to drown it.

  But he already knew that memories floated to the top. The most he could hope for was to pass out cold tonight. That way he wouldn’t dream.

  Chapter Seven

  Having flown into Orlando, where he rented a car, Joe did not arrive at the oceanfront city of Daytona until dusk. At the thought of facing Nikko’s widow, his stomach churned. The sweat dampening his shirt was more a result of his dread than of the muggy weather.

  Two miles from the oceanfront, he turned into a neighborhood of modest ramblers. The two young boys playing Wiffle ball in the street were Nikko’s. They had the same dark hair and olive complexion as their Greek-American father. With dread pooling in his limbs, Joe parked along the curb several yards away and watched.

  He tried to step out of the car, but he couldn’t.

  The sinking sun washed the sky in hues of violet. The brothers were close in size, maybe six and eight years old. Ignoring their lengthening shadows, they took turns swinging at the plastic ball while a fruit bat darted overhead.

  Nikko would never play with them again.

  Just get out of the car, Joe. Get it over with.

  He turned the ignition off and cracked the door. He was about to push to his feet when the porch light blinked on and a dark-haired woman emerged. “Alex and Marcus, it’s time to come in,” she called.

  Both boys ignored her.

  Their mother tried again. “It’s too dark to play out here. Put the ball away and come into the house, now!”

  “Five more minutes,” insisted the older boy. Joe sensed defiance in both his voice and body language.

  Nikko’s widow put her hand to her forehead. The weary gesture tugged at his heartstrings. Now she was the sole enforcer of the family.

  With a vice around his chest, he watched her square her shoulders. She marched into the street and wrested the bat from the elder boy, who, for a moment, looked ready to retaliate. But then he glimpsed his mother’s expression and relinquished the bat. The threesome trailed quietly into their house. Nikko’s wife shut the door.

  Now was the time to go talk to her.

  Only Joe couldn’t. Guilt burned in him like toxic waste. He shut the car door and started up the engine. With a tire-squealing U-turn, he fled the neighborhood.

  Stabbing at the window button, he brought a gusty ocean breeze into the car. The glow of neon lights lured him to the boardwalk. He paid three dollars to park at the beach.

  Kicking off his shoes and socks, he plodded toward the incoming tide, barefoot. The warm sand squished between his toes. He walked straight into the surf, where the shock of cold water hit his calves, his knees, his thighs. He did not stop walking until it smashed into his hips, nearly knocking him off his feet.

  He stood there, letting the water numb him. Memories of SEAL training flashed back to him. The Coronado Bay was colder at this time of year than the Atlantic Ocean. He and his fellow candidates were made to lie in the surf at dawn, clinging to each other while the waves crashed into them. It was a team-building exercise that taught them that together, they could endure anything.

  Only they hadn’t. They’d been overcome by overwhelming odds and circumstances beyond their control.

  Would Nikko’s widow understand that, or would she blame him the way he blamed himself? He would rather let the water close over his head than face her tonight, but the memory of Nikko’s smile had him turning around.

  With his pants soaking wet, he got back into his car. He returned to Nikko’s quiet neighborhood, got out, and walked barefoot to the front door. Hearing the banter of a television show host, he knocked.

  A shadow blocked the light in the peephole. “What do you want?” He had to look suspicious, standing there in sodden pants.

  “I’m a friend of Nikko’s,” he rasped. “I was with him when he died.”

  The door cracked open. A dusky face peered out.

  “My name’s Joe,” he said, putting out a hand.

  Her hand was slim and small. Holding it put a chokehold on Joe’s vocal cords.

  “Victoria,” she said. “Do you want to come in?”

  “I’m all wet.”

  “Please,” she insisted, opening the door wider.

  She found a pair of Nikko’s sweatpants, long enough to fit him, and threw Joe’s slacks into the dryer. Then she and Joe sat across from each other in the dining room, where he spooned down the soup she insisted on feeding him. The boys poked their head out of the bedroom, but she shooed them away.

  She waited for Joe to finish eating before demanding, “Tell me what happened.”

  He told her everything, not withholding the fact that he’d taken Chief Harlan’s place. He braced himself for accusations, but they never came. She remained stoic right up to the point where he related how Nikko had passed out from lost blood, dragging Curry down with him. As the rest of his story unfolded, her brown eyes filled with tears.

  “Then he never knew what happened,” she concluded, reaching for a napkin to cover her trembling lips.

  “No, he never knew.”

  Her face contorted with grief as she nodded her understanding. Joe’s composure slipped. The lump in his throat ached unbearably.

  “Thank you for telling me.”

  Her gratitude shook him. His eyes burned. His vision blurred with tears. “I’m sorry,” he added, appalled to hear his voice crack. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t save him.”

  “It wasn’t your fault,” she reassured him, her eyes benign with forgiveness. Then she reached across the table and seized his hand, holding it fast. “Don’t blame yourself,” she added. “He died doing what he loved.”

  Her acceptance humbled him. He couldn’t stop the tears that poured from his eyes.

  Victoria offered him the guest room for the night, but Joe declined. Leaving an hour later in his dried slacks, he felt as if he’d been cut free from an enormous weight.

  As he eased into his car with the intent of finding a motel, he spared a thought for Penny.

  You were right, Lieutenant. That was good for me.

  Joe was back.

  Penny parked her car in front of her house and smiled at the
lascivious-looking jack-o’-lanterns glowing across the darkness at her. He’d faced them deliberately in the direction of her home so she wouldn’t miss seeing them.

  Apology accepted, Commander. Happiness warmed her like a flame as she peered into his windows, wondering how his trip had gone. A bluish flicker told her that the TV was on. But then she caught sight of a second vehicle parked behind his Jeep, and her happiness disintegrated. The green Volkswagon belonged to yet another one of his girlfriends.

  He was back in action. Well, she sighed, it beats drinking himself into a stupor.

  Yet loneliness enveloped her as she gathered her groceries from her trunk and carried them into her dark and empty home. Lia hadn’t left a single light on when she left for work.

  Dumping grocery bags on the kitchen counter, Penny went to hang her jacket in the closet. Was it too much to ask to find a helpful husband, someone with whom to share life’s everyday burdens, to snuggle with on the couch? She pictured Steven Parks, the surgeon who’d eaten lunch with her every day last week. He’d promised to call her this weekend, but he hadn’t yet. Perhaps he’d called while she was out.

  She hastened to the kitchen to check her answering machine. The flashing light had her pulse accelerating. “You have one new message,” announced the digitalized voice. The machine gave a beep, but no one spoke. The sound of heavy breathing chased away Penny’s expectations.

  Eric was at it again. To her amazement, he began to talk. “W-w-why’re doin’ this? Why? You’re gonna . . . end up d-d-d-dead, like your father!” The phone clicked, and the digitalized voice on Penny’s machine said, “End of call.”

  Penny could only stand there, rocked by the heavy beating of her heart. But then she realized the recording was just the evidence they needed.

  She snatched up the phone to alert the authorities. Special Agent Lindstrom’s business card was pinned to the corkboard. Beside it, on a scrap of paper, were Joe’s name and number, scrawled in Lia’s handwriting.

  Penny eyed the information as she dialed Hannah’s number. How had Lia gotten their neighbor’s number, and why?