The Poseidon team are hard-bodied, fiercely competitive navy SEALs. But when a sensitive mission goes disastrously wrong, three of the team’s finest will have to trust their hearts and instincts to uncover the truth...

“No man left behind” is inscribed in the DNA of every SEAL and Lieutenant Diego Torres is no exception. But with a team member killed—and the body missing—Diego’s honor is sorely tested. Now his career and reputation are on the line, and a traitor is hiding among them. Diego wants answers...and only one woman has them.

Single mom Harper Maclean has two priorities—raising her son Nathan and starting a new life. Her mysterious new neighbor may be impossibly charming, but Diego asks too many questions about her past—and about the father of her child. Questions she fears will reveal her burning attraction for Diego, and ultimately put them all in danger’s path.

Praise for New York Times bestselling author Tawny Weber

“Tawny Weber’s characters generate enough heat to melt the polar ice cap! I double-dare you to pick up this book.”

—New York Times bestselling author Vicki Lewis Thompson on Double Dare

“Fiery hot sex scenes, strong characters and exciting action make this one of the best stories in the Uniformly Hot! miniseries—and one of the best Blaze reads.”

—RT Book Reviews on A SEAL’s Seduction

“A SEAL’s Secret is captivating, compelling and very sensual.... A truly exceptional book, Tawny Weber’s best ever.”

—Fresh Fiction

“Forget the hot chocolate, the wool socks and the space heater—Tawny Weber’s Sex, Lies and Mistletoe will keep you plenty warm this season!”

—USA TODAY

“Tawny Weber has a gift when it comes to writing about hot SEALs and the women they fall for.”

—Lush Book Reviews

“The story is well constructed, solid, believable, very deftly written, featuring the author’s trademark humor, and the dialogue is spot-on... Tawny Weber remains THE class act when it comes to contemporary romance.”

—Fresh Fiction on A SEAL’s Fantasy

“Deliciously blending sexual tension, heartfelt emotions, misunderstandings, humor and love, talented author Tawny Weber has penned a story you do not want to miss!”

—Romance Junkies on Just for the Night

Call to Honor

Tawny Weber

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Table of Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Praise

Title Page

Dedication

Call to Honor

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Night Maneuvers

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

Copyright

To my family.

For always being there.

Call to Honor

Tawny Weber

CHAPTER ONE

IT PAYS TO be a winner.

And Diego Torres was a big believer in winning.

But it was the winning that he liked.

The competition.

The thrill of testing his skills, pushing his limits. Of knowing he was better than his adversary.

Yeah. He liked knowing he was the best.

He didn’t do it for reward.

Especially not when the reward came by way of the pomp and pageantry of a ceremony like today. Standing onstage in front of the various platoons that made up SEAL Team 7, listening to Admiral Cree pontificate was a pain in the ass. What made it worse wasn’t the couple hundred sets of eyes inspecting him or the discomfort of his dress whites, too tight across the shoulders.

It was the damned shoes. Diego’s toes pinched in the mirror-bright black patent leather, begging him to flex. He didn’t, of course. Not while standing at attention. But damn. Give him a pair of combat boots any day.

As the sun baked through his cap and the heat of the morning swirled around, he wondered what yahoo had decided to hold this ceremony outdoors. And why it felt so much hotter standing in the San Diego sun in whites than it did in the Afghan desert in full combat gear. Probably because combat gear fit him better.

Diego had spent a large portion of his life fighting over the wrong things. He’d fought over turf. He’d fought over gang colors. Hell, if the mood struck, he’d have fought over just how blue the sky was. It’d taken a bullet barely missing his heart to clue him in to the fact that maybe the things he was fighting over simply weren’t worth dying for.

He’d figured that out when he woke in a hospital bed, his mother’s careworn face wet with tears. Wondering if he’d see his eighteenth birthday, Diego had taken stock of his situation. He’d started out a street thug, worked his way up to gangbanger, then into the powerful role of First Lieutenant of the Marauders, an East LA gang determined to claw its way to the top of the food chain.

It wasn’t the bullet that had made him reconsider his chosen lifestyle. Nor, he was still ashamed to admit, was it his mother’s misery. It was the fact that his gang, his sworn brothers, had left him in that filthy alley to bleed out while they ran to save their own asses.

That’d made Diego rethink his definition of brotherhood. Of honor.

Now that he was a Lieutenant in the United States Navy he still fought. But he fought for his country. He was still a badass. But he was a badass SEAL. And if he got shot now, he knew his team would lay their lives on the line to get him out.

And that was key for a man who put loyalty above all else.

As the admiral’s voice boomed out his pride in the elite power of Special Forces, Diego didn’t look toward his superiors on the left, even though he stood shoulder to shoulder with Lieutenant Commander Ty Louden, who stood with Commander Nic Savino on his other side. Diego didn’t look to the right toward his teammate, Lieutenant Elijah Prescott, or beyond him to Petty Officer Aaron Ward.

But in his mind’s eye, he could see them all standing as he did, eyes forward, shoulders back. Basking somewhere between pride and misery at such focused attention, their faces were as familiar to him as his own. Brothers in every way but blood, Diego would—and had—put his life on the line for every one of them and knew they’d do the same for him.

With his mother dead three years past, these men were Diego’s family. They’d helped form him into the man he’d become. They’d been part of shaping him into a SEAL he could be proud of.

And these here onstage? They’d led a raid to capture three high-level militants, doing so in the dead of night without detection. Proving, once again, that Poseidon kicked ass.

Which was pretty much why they were standing up here being recognized.

As SEALs, they were trained to be the best.

As members of Poseidon, they were expected to be better than the best. Twelve men had come out of BUD/S together, each earning his trident a decade ago. Thanks to Admiral Cree, all twelve served among SEAL Team 7’s various platoons, allowing them to continue to train together, to study together, to excel together. And, when called up, to serve together. Team Leader Savino’s doing, Diego knew. The man had had a vision in BUD/S of an elite force of warriors, all focused on one purpose. They trained longer, they pushed further, they fought harder than most.

They made their mark.

And now they were getting awarded for it.

Diego damn near rolled his eyes as the speech eulogizing that award droned on. And on and on and on.

But, thankfully, years of Navy discipline stepped in and kept his eyes still and his discomfort at bay.

Finally, the admiral wound up the ceremony by personally pinning a commendation to each man’s chest. The weight of the man’s congratulations was twice the honor of the bronze Expeditionary Medal.

There was one final salute, a few words of thanks from Captain Jarrett, then the band played, the color guard stepped in and the team was dismissed.

Thank God.

Diego didn’t let his grin show, but he sure felt good as he stepped off the stage. He didn’t rip off his hat, but he mentally tossed it in the air and, hell, why not, did a fist-pumping victory dance in his mind.

Oh, yeah. It paid to win.

“You looked good up there, my friend.” Chief Petty Officer Jared Lansky grinned, his boyish expression pure glee as he met Diego at the bottom of the platform.

“Why the hell wasn’t your pretty face up there, too? The entire Poseidon team was being honored.”

“Special assignment in Sudan. Plane got in late, so I didn’t get here until Cree was winding down. I’ll have to pick my medal up in private.” Lansky pulled a face of fake regret, then grinned again. “But let’s talk about what this is really about. Dude, we are so going to get laid. Nothing like a commendation to impress the ladies.”

“Thanks for the perspective. Is there anything you don’t bring down to sex?”

“Hmm, let me think.” The other man tugged on his bottom lip, looking as if he were considering the weight of the world, before shaking his head. “Nope. I’m pretty sure the day I’m not thinking about sex will be the day you’re tossing dirt on my grave.”

Since the man hadn’t shifted focus in the ten years he’d known him, Diego had to figure Lansky was in no danger of imminent burial.

“You look like a combination of choirboy and Boy Scout. It always blows me away to realize what a complete horndog you are.”

“My looks are my secret weapon.” Lansky beamed his pearly whites, those baby blues pure innocence. “A woman looks at you, all dark and brooding, and she knows she’s looking at trouble. Me, I’m—”

“What?” Diego interrupted. “Stealth trouble?”

“Yes, sir. That I am.” Jared tapped his knuckle on the brim of his cap, then tilted his head toward the Officers’ Club. “Celebration time. On base or off?”

“Off, for sure.” But as Diego’s gaze swept over the dispersing crowd, he knew the team leader, Commander Savino, would want to offer up thanks to those who hadn’t been onstage. The rest of the team—the ones who weren’t a part of Poseidon, the support personnel. He’d give a little speech, buy a round of drinks. Public relations, Savino would call it. Pure hell, in Diego’s opinion.

“We’ve got a meeting first.” Diego jerked his head toward the long white building that held the offices of command.

Jared’s gaze swept over Savino’s back as he and a few others accompanied Admiral Cree in that general direction.

“Good times.” Jared watched two more COs join the group and muttered, “Wish the plane had been a little later.”

They headed for duty, making their way toward the low-slung offices instead of joining the crowd heading toward the freedom of the O Club. Diego loved what he did. Every damned thing about it. Except the politics. Meetings like this, with all the glad-handing and posturing, they ranked right up there with dress shoes on his list of things that sucked.

But twenty minutes later he had to admit that politics went down pretty easy when served with whiskey.

“To Poseidon.” The admiral lifted his glass, light gleaming in his steady blue gaze as it swept around the circle of men crowded into the pomp and polish of his office. “You do justice to my vision.”

They were all well trained enough to keep from smirking as they lifted their glasses in response.

“And to Lieutenant Torres for leading the latest mission to prove Poseidon’s might,” Savino added, his dark eyes assessing, his expression satisfied. Which was about as close to a grin as he got while in uniform.

A little weirded out at being toasted, Diego knocked back the rest of his drink. As the heat slid down his throat, he realized that while this might not be the pinnacle of his career, it was a pretty high peak.

As if cementing that realization, Savino aimed a finger at Diego. The admiral nodded, setting his glass on the desk before giving Diego a sharp look.

“Torres. My office, oh-seven-hundred tomorrow morning. You’ll be leading Operation Hammerhead.”

With that, the admiral headed for the door, apparently leaving his office—and his bottle of Jameson—to the men.

“Gentlemen,” he said in dismissal as he swung through the door, his two aides trailing in his wake.

“Check you,” Elijah Prescott said, tossing his cap aside now that the brass had cleared out. Green eyes amused, the man leaned one hip on the desk while lifting the decanter to offer refills. “Leading another mission. A big one, from the sound of it. Hot damn, El Gato. Way to kiss brass ass.”

El Gato. The cat. That was the call sign his BUD/S team had given Diego back in Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL training because he moved with stealth and grace. Prescott was called Rembrandt owing to his habit of sketching his way through every spare minute. Lansky’s skills had earned him the name MacGyver. The rest of the team was similarly nicknamed, with Savino in the lead as Kahuna.

“Brass-kissing is Savino’s job,” Diego reminded them, giving his commander a grin. The man carried enough weight to put Diego in charge of higher-ranking SEALs on his recommendation alone. Fast-tracking him, Diego knew, toward that pinnacle. “Thanks, man.”

“You’ve led plenty of missions.” Savino refilled his glass, then passed the bottle to the left. “But this one can make your career.”

Diego’s gut clenched. Nerves or anticipation, one or the other. He was silent as they all waited until the bottle made it back to Savino.

“Some things in life are worth fighting for.” The commander raised his glass.

“Some things in life are worth dying for.” Lansky raised his.

“And some things,” Prescott said, giving his glass a frown before raising it high, “are better to simply walk away from.”

“The trick, of course, is knowing which is which,” Savino pointed out before jerking his chin to indicate that Diego drink up.

Formalities over, the seven men relaxed. Some refilled their glass; others said their goodbyes. Diego couldn’t get his curiosity about the upcoming mission out of his head. Knowing he’d get no details from Savino before the briefing, he decided to find a few distractions in the form of a crowd and, taking his cue from Lansky, a willing woman.

“Heading out,” he said. “Thanks for the recommendation.”

Savino simply nodded, his dark eyes inscrutable.

“Next step, DEVGRU.” Lansky smacked Diego on the back.

“Next step is leading Operation Hammerhead,” Diego corrected. But damned if that wouldn’t be sweet. DEVGRU, the Navy’s Special Warfare Development Group, was the stuff of legends—like SEAL Team 6. Serving on the highest elite Special Ops team in the country was Diego’s dream. Each mission, each operation, each commendation was a step in that direction.

And he was getting closer.

“One step at a time,” Savino said as if reading his thoughts. The light bounced off his silver oak leaf as he gestured toward the door. “C’mon. We’ll buy the rest of the team a round before you all head out to debauch in the name of celebrating.”

That it was only fourteen-thirty hours didn’t much matter. The team, SEALs, sailors, were skilled at many things, including drinking at any time, day or night. And the support crew, the rest of SEAL Team 7, deserved a drink.

They headed for the O Club by way of the barracks, where they ditched the misery of dress whites. Diego, Jared and the others went for digies—blue tees and camouflage fatigues—while Savino kept to his khaki uniform.

The whole time all Diego could think was that he’d come a long way. Riding the wave of success, he barely held back his grin as he followed Nic through the crowded O Club, taking the shouted praise and ribbing with equal grace.

When he reached the front of the room, he stood to Savino’s right, legs braced and hands clasped behind his back. Like a wave, the conversation rose, then settled as each man gave Savino their full attention. With a few simple words, he thanked everyone for their hard work and contribution. Even though Savino made it look easy, Diego hoped like hell that whatever future pinnacles he climbed didn’t include giving speeches.

“So that’s that,” Savino wrapped up. “And since you’ve all listened so kindly, the next round of drinks is on me.”

A few of the men laughed. A handful cheered. The rest raised their glasses in thanks. Lansky tossed his back, then turned to give Savino a fist bump.

“Nice speech. Short, to the point, rounded out with booze. You’re the man.” After Savino’s nod of thanks, Lansky turned the fist bump toward Diego. “And here’s another man. King o’ the hill, if you ask me. El Gato, the badass kitty cat.”

“All hail the king,” Savino said with a quiet smile before he slid out of the conversation like smoke from a flue. Quick, silent and barely noticeable. Diego knew he’d leave the room the same way. Hero worship was a sad and pathetic thing in a grown man, but admiring class wasn’t. Nor was appreciation. Everything Diego was he figured was due to Savino. To his drive, his vision and his unswerving loyalty to those he believed in.

“Dude.” Diego laid a hand on Savino’s shoulder, waiting for the other man to meet his eyes. “Thanks.”

Savino’s eyes lit with appreciation.

“Don’t party too hard” was all he said. “You’re going to want to be one hundred percent for the briefing.”

That was all the warning Diego needed to know he’d be nursing a single beer tonight and heading to bed early. The only thing more important than his gratitude to Savino was the success of his career.

“C’mon, Kitty Cat,” Lansky said to Diego when Savino turned to leave. “Let’s blow this joint. Find a place where we can be people instead of military machines.”

“You mean a place where you’re fawned over by civilians who’ll be impressed when you tell them you are a military machine.”

“Curvy civilians. Sexy ones in short skirts and high heels.” Lansky’s Boy Scout smile flashed, a little blurry around the edges from the back-to-back whiskeys. “Gotta love them all, right?”

“Couple more drinks and the only thing you’re gonna be loving is the toilet seat.” Shaking his head, Diego headed for the door.

“Yo, Torres,” a voice beckoned before he’d made the exit.

Diego glanced over to see Prescott waving from a prime table next to the dart board. As usual when he wasn’t on duty, the man had a pencil in hand and that engrossed look in his eyes.

Seated with Prescott was another SEAL and one of the team’s support members. Petty Officer Dane Adams kicked back with his feet on the table and gestured with a dart, making as if he were aiming it at Diego. Next to him, Lieutenant Brandon Ramsey just smiled and murmured something under his breath that made the other man laugh.

Both IP officers, or Information Professionals, they specialized in tech. Adams had a solid rep as a Special Warfare Combatant Crewman, while Ramsey was on his third tour as a SEAL. They’d transferred to Coronado eight or so months ago after deployment in Afghanistan. It hadn’t taken more than a couple of weeks to realize that Ramsey was used to being top dog and not only expected to stay on top but expected everyone to kiss his ass while he was there. Since SEALs didn’t kiss ass, he’d had a little trouble adjusting at first. But Prescott had taken the guy under his wing, showed him the ropes. And made him one of the team.

“How about a few games of pool,” Ramsey suggested with a wink as Diego and Lansky drew near. “We’ll play for shots.”

“I hear you’re good with the cue,” Diego said.

“I hear the same about you,” Ramsey acknowledged with an assessing look. Even in digies, the guy came across as a movie star with his blond hair spiked in casual disarray, intense blue eyes and his perfect smile. “Why don’t we see who’s better?”

“Ego still bruised over Torres busting up your record on the range?” Lansky asked, a sneer creasing his face. “I warned you he would.”

Something ugly flashed over Ramsey’s eyes, but it was gone just as fast. As a man with a temper of his own, Diego had to respect a guy who could reel it back that quickly.

“Then it’s only right that you give me a shot at redeeming my rep,” Ramsey suggested mildly, his hands spread wide in invitation. “What do you say, Torres? You willing to go head-to-head on a universal field? Say, a pool table?”

The taunt “Or are you afraid?” went unspoken, but they all heard it. Insults like that went hand in hand with the dog tags the men all wore. Years of training, both as a SEAL and as a man, had taught Diego to think before he reacted.

“You think I need to stack the deck to win, you don’t know me.” Diego rocked back on his heels to offer a smile. A very small, very effective smile that mocked the idea. And, of course, the man asking it.

From the way his face tightened, Ramsey understood just fine. Not surprising. He was a smart guy. He was also after Diego’s spot on Poseidon. A useless goal, since it was known that Poseidon was made up entirely of graduates of BUD/S class 260. But like everything else, Ramsey apparently figured that he’d be the exception to that rule. It had to be the rich boy in him, used to being number one, always the top of everything. From his rich parents to his perfect son, according to Brandon Ramsey, he had it all and expected more.

Not a problem for Diego, since he respected someone who aimed high. Except Ramsey was going to have to get whatever he was looking for from someone else. Because Diego was keeping his share.

“I’ve already got plans, so pool is out. But I’m happy to buy you a beer instead.” Diego ignored Lansky’s look of disgust. Ramsey wasn’t all that bad. And any time spent with Prescott was time well spent. Besides, for all they knew, it was Ramsey’s relentless focus on competition that’d pushed Diego to step it up and do better. To be better. He definitely had to push past 100 percent to beat the guy. As far as Diego was concerned, that made Ramsey a good man to have on the team.

“You’d rather share a beer than go head-to-head?” Ramsey laughed. “Sure. Why not? You might as well toast my success, too.”

“Success?” Diego waited until Lansky was through rolling his eyes before waving a hand toward the bartender. He circled his finger, indicating another round, then grabbed his own chair. “You finally score with that pretty little redhead you were hitting on so hard?”

“Dude, have you seen pictures of Ramsey’s old lady?” Adams blew on his fingers as if they were on fire, then shook his head. “You’d be so lucky if a woman that hot even turned you down.”

“Can’t say as I have,” Diego said with a shrug. Looking at other guys’ wives had never been a favorite pastime of his.

“Show him that picture you just got, Brandon.” Adams let out a low whistle. “The one where she’s wearing the bikini.”

“You’re a sad, sad man,” Ramsey told his friend with a laugh, even as he pulled his cell phone from his pocket and swiped through the screen. He shot Diego a look. “You want to see?”

Not really. He figured if you’d seen one guy’s old lady, you’d seen them all. But Diego was trying to build a bridge here. So he was already trying to think up polite comments as he took the phone.

Hellooo.

Diego was pretty sure there was an ocean in that shot somewhere. He was vaguely aware of a kid on the screen, but only because he was blocking the view of the blonde.

The woman was stunning. Hair more gold than blond blew in the breeze, the long strands covering part of a perfectly sculpted face. Full lips smiled wide, accented by cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass. But it was her eyes that grabbed him. Too dark to tell the color in the photo, they were round with an exotic tilt echoed by the dusky gold of her skin. And oh, man, that skin. It covered a body meant for hot fantasies. She was made up of long, lean lines and lush curves.

For the first time, he envied a man his woman.

“She’s a looker” was all he said, though, as he handed the phone back.

“I’d do her in watercolor. She’s got that mermaid thing going there,” Prescott murmured, his attention on the paper he was scrawling on. It took a second for the silence to hit him, then another for him to realize what he’d said. “I meant I’d paint her. Not, you know...”

They shared a good-natured laugh as Prescott grimaced.

“I just do her,” Ramsey joked, slapping Prescott on the shoulder. His smile turned possessive as he looked at the picture again before tucking his phone into his pocket.

“Thought she was your ex,” Jared chimed in, taking his beer from the server without taking his eyes off Ramsey. “Isn’t that the way of it? She took your kid and split? Dumped you, right?”

Really? Diego’s attention perked up at that bit of news, his body doing a happy salute to the idea of a woman that hot being free and clear. Except she wasn’t, he reminded himself. As much as it might suck—and oh, boy, did it—Ramsey had staked prior claim. Whether he and the gorgeous blonde were a couple or not, she was still his.

Ramsey clearly thought so, too. His blue eyes chilled to lethal ice, his sneer blade sharp.

“As usual, Lansky, you’ve got your details wrong. I left Harper because my career had to be a priority, not the other way around. And given that I can’t take my kid with me while I’m out saving the world—and because I’m a hell of a nice guy—I let her take care of him. She appreciates that, and is pretty damned good at showing just how much on my visitations.”

“Is that how you want to tell it?” Jared’s expression called bullshit.

“That’s how it is.”

Jared leaned forward, that schoolboy face looking for all the world as if he were about to call out what he saw as a lie.

“So what particular success are we toasting?” Diego interjected, wanting to end this before Jared escalated the conversation into something that required everyone to drop their fatigues to prove who had the biggest dick.

“Nominations for DEVGRU are coming up, pal. And I’m going to be on that list.” Ramsey leaned back, crossing his hands behind his head and offering a big smile. “I’ve got Captain Jarrett’s support. And my father’s golfing buddy, Senator Glassman, is gonna make sure of it.”

He waited a beat.

“You got anyone pulling for you, Torres? You know, someone on the outside with influence?”

His first thought was, Yeah, right.

His second was, Seriously? It wasn’t that he begrudged Ramsey the success. But did they have to compete for everything? There were only a few slots offered each year.

He felt like a jerk for coveting the nomination, but he couldn’t completely shake the feeling. After all, DEVGRU was top of the line. A counterterrorism, special missions unit made up of the most elite operatives in the Navy. Once upon a time, some people had called it SEAL Team 6. It was a unit filled with mystery, power and prestige. And Diego wanted in.

So he tilted his chair onto the back two legs, making as if he were carefully considering the question. He pulled off his cap, rubbed a hand over his short, spiked hair, then tugged the hat back in place. Then, giving Ramsey a look of long-faced regret, he shook his head.

“My old man rolled with the Hells Angels as a Nomad. That’d be king o’ the hill to you and me. But he was shot down in ’91 during what turned out to be a rather heated discussion,” Diego mused, tapping his fingers on his knee as he pretended to think it through. “He did leave behind three brothers, though. The ones that are still alive are serving time, one in Quentin, another in Pelican Bay. They probably have the better access to politicians than a golf course, but I guess we’ll see.”

Diego barely kept from offering his own sneer when he caught the looks on their faces. Disdain-covered horror with a barely concealed side helping of fear. Typical.

“Is your mother doing time, too?” Adams asked, his usual smirk sliding back in place.

“Dude,” Prescott protested.

Diego’s smile dimmed.

His momma had been shot dead three years back while sweeping the floor in the little bodega where she’d worked. No matter that he’d bought her a house, set her up so she didn’t have to slave day and night like she had most of her life, she’d insisted on keeping that job out of loyalty to Manny Cruz.

While Diego didn’t mind using his father to get a reaction out of others, he never shared his momma. That’d be disrespectful.

Besides, it was nobody’s business.

But Adams’s comment required a response. Instead of going with a smart-ass comment, or better yet the brutal slap down he’d prefer, Diego figured he’d channel Savino.

“See, here’s the thing.” Diego leaned forward, his elbows on his knees and his expression as serious as a howitzer. “I figure you had no say in your upbringing. And maybe it was awesome, or maybe it was pure hell. But whatever it was, whatever you brought with you from your past, it made you the man you are now. A solid officer, an outstanding IP tech and in your case, Ramsey, a damned good SEAL.”

Diego took a swallow of beer before continuing.

“Bottom line, we fight for the same thing. We have the same goal, and we serve the same team.” He had to dig deep for the rest, but, picturing Savino giving him that impatient, just-bullshit-if-you-have-to look, he managed. “I’m proud to serve with you, man.”

It was a toss-up who looked more shocked at Diego’s words. Adams, who appeared to have swallowed his tongue. Lansky, whose expression warned that he’d puke at any minute. Or Ramsey, who tried to hide his surprise with a frown but didn’t quite succeed.

Prescott simply grinned as he dashed his name over the bottom of the piece of paper before tearing it from the sketchbook. He handed it to Diego with a wink.

Diego snickered. His own face stared back at him, finger pointed like a gun, cocked and ready to rock. The caricature emphasized Diego’s dark eyes, his large head teetering on a slender body weighted down with fat muscles.

“You’re all right, Torres,” Ramsey said, his frown shifting into a grin. “I’m proud to serve with you, too.”

Figuring Lansky really would gag if this kept up, Diego stood.

“Congrats on your shot at DEVGRU,” he said, offering his hand. “Enjoy the beer. Lansky and I are heading out.”

He exchanged the team’s hand slap with Prescott. To Adams he gave only a nod. Just as well, seeing as Diego and Lansky didn’t get ten steps before they heard the asshole comment, “Bet he’s full of shit about his father. He just said that to make himself sound tough.”

“Let it go,” he muttered to Lansky, who’d started to turn back with his fists ready.

“But—”

“You might want to learn to watch your mouth,” they heard Prescott warn, his easy tone not disguising the threat beneath.

“Let it go,” Diego said again, shoving open the door and stepping into the sun’s heat. He’d come to terms with his history. When he’d first joined the Navy, he’d kept his past under lock and key. Not out of shame—out of concern that he’d be thrown in the brig for giving someone a serious ass kicking over their comments about it.

But after a while, he’d come to realize that his past was as much a part of him as his height or his skill with a knife. It made him who he was.

A success, dammit.

“We’ll hit Olive Oyl’s, and drinks are on me until ten-hundred hours when I head back to base.”

Lansky frowned. “You can’t be serious. Things will just be heating up then. The hottest women don’t hit the bar until after dark, my friend.”

“Yep, totally serious. You want to wait for women who look better in the dark, you’re gonna have to get yourself a ride back to base. Me, I’ve got a briefing in the morning, and I plan to be sharp.” Then, because Lansky was a good friend and deserved a little payback, he added, “This operation is going to shoot me to the top, buddy. A dozen of Daddy’s senators won’t help Ramsey get ahead of me after this.”

As his friend whooped and hollered, Diego accepted the fist bump with a laugh.

He was within kissing distance of the high point in his career. No way some blowhard like Adams, or even a rival like Ramsey, were going to mess it up for him.

No way in hell.

CHAPTER TWO

GOOD THINGS CAME to those who focused on what they wanted, then worked their butts off to get it.

That was Harper Maclean’s life motto, and she figured that she was living proof it was true. As she sautéed the mushrooms, onions and garlic with an expert hand, she looked around her kitchen with a smile of delight. From the glossy planks on the floor to the custom glass-fronted cabinets to the granite countertops, the kitchen—like the house—screamed luxury.

Holy crap, she was living in luxury. Harper added a giddy two-step as she added a dash of garlic salt to the vegetables. Six months ago, she’d been in an apartment so small, she’d had to put her desk in the coat closet. Now she was cozied up in a house five times as big and ten times as fancy.

It was all she could do to keep from doing a butt-wiggling happy dance as she pulled a golden piecrust from the oven. But butt wigging wasn’t ladylike, and Harper had spent the last seven years transforming herself into a lady. So she settled for a tiny shoulder shimmy.

“If I knew making me dinner would give you such a thrill, I’d have hit you up a week ago.” Andi Stamos strode into the kitchen in a wave of Black Opium, reaching around Harper to snag a mushroom out of the pan.

Used to greedy fingers trying to sneak food before it was ready, Harper tilted her head toward the center island. “If you’re hungry, eat an apple.”

“I’d rather have chocolate,” Andi muttered.

Who wouldn’t? “After dinner.”

“Fine, I’ll wait,” Andi agreed before snagging another mushroom.

“Hey,” Harper warned with a laugh, automatically shifting the springform pan out of reach.

Most people wouldn’t recognize the untidy waif with her black hair in a messy ponytail and her jeans ripped at the knees as Andrianna Stamos, thrice-divorced estranged daughter of Greek tycoon Maximillian Stamos, society darling and trust-fund baby. Andrianna wore leather and silk, spoke five languages and had a reputation for starting her day with a martini instead of coffee. Whereas Andi was happy wearing jeans to eat in a friend’s kitchen, handed out hundreds to the homeless and adored a small boy named Nathan.

They’d met three years before when Harper worked for Lalique & Lalique as an interior designer and had decorated the house for Andi and her new husband, Matt Wallace. Since Harper had had an easier time melding the Spanish architecture with Andi’s modern tastes and Matt’s preference for Louis XIV and rococo than the couple had in combining their lifestyles, she hadn’t been surprised when their marriage ended before she’d fluffed the last pillow.

By the time Harper had helped Andi get through the packing of Matt’s stuff, the redecorating and the heartbreak, their friendship was as solid as the gold-toned granite countertop Andi was currently leaning against doing her impression of a Vogue ad for wealthy bohemians.

In contrast to Andi, Harper’s gold-streaked blond hair swept straight and choppy to just above her shoulders. Her silk tank was the color of peonies and her linen Capris wrinkle-free. And she was pretty sure her entire outfit, right down to the diamond studs in her ears, hadn’t cost as much as the other woman’s threadbare denim.

“Drink?” Harper offered, moving to the refrigerator. “I’ve got a nice Pinot Grigio.”

“Water’s fine.”

Uh-oh. Harper gathered what she needed from the fridge, including a bottle of water. She set it, eggs and cream on the counter, then grabbed a lemon.

She sliced it and added a squeeze and a twist to a cobalt-blue glass before pouring in chilled water.

“I take it last night’s party wasn’t as much fun as you’d hoped,” she guessed as she handed her friend the drink.

“It was a deadly bore. Same people, same drama. I’m pretty sure it was even the same food as Monique’s last gala. The woman is tapping people for a thousand dollars a plate—you’d think she’d try a new recipe or two.”

While Harper shredded sharp cheddar over the golden crust for the quiche, Andi regaled her with wickedly disparaging tales of the rich and famous.

“So there he is, this big shot banking CEO, in the coat closet with his pants around his ankles and his hands down the front of this woman’s dress. His sister-in-law, it turns out. But does Monique care about the scandal? About a dozen guests seeing her closet used for an upright quickie? Of course not.” Andi paused to sip her water, then gave Harper an eye roll. “Monique’s only concern was whether they’d wrinkled the coats they were doing it against. To which the CEO responded in a dismissive tone, if her guests didn’t have enough class to wear quality, they deserved a few wrinkles.”

“He didn’t.” Harper laughed, entertained as always by the adventures of the rich and spoiled.

“He did,” Andi assured her as she helped herself to more water. “And even that couldn’t liven up that snoozefest of a party.”

“You sound so jaded.”

“Sweetie, I am jaded.”

“No. You’re bored. You need a project. Actually, you need a career. But since you won’t do that, you really should find a project.”

“Not won’t. Can’t,” Andi corrected meticulously, her fingers tapping a quick beat on the counter. “Any income I bring in will impact my divorce settlement. That weasel cheated on me enough while we were married. I refuse to allow him to cheat me out of anything else.”

Harper couldn’t blame her. Matt was a complete dog. The jerk had been caught with his pants down twice in less than a year of saying his vows. Harper wasn’t sure if that betrayal had damaged Andi’s heart, but she knew it’d done serious damage to her confidence. For that alone, Harper believed he should pay.

Something Andi was doing her best to ensure. But it’d already been eight months and was looking like it’d be at least a year more before they settled. Doing nothing for that long would drive Harper crazy.

Still, Harper couldn’t complain. Not when the divorce settlement was the reason she was living in this gorgeous house with a huge kitchen.

Since she’d gained control of the California properties three months ago, Andi had rented the place to Harper for a quarter of its worth. If not for that, there was no way Harper could have afforded a house in the exclusive Santa Barbara neighborhood.

Oh, sure, over the last three years, Harper had made a strong name for herself as a visionary interior designer. But last year she’d risked it all—her savings, her security and, sometimes she thought, her sanity—when she’d left Lalique to go it alone. But she was making it work. Homes by Harper had an exclusive client list, a sterling reputation and a solid portfolio.

Most people had no idea that beneath her sophisticated demeanor, Harper was obsessed with saving for her son’s college fund, worried about being a year behind on her career goals and often frantic trying to be a good mom, raise her son to be a better man than what he’d come from and still find time to polish her nails.

Whenever she thought about trying to juggle it all, she remembered living on welfare, wearing church-donated hand-me-downs because her mom couldn’t afford to both feed and clothe her only child, and finding the safest route home from school in a neighborhood where drive-by shootings were simply shrugged off.

And that, she decided as she sprinkled more cheese over the vegetable mixture, was the only use she had for her past. As a yardstick for how far she’d come.

“I’m pretty sure you’re the first person to actually cook in this kitchen,” Andi observed, her words muffled through a mouthful of the apple she’d finally given in to.

“Now, that’s a crime against kitchens.” Harper broke a dozen or so eggs into a thick pottery bowl, added cream, then with a careless shake of a few spices, whipped it together. “I can’t believe you lived in this house for two years and never cooked.”

“I’d lived in various other places twenty-six years before that and didn’t cook in any of them, either.” Andi looked around the rich, airy space with its touches of red pottery, midnight-blue fabrics and cozy eating nook. Three low-backed stools bellied up to the sleek island with its prep sink and marble top. When Andi had lived here, that island was often decorated with fresh flowers or, more often, caterers’ supplies. Now it held a blown glass bowl in bleeding greens that contrasted sharply with the bright red apples.

“You suit the kitchen, this house, much better than I ever did,” Andi said with an easy shrug. “Not only because you decorated it. For all your sophistication, you fit in suburbia. As much as I tried, I never could.”

“You’re definitely more comfortable downtown than you were here. And your penthouse is a better showcase for your personal style.”

“The penthouse is closer to the dating scene,” Andi corrected with another casual shrug at odds with the discontented look in her eyes. “Speaking of dating...”

“We were talking about decorating, not dating.”

“Then let’s change the subject.” Andi leaned her elbows on the counter and propped her chin in her hand, still munching the apple. “You need to start dating.”

“I’ve dated.”

“When was the last time?” Andi challenged.

Harper had to think about that.

“Sometime late last year, since I wore my black knee-length boots and that gorgeous three-quarter-length peacoat I got on sale at Nordstrom.”

That Andi didn’t question that Harper filed her memories according to outfits was just one of the reasons they were such good friends.

“Did that date end in sex?” Andi inquired.

“No. It ended in the stomach flu.”

“The guy gave you the flu on a date?”

Laughing at Andi’s confused expression, Harper shook her head.

“Not quite. The babysitter called while we were finishing the entrée to tell me that Nathan was throwing up. End of date.”

Nothing came before her son. Not men, not work, not even her own memories.

“Obviously it’s time to step up your dating life. I’ve got some ideas on that.”

“Why don’t we work on your dating life instead? Or better yet, what do you think about adding a fountain to your foyer? Something in metal. I saw a gorgeous piece last week at one of the art galleries.”

“Really? What form? Colored metal or brass? No, wait.” She threw up one hand and scowled. “Don’t do that. Don’t distract me with pretties.”

“But if we talk about decorating, we’re both happy and both get something we want,” Harper pointed out, getting cranberry and passion fruit juices and the seltzer out of the fridge. “If we talk about dating, you end up frustrated and I get a headache. Why should we do that to ourselves?”

“The real question is, why would you do this to yourself? At least I’m trying to get back out there. But you? You’re a gorgeous, vital, interesting woman. And you’re cutting yourself off from the opposite sex. You need to get out there, live it up.”

“I’ve hardly cut myself off from the opposite sex. I date when I feel like it. I have a member of the male species living with me. And I deal with male clients, designers and contractors all the time.”

“Your son doesn’t count, nor do business relationships. I’m talking about the possibility of sex, Harper. Something every woman needs in order to be healthy, energized and sane.”

Harper’s lips twitched. Poor thing sounded as frustrated as if it were she who was going on eight years without doing the deed. She probably shouldn’t have shared that sad little truth, but she’d been trying to comfort her friend over a bottle of wine while Andi lamented her eight sexless months. If nothing else, the revelation had shocked Andi out of her funk and into a frenzy to ensure she didn’t end up in the same dry spell.

“I’m doing okay without it.” Before Andi could argue that okay wasn’t enough—after all, they’d had this conversation so many times, Harper could recite it in her sleep—she gave her friend a sad shrug. “I really am. I’ve heard that some people simply aren’t very sexual. Maybe I’m one of them.”

Pretending her best friend wasn’t looking as if she’d just punched her in her perfectly toned belly, Harper set the ingredients aside and leaned her own elbows on the bar, resting her chin on her fists.

“I don’t miss it. The few times I have wondered if maybe I should, I think about everything that’d have to be done to actually have sex. And it’s just not worth it.”

“What’s to be done? Find a hot guy. Do the deed.”

Harper rolled her eyes.

“Sex requires knowing the guy, which requires more than three dates, which means being away from Nathan. That requires a babysitter, which until recently, was a luxury I couldn’t justify. Now that I can, I find I don’t really want to.” Harper straightened. “It’s just not worth the trouble. Or the risks.”

Andi opened her mouth, then closed it again. “I’m not trying to psychoanalyze or anything. Believe me. But do you think that’s the reason you aren’t interested in sex? That the last guy you had it with got you pregnant, then walked out?”

Harper didn’t physically move, but she did withdraw. She could actually feel herself pulling away, closing in. She didn’t talk about that time in her life. Partly because there wasn’t a whole lot to brag about when it came to teenage pregnancy. And partly because she hated talking about her past. She hated even thinking about it.

But mostly she kept quiet because she was afraid. The last thing Brandon had said to her after she’d told him she was pregnant was goodbye.

Right before he’d uttered that word, though, he’d warned her that if she didn’t get an abortion, his parents would take the baby. If they knew they had a grandchild, they’d insist on raising it to be a proper Ramsey, and there was nothing she’d be able to do to stop them.

Harper had believed him.

She hadn’t obeyed him, of course.

But she’d definitely believed.

She’d kept her pregnancy a secret from everyone she knew, cleaned out the college savings she’d been hoarding since she was eleven, stuffed her clothes in a backpack and ran. She’d changed her life. She’d become the opposite of where she’d come from. And she’d kept quiet. Because she had no doubts about the reality of Brandon’s threat. If his parents knew about Nathan, they’d try to take him.

She had built a life that would be hard for them to challenge if it went to court. She was an upstanding citizen with a thriving career; her son was happy and healthy and attended one of the best private schools in Santa Barbara. Their lifestyle wasn’t as affluent as the Ramseys’, but it was good. Solid. No custody court would say otherwise. If it ever came down to it, nobody could justify taking Nathan from her.

It wasn’t until she felt Andi’s hand close over hers that Harper realized she’d been silent for way too long. And that her hand was trembling.

“Sorry,” she said, dismissing her anxiety with a laugh.

“I’m the one who’s sorry. I shouldn’t have pried.”

“It’s been a long time. It’d be pretty stupid of me to let him control my choices after all these years, wouldn’t it?”

“I don’t know, Harper. Maybe leaving you high and dry, never contributing a penny to help raise his child and never once contacting either one of you is a good enough reason to avoid sex.”

Harper frowned.

“If he’s the reason I’m avoiding it, maybe it’s time to reconsider,” she murmured, half to herself. At Andi’s whoop of delight, she shook her head and rushed to add, “I said reconsider. Not run out and have tons of wild, sweaty sex. Just, you know, maybe consider keeping a guy around for a third date.”

“That’s the only opening I need,” Andi all but sang. As she patted Harper’s hand in support, she asked, “So, what’s your preference? Dark hair or light? Working class or businessman? Butt or biceps?”

“Butt or biceps?”

“Yeah, which is your trigger? I’m going to find you the perfect man,” Andi vowed with the fervency of an evangelical minister on cable television.

Harper was rescued from having to decide by the back door swinging open. In swirled her very own seven-year-old tornado.

Her heart melted just a little at the sight of her son dancing into the room. His elegant features were alive with delight, smudges of dirt on his chin and cheek and his hair, the same burnished gold as her own, tumbling over his brow.

“Mom, guess what. Louie Dryden’s cat had kittens. Five of them. She had ’em on his bed, too. He got pictures on his iPhone and it was, like, so gross.” He stopped talking long enough to drop his prized baseball onto the counter next to the bowl of apples.

He threw his arms around his mother for a quick hug, grabbing his ball again before remembering to offer the same to the other woman. “Hey, Andi. Do you want a kitten? Now that all the gross is off them, they’re really cute. Tiny, with lots of black hair. Kinda like you.”

“Aren’t you the charmer?” Laughing, Andi squeezed him tight before ruffling Nathan’s hair. “And what am I supposed to do with a kitten?”

“Love it, of course,” Nathan said in the same tone he’d use to remind her the sky was blue. “You’d have to take care of it and give it food and stuff, like Mom does me. You pet it a lot and maybe let it sleep on your pillow next to you. Then you’ll have something to play with, and you won’t get lonely.”

He turned guileless brown eyes on his mother, his wide smile all the more enchanting for its missing teeth.

“If Andi gets one, you should, too, Mom. It could keep you company if I went to summer camp.”

The pitch for a kitten had been going for several weeks now, with Harper standing firm on her no. But camp was new. Ever since he’d found out a few days ago that his best pal, Jeremy, was going, Nathan had been begging to attend. But it was two weeks away, on an island, with strangers. Three strikes, no camp.

“Nice try,” Harper murmured, shaking her head both at his ploy and at her quite possibly overprotective concerns. “Dinner is in a little less than an hour. Why don’t you go play until then?”

She knew his face as well as she did her own—better, actually. So Harper could easily read the struggle in his eyes as he fought the urge to push.

Then he shrugged.

“I’m seriously starving. Can I have something to eat before dinner?”

“An apple.”

“Thanks.” Nathan grabbed the apple and his baseball, then headed out of the kitchen. At the arched doorway, he glanced back. “Do you think kittens like stories? I bet I’d get a lot of extra reading done if I had to read to a kitten every day.”

Harper smiled as she got the glass pitcher down to mix the juices into Nathan’s favorite.

“He’s only seven, and he already knows when to push and when he’ll get more by simply walking away,” Andi murmured with an appreciative shake of her head.

“The rest of the time, he uses charm, guile and a golden tongue,” Harper agreed. In that respect he was so like Brandon.

Andi waited until they heard his footsteps fade up the stairs before giving Harper an arch look.

“How long do you think you’ll hold out against getting him the kitten?” Andi asked.

“Hopefully another year.” Harper blew out a breath. “If not that, then I’d like to at least get through this Little League season before he takes on that big of a responsibility.”

That she’d give in was a given. But she figured as long as Nathan didn’t realize that, the power balance was exactly where it should be.

“And camp? Why don’t you want him going?”

“The longest he’s been away from home is a sleepover. This is two weeks. And it’s not like it’s space camp or baseball camp, which I could understand, given his obsession with those. This is adventure camp. Rafting and climbing and sleeping outdoors.” Harper gave a mock shudder. “All of that aside, I can’t afford it.”

There. That sounded perfectly reasonable.

“He’d have fun. And wouldn’t it do him good to explore other interests?” Andi gave her a look that said she saw right through all that reasoning. “You always say you want to give Nathan as many opportunities as you can. This is an opportunity.”

“So is circus school. But that doesn’t mean I’ll be signing him up for trapeze lessons.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re in tiger mode.” At Harper’s blank look, Andi curled her fingers into claws on either side of her chin. “You’re like a momma tiger protecting her cub from danger.”

Before Harper could ask what was wrong with that, Andi straightened one hand to wag her finger in the air.

“Except this isn’t danger. It’s camp. Singing around the campfire and learning to tie knots. It’s swimming and tire swings and hikes. It’d be a great learning experience. After all, education isn’t found only in the classroom.”

“What’d you do, swallow their brochure?” Harper muttered, her words lost in the refrigerator as she pulled out berries for dessert. But Andi still heard.

“I served on a board for underprivileged kids a couple of years ago. We had to provide a study of the benefits of programs like this in order to get funding. It really does make a difference for some kids. The independence, the skills and the friendships can be priceless.”

Harper’s scowl was hot enough to rot the glossy strawberries, but she couldn’t argue any of those points.

“Besides, if you don’t start letting go, you’re going to end up with a wimpy momma’s boy.” She paused for effect before adding, “Like Matt. You know, the man who wanted to bring his mother along on our vacations, whose mother still bought his underwear and who after being kicked to the curb for cheating, moved home with Mommy, who now makes him breakfast every day.”

Cute at seven, iffy at seventeen. And at thirty-two it was definitely pathetic. Even as they shared a grimace, Harper knew she’d be poking through her bank account later to see if she could juggle the registration costs. Not that she was totally convinced. But she was teetering.

“I’ll cover the fee,” Andi offered, giving her that last push over the edge. “Call it my contribution to loosening your inhibitions.”

“What does one have to do with the other?”

“If Nathan’s safely away at camp, you can do more than reconsider having sex. You can have it.”

And that was supposed to convince her?

The doorbell chimed before Harper could do more than shake her head in dismay.

“I’ll get that—you start reconsidering. When I get back, we’ll find that perfect third-date guy.”

“I’d put money on Nathan getting a kitten sooner than that happening,” she murmured as Andi swept from the room.

“I heard that,” the other woman sang out, her words echoing down the hall.

Harper’s frown intensified. All of this dating and sex talk was stupid. All it did was stir up thoughts of Brandon, bad memories and hurt feelings. And like anything to do with Brandon Ramsey, the second one thought occurred, a million followed. He was the poster boy for taking a mile when an inch was all she’d offered.

No more, she ordered herself. He wasn’t a part of her now, and her past was over.

“Registered letter for one Mr. Nathan Ramsey, care of Harper Maclean,” Andi said, coming back waving a large envelope. “Who’d get his name wrong?”

The bowl of cleaned berries suddenly shaking in her hands, Harper set it on the bar with care and stared. Her chest hurt. She couldn’t think for the buzzing in her ears.

Ramsey.

Harper’s heart raced so fast, it tripped over itself. How was that possible? Why whould Brandon contact Nathan? As far as he knew, she’d followed his instructions to end the pregnancy. How did he know she’d had the baby? How did he know Nathan’s name? Had he always known?

The air locked in Harper’s chest, vicious and tight, cutting off her breath, sending shards of pain knifing through her.

Why was he contacting her? Contacting Nathan? Was he going to try to get custody?

Or had his parents gotten wind of unaccounted Ramsey DNA and tracked down their heir apparent?

Harper looked toward the stairs with a desperate gaze. She should get Nathan. They should go. Now.

As soon as she thought that, Harper squared her shoulders.

To hell with that. Nathan was her son. This was her home. She’d be damned if Brandon or his rich parents were going to screw with either.

Still, her hand trembled so much as she took the letter that she dropped it onto the marble countertop as if it were on fire.

“Aren’t you going to open it?” Andi poked at the letter with one perfectly manicured nail. “It’s from a Dane Adams, US Navy, registered mail. It’s gotta be important.”

Dane Adams? The Navy?

Relief poured through her so fast, so strong, that her legs almost gave out. Irritation followed fast, because it was still all about Brandon. So Harper eyed the envelope with intense distaste.

“Harper,” Andi moaned. “You’re killing me. Open. Open. Open.”

Knowing Andi would keep it up until she did, she huffed out a hot breath. Sliding her thumbnail under the flap, Harper reluctantly tugged the paper out.

She noted the official-looking insignia and the fancy lettering denoting it to be from Admiral H. M. Cree, Special Ops commander.

Her brow creased as she read.

The room narrowed, and all the air disappeared. The words spun into a swirling blur of black on white. She needed to sit down. But she managed only a single step before her legs gave out and she sank to the floor, the letter clutched in her hands.

“What is it?” Instead of pulling her back up, Andi dropped down next to her, gathering Harper into her arms. She tried to read the paper, but Harper couldn’t let it go. “Sweetie, what does it say?”

“He’s dead,” Harper murmured, her voice sounding as if it were coming from the other end of a long tunnel. “Brandon is dead.”

CHAPTER THREE

MOURNING THE LOSS of a brother was never easy.

SEALs, support personnel and civilians gathered in the backroom at Olive Oyl’s bar to toast the memory of a warrior and to share their grief. Lieutenant Brandon Ramsey was memorialized with words like honor and skill and dedication. Captain Jarrett had choked giving his toast, and a visibly grieving Petty Officer Dane Adams had to be led out after delivering a eulogy so heartfelt that it was hard to hear over the audience’s sobs.

But when it came time for the men who’d served on that ill-fated mission, the core team, to say goodbye to their brother, they kept it private and took it off the beaten path. Savino chose a bar in Lemon Grove, far enough from base for them to mourn freely. The place was just a few steps up from a dive, and seedy enough that nobody would feel constrained by good behavior.

“Kinda crap that they won’t offer a military funeral for the guy. Decorated SEAL and all that, he’d have liked the fancy send-off.”

“Bet he’d like being alive even more.”

“Shame that none of his family showed. Not even his kid.”

“Sometimes civilians can’t handle it.”

“Dude isn’t officially declared dead—chances are they’re holding on to hope.”

“No point. Even if they didn’t find enough of him to declare him dead, he’s gone. Still, the Navy’ll tie it up in red tape, drag it out as long as they can to avoid paying survivor benefits.”

“I hear he had an in to DEVGRU. Guy went down before he got a chance to snag an elite spot.”

“Poseidon is the real elite.”

“He didn’t get a shot at that, either.”

“Yeah. Totally crap if you ask me.”

All excellent points. Conversation floated around him as Diego kicked back in the corner. Boots propped on the table and his chair tilted back, he considered his next shot of whiskey.

“You’d think I’d be drunk by now,” he said, the words slurring in his ears.

“Dude, you are shit-faced,” Lansky corrected, his bloodshot eyes as round as dinner plates.

“Yeah?” Not sure why he didn’t trust Lansky’s word—after all the guy spent half his time drinking—Diego looked toward Savino. “You think I’m drunk?”

“I think Lansky might be a few ahead of you, but you’re well on your way.”

“I’d better catch up, then.”

“Yo, Torres. There’s a pool table back here. I figure you being three sheets to the wind is the best chance I’ve got to beat you.”

Diego pulled his eyes off his glass to look at Aaron Ward. He tried to return the guy’s smile, but found he could only shake his head.

“You go ahead. It’ll take another fifth before I’m drunk enough for you to beat me.”

Amid laughter and a few crude suggestions, everyone headed for the poolroom except Diego and Lansky. His cell phone chiming, Savino stepped away, too. Diego felt like a jerk, but a part of him was glad to see them go.

“The last guy to ask me to play pool was Ramsey,” Diego realized, feeling like shit all over again. “This sucks.”

Images of the mission played through his head like a movie reel. They’d fast roped from the helo, landing just over the hill from the enemy base. Powers, Lansky and Ward had headed into the compound to rescue the hostage while Ramsey, Prescott and Lee secured the control center to begin downloading secret files. Everyone had been in place; everything had run exactly as planned.

Until it hadn’t.

The explosion had come just as Lee had signaled the all clear. Lee and Prescott both moved with their usual stealth as they exited the building, Diego provided cover. Then it had all blown to hell. The explosion had taken out half the building, the fire burning too hot for any survivors.

Diego had been faced with the choice of going into the flames in search of Ramsey’s remains or getting an injured Prescott, the rest of the team and the extracted hostage the hell out of there.

He’d chosen the unthinkable.

He’d left a man behind.

Eyes hot, he poured more whiskey, knocking it back before pouring again.

“You didn’t fuck it up,” Lansky said quietly.

“Listen to MacGyver,” Savino ordered as he rejoined them from wherever he’d gone to take his call. The guy spent more time on the phone than a teenage girl. Diego figured he’d mention that when he was a little more numb.

“Why should I listen to him?” he muttered.

“Because you didn’t fuck it up. There was no way to retrieve Ramsey. The fire was too intense. When support hit the site the next day, there wasn’t even enough of him to ID. Your orders were explicit. Your first duty was to the hostage. You got him out of there and Prescott to medical care so he didn’t die. That’s enough.”

It wasn’t, though.

It’d never be enough.

“He was a damned good SEAL,” Diego said quietly.

“He was a strong officer,” Savino murmured, his eyes scanning the room.

“He was an asshole.”

“What?” Lansky’s eyes widened when Diego glared at him. “I’m supposed to lie? Like getting himself blown to hell suddenly makes the guy less of an asshole?”

“You never liked him.”

“And he never liked you. The guy wanted to take you down in a bad way. He’d have done anything to screw you over.”

“Would he?” Savino asked. His voice didn’t change. Nor did his expression. So Diego couldn’t tell why Savino’s tone pierced through the alcohol hazing his brain.

“What are you thinking?” he asked his commander, studying Savino’s face. He had to blink a few times to bring it into focus.

“That things aren’t always what they seem.”

Even well on his way to drunk, Diego could see the dots Savino was laying out. But they didn’t connect.

“Ramsey is dead. We saw him go up in flames when that command center blew.”

His throat dry as the images pounded through his brain again, Diego grabbed his glass.

Savino laid a hand on his arm before he could drink.

“What?” His gut clenched when he looked at the other man’s face. Serious as a heart attack didn’t come close.

“Sober up” was all Savino said before glancing at Lansky. “Make your excuses. Then the two of you take a room nearby. Don’t return to base until you hear from me.”

“What—”

“Sober up,” Savino said again as he got to his feet. Diego was drunk, but not so drunk he didn’t see the flash of concern on his commander’s face as he glanced toward the other room, where their team played a loud game of pool. Diego’s buzz starting to fade, he lowered his feet to the floor, unconsciously coming to attention.

“Let me know where you land. Just me.” He waited until Diego and Lansky nodded. “I’ll be in touch tomorrow.”

He left, calling a friendly goodbye to the rest of the team as he went. Then Lansky looked at Diego. Diego frowned back.

“What the hell?” Lansky muttered.

“I don’t know, but I guess we’re calling it a night.”

His head swimming in whiskey and confusion, Diego could pinpoint only two things.

One, they had their orders.

And two, Savino was worried. So whatever those orders led to, it was going to get ugly.

* * *

TWENTY HOURS LATER, Nic Savino strode through the night-drenched parking lot like a man on a mission.

Which, of course, he was.

The run-down motel was lit by one stingy streetlight; the others looked like they’d been shot out. Trash heaped against the cyclone fence as if it were trying to climb free, and the air smelled of the ocean on a bender, week-old fish, rotten eggs and rust. A bored-looking hooker leaned against the graffitied wall three buildings down, and the sound of an argument heading toward violent rang out over the desperate plea of a car alarm.

He noticed it all.

He gave none of it his attention.

His entire focus was on reeling in the fury pounding through his head before he reached room 207. He was a man known for his control, and he was going to need every shred of it to deal with this situation.

Situation, he thought bitterly. That’s what the admiral was calling it. Savino’s SEAL team was under investigation. Or as the directive from Naval Intelligence had put it, a duly authorized official had been assigned to look into Operation Hammerhead, which had resulted in the death of one team member, the hospitalization of another and the dissemination of classified information to the enemy, possibly for profit.

It hadn’t taken much to read between the lines.

They were looking at his team for treason.

His men.

Him.

Savino climbed the cement stairs to the second floor, stepping around the bum sleeping under a pile of rags in the corner of the landing, breathing through his teeth to avoid the stench.

Three doors down the concrete walkway, he knocked once, then walked in.

“Lansky, you have crap taste in motels,” he said by way of a greeting. The room was wood veneer and orange polyester coated with a thin layer of grilled onions.

“You told me to find a place close to the bar. This is close.” Lansky shrugged from his spot on the floor. His back against the flowered bedspread, he had a notebook on one side of him, a bag of chips on the other and a computer in his lap.

“How’d you get a laptop?”

“Guy on the corner was selling them.” Lansky flashed a boyish grin. “You didn’t think I was just going to sit here watching Kitty Cat work off his drunk, did you?”

In other words, Lansky was trying to figure out what was going on. Good. Savino considered the shiny new MacBook Air. He knew it was hot. But it shouldn’t be traceable.

His gaze shifted to Torres.

He’d installed a rod in the bathroom doorway about three-quarters of the way up from the floor. Shirtless and with one hand tucked behind his back, he used the other to pull himself up, lowered and did it again. And again. His unshaven face was set, blank. Sweat poured and his breath huffed, telling Savino he’d been at it for a while.

Savino took in the man’s mood with a single glance. An IED was less dangerous than Torres right now.

“You get the pull-up bar from the same guy?”

“Found it by the Dumpster,” Lansky said, frowning as he peered at the laptop. “Mood this one’s in, he’d have ripped a pipe from the wall if I hadn’t come up with something.”

Torres’s only response was a grunt as he switched arms.

“He been at it long?”

That got Lansky’s attention. His frown didn’t fade, but he did look from Torres to Savino before shrugging.

“We been here, what? Almost a day, give or take? He’s clocked about two weeks PT in that time, and about two hours sleep.”

The team generally spent between ten and twenty hours a week on physical training, depending on their status. Torres had put that in already? It didn’t bode well.

Savino raked his hand through his hair. Giving in to the stress pounding in his head, he gripped the back of his neck as if he could squeeze the pain away.

Torres was a SEAL. He’d step up and do the duty when Savino assigned it. But the weight of it would be a lot easier to dump on the guy if he wasn’t in a pisser of a mood.

It was rare that Savino worried about that sort of thing. But this was a rare situation. And the duty would be more in the lines of a favor.

“You want a beer?” Lansky offered.

“Thought you were sobering up.”

“I’ve only had three. That is sober.” He tilted his head toward Torres, who’d flipped himself around so his knees were anchored over the bar and his head toward the floor, doing sit-ups. “He’s the one who was drunk anyway.”

“Right.” Though procrastination wasn’t in his nature, Savino had a desperate urge to put this conversation off for a month or five. But the betrayal gnawing at his gut wasn’t going to go away. And this situation was only going to get worse. So...

“Fall in, men.”

As expected, the quiet command had instant results. Lansky closed the laptop, got to his feet and waited with his hands clasped behind his back. Torres grabbed the bar with one hand to free his legs, then flipped to the floor. He didn’t bother to grab a towel but stepped over to match Lansky’s stance, pausing only to wipe a rivulet of sweat from his eyes before coming to parade rest.

“Word has come down through sources I trust that we’re being investigated on the QT. The team in general, Poseidon in particular.”

Lansky’s minuscule flinch made it clear that he hadn’t ferreted that much out yet. Good. He was one of the slickest hackers around. If he couldn’t find it, others wouldn’t, either.

“Let me make this clear. I consider this a bogus investigation. But some of the brass are taking it seriously because, if my intel is correct, it’s happening at the behest of the CIA.”

That got a frown from both of them.

Savino gave a satisfied nod. He wouldn’t have to explain just how potentially FUBAR this situation was. The CIA digging its sticky fingers into Navy business was never good. But into Special Ops and the SEALs? Poking at the DOD’s classified protocols? That had the potential to be beyond fucked up.

“It’s been determined that classified information has been sold to the enemy. Information believed to be available only to those participating in Operation Hammerhead.”

“Believed to be?” Lansky asked, his eyes sliding toward his notebook. At Savino’s nod, he leaned over to grab it and started taking notes.

“The information they intercepted could only have come from the compound in Kunar,” he said quietly, referring to the base they’d infiltrated during Operation Hammerhead. “The scientist you rescued had been close to a breakthrough on the formula for a particularly lethal chemical weapon when he was grabbed. Because he is also a member of the Russian government, every piece of information, every byte of data he produced during his capture, he covertly tagged.”

He waited for both men to nod their understanding. Tagging the data didn’t make it traceable. But it did pinpoint and time-stamp its source.

“The chemical weapon formula was discovered in the hands of jihad militants.” He named the faction, a particularly violent extremist group who’d claimed responsibility for three European bombings the previous year, including an amusement park.

“One of the militants could have sold it,” Lansky pointed out, although he didn’t sound very confident.

“The electronic signature pins the data to a specific time frame.” He ignored the clutch in his gut and continued. “The CIA believes it’s unlikely to be one of them given that the militants themselves were under attack and their compound in flames at that time.”

He waited a beat, then arched his brow.

The two men looked at each other, and he could see the messages pass between them. In just a look, they replayed the mission, they explored the options, they reached the same conclusion.

When their gazes met his again, Lansky seemed as if he were going to explode. Torres simply stared.

“You think someone from our team stole the formula? That they betrayed the team, the country, by selling?” Lansky asked, his words two shades from livid. “You think one of us is dirty?”

“No. He’s telling us the damned CIA thinks that,” Torres corrected, speaking for the first time since Savino had entered. There was no surprise in his words, making it clear he’d been expecting something ugly. But the look in his eyes said he hadn’t thought it’d be quite this ugly.

“I think that we have to consider every possibility, no matter how impossible it seems,” Savino said slowly. “It could be that whoever did this targeted this specific information. They could have targeted this specific mission. Or there was no target and it was simply opportunistic.”

“Which is it?” Lansky asked.

Savino arched a brow at Torres. The other man rubbed his thumb over his forehead, took a long breath, then blew it out before meeting Savino’s blank gaze.

“He thinks it was mission specific. That’s why we’re rooming with roaches here in Hotel California. He had us lay low in case he needed us off base and off duty, so whoever is looking can’t tag us if he sends us on special assignment.”

And that was why he’d groomed Torres for higher things. The man was good. Excellent even. That this could take him down, ruin his career, was fucking unreal. Fury reared its head for just a second before Savino slammed the lid again. It didn’t matter. He prided himself on never letting his thoughts show. So his words were calm and his expression neutral.

“In light of various pieces of information that have been filtered my way, I think this mission was targeted for a reason. I just don’t know what it is. Yet. Neither does the CIA.”

“Are they looking at me specifically because I led the mission?” Torres asked quietly. Savino had served with the guy for ten years. He recognized the pain and fury beneath the words.

“The quickest way to put this to bed is to find out who is behind it,” Savino answered. “Who had the most to gain, and how would they pull it off.”

“Ramsey,” Lansky said, the words coming almost faster than Savino finished talking. “That dude thought he was so much better than everyone else on the team—he never tried to fit in. He was Cyber, so he knows computers and could have pulled that formula before the place blew. And he had a major hard-on to take Diego down in any way he could.”

Torres shook his head.

“You’re reaching, man. You just want the guy to be dirty.”

“And you refuse to see reality because you believe in a code of honor that says a SEAL can’t be dirty. Doesn’t mean other SEALs follow that same code.”

“The guy is dead. What’d he do, sell the formula from the great beyond?”

“The guy was slimy as hell. He probably staged that explosion and snuck out of there like the snake he is. Was. Is.”

“Can’t decide?” Torres asked with a smirk.

“Is,” Lansky shot back, his boyish features grim.

“And this is what we have to find out,” Savino interrupted. “Word came down this morning that a large sum of money was deposited in an account attached to Ramsey’s name.”

“That son of a bitch got paid?”

“I didn’t say that,” Savino corrected Lansky. “The account is attached to his name. His and his kid’s, with the mother as guardian. But she’s not a signatory on it, and there’s no record that she’s ever used it. It could be a smoke screen.”

“Whoever did the deed had the money put in Ramsey’s account in case eyes were cast, they’d be cast his way,” Diego summed up.

“Yes.”

Lansky rubbed his fingers over bloodshot eyes, then shook his head.

“So you’re saying it was someone besides Ramsey?” He sounded like a kid who’d just been told Santa had been arrested on Christmas Eve.

“No,” Torres said in a toneless voice before Savino could answer. “He’s saying that’s how the CIA is looking at it. They’re gunning for one of us.”

“The CIA and NI,” Savino confirmed, letting them know that Naval Intelligence was involved.

“You have a plan, right?” Lansky pressed his hands together. “Tell me you have a plan.”

“I have a plan.” He nodded toward the chairs. It was going to take a while and they might as well be comfortable.

“Brilliant,” Lansky said an hour later, his pen tapping a quick beat on his notebook. “Except for one thing.”

“You want the woman,” Torres said from the floor, where he was doing push-ups.

“I want the woman.”

“Nope.” Now that he’d outlined the situation and given the orders, Savino was finally comfortable enough to step out of command mode. “You’re volatile, MacGyver.”

“Me?” Lansky pressed his hand to his chest and tried for offended. “Kitty Cat is the one with the temper. He’s the one with the rep. I’m the guy next door.”

“Your specialty is tech. We need you on the computer researching, digging. Prescott is our expert in information warfare, but he’s still in the hospital, recovering. Torres trained under him for two years, he’s got solid IW skills. He’s our best bet.”

Savino considered the stakes. A chemical formula in the hands of militants whose mission was mass terrorism spelled every kind of ugly in the book of possibilities. The threat to US security abroad was high. The threat to the SEAL team, and especially Poseidon, was even higher. If they didn’t reel this in and reel it fast, there was going to be blood on the floor. Too much blood to mop up.

So Savino added, “Besides, you’re biased.”

He didn’t add that Lansky was hitting the bottle a little too heavy these days.

“Ramsey was an asshole,” Lansky argued. “He had a grudge against Torres because our boy is the best. Add means and opportunity, and that’s realism. Not bias.”

“Right. You want him to be guilty.”

“So? Better him than one of us.”

“And that’s your bias.” Savino leaned back in his chair. “Torres here is coming from the opposite end. Not neutral, but opposite.”

“Come again?”

“You believe Ramsey’s dirty, so you’ll work to find facts to support that premise. Torres wants Ramsey to be clean. He’ll work to prove the man’s innocence so he can clear the team’s name. The truth lies somewhere in between, and by coming from opposite ends, the two of you will find it.”

“Yeah, but Kitty Cat gets to work his end with a great view chatting up a sexy broad in a fancy zip code. Me? You’re gonna stick me here, aren’t you. In bumfuck nowhere with orange drapes.” Lansky gave the motel room a sneering look. Ignoring them both, Torres switched from push-ups to sit-ups.

“Nobody knows you’re here, so this is as good as any until we have a direction,” Savino agreed with a nod. The bone-deep tension finally starting to loosen now that he knew things would be handled, he rested one booted foot on the opposite knee.

“Bottom line, Torres is the one whose head is gonna roll farthest if we don’t figure it out. He’s the one I want staking out the ex.”

“You think he’ll go to her?”

Savino glanced at Torres, who’d finally hit his wall and sat, arms draped over his knees, trying to catch a breath.

“Everything I’ve seen indicates that if Ramsey’s our guy, dead or alive, he’d involve her.”

“The way he talked, they were a pretty hot item,” Lansky agreed. “Maybe that’s why she didn’t bring the kid to the memorial. She knew Ramsey wasn’t dead and didn’t want the boy blowing their cover.”

“Or maybe she simply didn’t want to bring her kid to a bar to meet a bunch of strangers for the first time while they share stories of his old man going up in flames,” Torres muttered.

Exactly. Savino knew Torres’s history, knew where the guy had come from. Just another reason he wanted him leading this mission.

If Ramsey was dirty and his girlfriend complicit, the kid’s life was going to be blown all to hell. Torres had been there himself; he’d felt the betrayal of a selfish father who’d put corruption ahead of his family. Who’d put his personal vision of glory over his son.

Torres would take care not to point the finger and put another boy on the same painful path he’d walked.

Which was something Savino was counting on. Not so much to protect the kid, although he wasn’t indifferent. But because that care, that meticulous focus on detail, was what they needed if they were going to present a clean case to NI and clear Poseidon’s name.

Of course, if Ramsey was truly dead and they confirmed that he was whistle clean, SEAL Team 7 was up a creek. That would mean there was a traitor in their midst. That kind of thing was a black mark against the entire team. It could be a major blow to Torres, who’d led the mission. It could result in loss of rank, loss of command, dishonorable discharge and quite possibly imprisonment.

At odds with Savino’s usual cool, fury flamed hot and livid in his gut. NI already had it in for Poseidon, disliking their air of exclusivity and admiral’s auspices. This was all they’d need to disband and destroy the Special Ops group.

Savino wanted to lay that all out. To underscore the severity of this situation.

For each one of the team personally.

But that’d be indulgent.

Stating the obvious would show a lack of faith in his men. And it’d waste time.

“Your orders are to watch, engage if engaged, but don’t give any hint that you believe Ramsey might be alive.”

Mid-sit-up, Torres paused to give Savino a look that was clearly a pledge.

“Watch, engage only if engaged? I specialize in recon and counterterrorism. That sounds like babysitting.”

Distaste and discomfort were both evident in the man’s voice. Sitting and watching, not acting, it was the antithesis of what they were trained for. And a man like Torres, who, as he said, specialized in action, probably thought an assignment like this was next to impossible. But that’s what they were trained to do. The impossible.

“Observe, blend, engage if engaged. Play nice and, if possible, earn their trust. Consider yourself undercover as a nice guy.” Savino almost grinned at Lansky’s snorted amusement. He couldn’t stop himself from adding, “Nailing this guy will put an end to this investigation. Otherwise...”

The end of Poseidon.

“We’re clean. We fight the good fight. We fight the clean fight. Until we have to fight dirty.” Elbows on his knees now, Torres shrugged. “Poseidon is clean. Nothing they find can prove it any other way. But we’ll do their job for them and prove it our way. Prove we’re crystal.”

Exactly what he’d wanted to hear.

And that was why Torres was the best man for the job.

CHAPTER FOUR

DIEGO HAD BEEN to a lot of places. Stinking slums and baking beaches, crowded cities and ice-crusted mountains. He’d served with people from all walks of life and had gone through most of the states in the union. But he couldn’t recall ever actually bunking down anywhere he fit in less than the exclusive Riviera Enclave in Santa Barbara.

Throttling his Harley back from a roar to a grumbling purr, he prepared to stop as he neared the guardhouse. But for the first time in the three days he’d been here, the orange-and-white-striped gate rose at his approach.

Well, well. How about that, he mused as he rolled right on through. Maybe it was a sign.

His first day he’d had to register both himself and his bike. When he’d come through a couple of hours later with his gear, the same guard had made him show his ID all over again. Same the next day, and the one after that.

A hint of satisfaction worked its way through the fury-filled frustration that had fueled his every waking moment for the last four days.

He’d be happier if it stemmed from, oh, say, hearing that Jared had made a breakthrough in hacking Ramsey’s email accounts. Or better yet, seeing Ramsey himself stroll up the sidewalk, as alive as can be. He’d even settle for the extraction team finding DNA in the dust they’d scooped up from the mission site and proving that Ramsey was well and truly dead.

But Diego had served on enough missions to know that success was built one small triumph at a time. And that he needed to take what he could get.

He kept his speed under twenty. There weren’t any of those signs posted warning that children were playing, probably because they weren’t allowed to. It was that kind of neighborhood. Rich, upscale and exclusive, the lawns were all perfectly maintained, the birds chirped in sync and the few people he’d actually seen looked like something off a movie set. Pretty and Perfect, he decided the film would be titled as he slowed his bike to a crawl.

He didn’t turn his head, but his eyes locked on his target as he pulled into the driveway next door. Sun-pinked adobe and gleaming rod iron were accented by arched windows, a covered front patio and fat clay pots overflowing with jewel-toned flowers. The green sweep of lawn was intersected by a curving walkway decorated with pebbles the same color as the house. Next to the sidewalk and at odds with the picture-perfect landscape a little blue wagon tilted drunkenly to the side, its front wheel missing.

So far Diego’s recon hadn’t done more than confirm the information they had. Ramsey’s ex lived in the house with their son. She worked from home, led a supposedly quiet life and drove an aged Camry.

He needed more.

And he wasn’t going to get it watching from the outside. He just hadn’t found his way in.

Not yet.

His orders were specific.

Watch and wait; engage only if engaged.

Damned if following orders wasn’t a pain in the ass sometimes.

But then, as if someone had decided to cut him a break, a movement swept up the sidewalk in the form of a kid pushing his bicycle.

Diego let himself smile. Why not? He might have just found his angle.

He’d been watching the house and occupants for three days, so he knew at a glance that the slight figure with tousled blond hair and scuffed orange high-tops belonged to Ramsey’s kid, Nathan. This could be it. His entry to Ramsey’s woman.

Taking it slow, Diego parked his bike and removed his helmet before swinging his leg over the seat. All the while, he kept his eyes on the kid and tried to figure his opening. By the time he removed the keys, he knew the drizzle of sweat skating down his spine had nothing to do with wearing a leather jacket in hotter than usual May sunshine.

Approach an admiral? He had that down pat. He knew the protocol on engaging a working girl on the docks of a foreign country, a militant with a nervous expression or a snitch in the Afghan mountains.

But a kid?

Diego grimaced. He didn’t like to admit that he was totally clueless. But reality was reality. And yeah, he was clueless. He ran a hand through his sweat-dampened hair as he watched the boy push his bike closer.

The kid raised his hand to shield his eyes. Even from a dozen yards away, it was easy to see him slide a glance toward his front door, then back Diego’s way.

Giving the door a considering look himself, Diego had a brief vision of Lansky’s theory being true. That Ramsey was inside there, alive and well, kicking back with a beer. Would he be flashing that shit-eating grin of his, looking as if he owned the world? Or would he take one look at Diego and shoot him dead, destroying yet another piece of the brotherhood that the team honored so highly?

Diego’s teeth clenched tight and hard as he turned toward the door of his current abode instead of kicking in the neighbor’s door to find out.

“Hey, mister,” the young voice called.

“Yeah?” Shoulders braced, he froze halfway between the sidewalk and the door. After a long moment, he turned his head to look. That’s when he noticed the bicycle’s chain dangling, its greasy loop of metal scraping along the sidewalk.

“You know anything about bikes?” The kid jerked his chin toward the Harley. “That’s yours, right? So you probably know how to fix ’em and stuff, maybe?”

“You need help fixing your bike?”

The kid looked at him, then at the chain drooping sadly on the sidewalk. Didn’t need to be a mind reader or have jack worth of experience with kids to hear the unspoken “duh” loud and clear.

Diego snorted, amused at his previous hesitation.

“Sure. I can help.” He strode over to take the bike in hand. His gaze tracked the larger sprocket the chain was hanging from, noting the damage to the smaller one behind it.

“This is supposed to be hooked over here,” he pointed out, poking at the chain. He noted the broken teeth, figuring that’s why the chain had slipped.

“I keep putting it there, but it won’t stay.” The kid nudged the chain with a worn tennis shoe, but his eyes stayed on Diego. “I thought you knew bikes.”

“I know how to fix that one.” Diego tilted his head toward the Harley. “We’ll have to see what I can do with yours.”

He dropped into a crouch, flipping the bike to rest upside down on the cement. A couple of tweaks of his fingers had the chain in place.

“It’s not going to stay there,” he noted. “You need to replace this part.”

“Can’t you fix that, too?” The boy’s eyes slid toward his house and whatever he saw there had his bottom lip poking out. “Can’t you try?”

“Why?” Diego followed his gaze, then gave the kid a closer look. He was clean, well-dressed and had an open, easy expression. None of that said abuse to Diego. But, again, what did he know about kids? “You gonna get in trouble over it?”

“Maybe.” One of those sneakers scuffed at the sidewalk as the kid wrinkled his nose. “Can you tell how it got broke just looking at it? Could it have just sorta, you know, fell off?”

“Could these teeth on this sprocket have just sorta fell off?” he repeated, tapping the part in question.

“Yeah. Could it?” His brows drawn tight enough to furrow his freckles, the kid fingered the sprocket. Testing the other teeth, probably.

“Your parents stupid?”

“My mom’s not stupid.” The kids eyes shot back up, flashing with a protective kind of heat that Diego recognized, having felt it often enough over his own mom.

“Didn’t say she was. But it’s gonna take stupid to believe that pieces of metal just sorta fall off.”

“Oh.” The kid frowned at the sprocket again, then at his house. Then he gave Diego an easy smile. “Okay. Why don’t you show me how to fix it, maybe? Then I can do it myself if it falls off again.”

“Better plan,” Diego agreed, skimming a finger under the chain to dislodge it. “Here’s what you do.”

He proceeded to take the kid through the steps, then walked him through how to replace the sprocket.

“Your dad should be able to replace it, no problem,” he added, tossing out a line. “But this way you know how, too.”

The kid wasn’t biting. His eyes stayed locked on the chain for a few seconds; then he shrugged.

“It wouldn’t do any good to take it apart unless I had the new, what’d you call it?” He raised clear blue eyes.

“Sprocket.”

“Yeah.” After contemplating for another second, he shook his head. “Even if I had enough money, I’d still have to ask Mom for a ride to the store. So she’d know.”

“Moms usually do.”

“Yeah.” The kid tossed off his gloomy expression. “Still, thanks for the help, mister.”

Damn.

“Hang on. Maybe I can tweak it a little.” Telling himself it was just a way to keep the kid talking until he mentioned his father, Diego unlatched the saddlebag on his Hog and pulled out a few tools.

“You’re cool. Thanks tons. You got any kids?”

“I’m not married,” Diego answered automatically, watching the kid out of the corner of his eye to gauge his reaction.

“Okay.” The expectant expression didn’t change. After a second, his blue eyes flashed with impatience. “So? You got any kids?”

Laughing under his breath, Diego shook his head.

“So you live here alone?” The boy glanced toward the house, a small line creasing his freckled brow.

“For now.” Diego tilted his head toward the kid’s house. “You live there alone?”

“’Course not,” the boy said with a laugh, shaking his head at what was obviously a stupid question. “It’s me and my mom living there.”

“Just the two of you, hmm?” Was it wrong to lead a kid on? Diego knew his motives were solid. Still, the boy was so open and, well, sweet, that Diego had to twitch his shoulders to shake off the sudden discomfort.

“Just us now. Used to be Andi and Matt, but we were here a lot cuz mom was decorating things. Then Matt moved out cuz he had issues and it was us and Andi. Then Andi went to live the high life, so it’s me and Mom.”

Andy and Matt? Two guys? Diego blinked and rocked back on his heels. He wasn’t sure if he was more impressed that the kid had blurted that all on a single breath or at the insight into Ramsey’s ex’s sexual habits. Remembering the photo of the blonde on the beach, he pursed his lips.

“’Course Andi’s still here all the time. Except for trips to Greece for obligation visits. My friend Jeremy is going on a trip, too. He’s going to camp. Have you ever gone to camp, mister?”

Camping, was it? After indulging the image of an oil-coated threesome in his imagination for another second, Diego gave the kid a nod.

“Sure. I’ve camped.” Sleeping in a tent in the Afghan desert counted, right? “So you’re going camping?” With who? Maybe your late, not-so-great father?

“Nah. I can’t go. I want to, cuz Jaermy is my best friend and it’d be fun. And his dad’s gonna chap’rone, too, cuz his mom’s paranoid. That’s what his dad said. That his mom won’t let him go unless his dad is there to make sure he doesn’t fall out of a tree or drown or something. That’d be cool, huh?” The kid looked pretty excited about those possibilities. “Do you got any pets? You know, like a dog or a cat or even a bird? If you’ve got a cat, it could have kittens, right?”

Blinking as the kid jumped tracks, Diego shook his head.

“No pets. But your bike is set.” Diego rose. With a quick flip of one hand, he righted the bike, then gave it a little shake for good measure. When everything stayed in place, he nudged the kickstand down and let the bike rest on it. “That should hold it for a while.”

“You’re the best, mister.” The kid had to get his smile from his mother, Diego decided. Because not once could Diego remember Ramsey’s smile making him want to offer one in return.

“Diego,” he said after a second, figuring talking was better than standing here on the sidewalk, grinning like an idiot. “You can call me Diego.”

“Cool. I’m Nathan. I’m seven. I’m gonna be a stuntman when I grow up. Or a veterinarian. I’d rather be a Jedi warrior, but Mom says we’ll see about that one. She says that about a lot of stuff. We’ll see. What are you?”

Huh? Was that a question? The kid’s expression said it was, so Diego did a mental replay.

“I’m in security,” he said, using the cover Savino had decided on.

“Bet you’re good at it.” Grabbing the bike by the handles, the kid gave it a good shake, then grinned when the chain stayed in place. “You’re good at fixing things, too. Maybe you could teach me to fix some things?”

Diego didn’t have much experience with kids—hell, he didn’t have any experience. Despite that, he had to figure this one was something special.

Before he could answer him, a delivery truck rumbled its way to a stop in front of the kid’s house. Something he’d noticed was a regular occurrence. At least once, sometimes twice a day.

“You sure get a lot of deliveries,” he observed, watching a guy in shorts carry a stack of boxes toward the door.

“Yeah. Mom gets tons of stuff. She decorates for people’s houses. She orders pillows and bowls and things like that. Sometimes she gets material and things to help her decide colors.”

Convenient. Or it would be if Ramsey were running drugs or stolen goods—that’d be a solid cover. But unless he’d shipped himself home in an ash can, it probably wasn’t pertinent. Lansky would claim otherwise, though, so Diego made a note to mention it in his next report.

He caught a flash of something out of the corner of his eye. All it took was a casual glance toward the house to send him rocking back on his heels.

Damn.

Not even signing for a slew of packages and fending off the flirtations of the delivery guy were enough to keep Harper Maclean from sending her son a protective frown.

So far his glimpses of her had been at a longer distance than the twenty feet currently separating them. Her photos didn’t do her justice. He’d known she was a looker, but no way he’d have thought fully dressed in person could trump that bikini shot, even if that bikini shot had been kind of blurry.

He’d have been wrong.

Even glaring at him, as if she thought he’d get greasy cooties all over her sweet little boy, she was gorgeous.

From the tip of her tousled blond hair to the toes of her strappy high-heeled sandals, she screamed California girl. She was too far away to see many details, but he knew from the file Lansky had compiled that she had strong features. A wide mouth with its generous bottom lip and dark brows that arched over big blue eyes.

Diego wasn’t sure why he felt as if he’d just taken a kick to the solar plexus. He’d never gone for the good-girl look, and there was nothing particularly sexy about what she was wearing. The turquoise pleated skirt flared in a way that made her waist look miniscule and her cream-colored top looked like a silky T-shirt, but both were a little too generous with the fabric for his tastes.

Which didn’t matter, he reminded himself as the woman walked from the front door to her courtyard’s arch. Sexy or dog ugly, she was a means to an end. And that end had nothing to do with getting her naked, more’s the pity.

“Hey there,” he called in what he figured was a friendly manner.

From the way she frowned and hugged one of the delivery boxes to her chest, she didn’t seem to agree.

“Hello,” she responded after a moment. “Nathan, you need to come inside.”

“But, Mom—”

“Now, please.”

With that uncompromising edict and one final stare at Diego, she was gone. Leaving an open front door and a whole lot of curiosity bouncing through Diego’s head. Only some of it having to do with his mission.

“Guess your mom’s not much on being neighborly,” he murmured.

“She’s not mad. She’s just, you know, suspicious about me talking to strangers. I had to call when I left Jeremy’s house, and she times it, you know? She’s probably watching now through the window.” The boy rolled his eyes. “It’s the paranoia. That’s what Jeremy’s dad says. Moms are paranoid about stuff happening to their kids. He says you gotta indulge the paranoia sometimes.”

Wrinkling his nose, the kid grabbed the bike by the handlebars. “What’s that mean? Do you know?”

It meant that Jeremy’s dad better watch out or one of those moms was gonna kick his patronizing ass.

“What do you think it means?” Diego asked instead of sharing that opinion.

“I dunno. I asked my mom, and all she said was that even Neanderthals had their uses. What’s that mean?” Never taking his eyes off Diego, he straddled his bike. “Isn’t a Neanderthal a guy who rides dinosaurs?”

Diego grinned at the image of a caveman saddling a T. rex for a ride through lava flow.

“I suppose your mom meant that some people’s attitudes are stuck in the dark ages. That their brains haven’t grown much since the caveman days.” After half a second, Diego added, “Maybe you shouldn’t say that to this guy, though. People who think that way tend to dislike being called on it.”

“Okay.” The boy shrugged. “I’ll see you again, right? Cuz we’re neighbors now.”

“Yeah. We’ll see each other again.”

The boy flashed a bright smile and waved one grubby hand before riding away.

Diego watched the boy drop the bike against the side of the house in clattering disregard before running toward the front door, pausing to toss another friendly wave over his shoulder.

The kid had talked more in that ten minutes than Diego had in the last ten days. And that, Diego realized, was a certified entry into Ramsey’s world.

As he strode toward his fancy new barracks, he assessed the neighborhood’s security and debated various means of getting to see that kid again. Another twenty minutes, half hour tops, and he’d get all the intel he needed to clear Ramsey or nail his ass to the wall. And maybe, just maybe, get a little more info on the sexy blonde and who had apparently a very creative sex life.

It wasn’t until he stepped through the front door that he realized he was grinning.

* * *

HARPER COULDN’T RELAX.

Not even after Nathan was inside, safe and sound.

Feeling like she’d been punched in the gut, she could only stand in her kitchen and stare at the box from Petty Officer Dane Adams. Apparently the man thought she, or rather, Nathan, would want some of Brandon’s effects.

Why?

They’d done just fine without a single thing from him—other than DNA. Why would that change because he was dead? She’d figured it didn’t matter. Even after she’d received notice of Brandon’s death, she’d decided she’d set it aside to tell Nathan later, when he was older and might better understand.

She glared at the box, hating it and everything it represented. She wanted to ignore it. Her gut told her to ignore everything, to continue to pretend that it didn’t exist. That he didn’t exist. But she couldn’t. Not anymore.

Once, when he’d been four, her sweet little boy had asked why he didn’t have a dad like some of the other kids in his preschool class. All she’d been able to come up with was that the man had made a choice and gone away. That must have been enough for Nathan, because he’d never asked again, and she’d been happy to leave it that way.

Harper pressed her hand against the churning misery in her belly. She’d told herself she was waiting for the right time to tell him. Really, she’d been ignoring it, and quite nicely, too. And it had been working just fine.

A part of her wanted to continue ignoring it, to throw the box in the trash and be done with the entire issue. Taking a deep breath she tore open the plastic packing slip envelope. Inside was a simple note.

Ms. Maclean,

Brandon Ramsey was a hero. A man to be proud of. His death is a blow to his friends, to his team and to the country. It’s important that we honor our heroes. Please pass on these things to his son, so he can honor his father.

Dane Adams

So not only had Brandon known about Nathan, and where to find them, but his friend did, too. Which meant she couldn’t ignore this. Not until she was sure that the Ramseys with their high-powered attorneys weren’t going to show up next. She forced herself to cut through the packing tape. She unfolded the flaps and, cringing only a little, lifted aside the neatly folded tissue paper.

On top was a large envelope with her name on it, and beneath that what looked like a small leather-bound book or photo album. She didn’t open it. Couldn’t. Not yet. She set it aside to look at the rest. A rosewood box of ribbons and medals. At least a dozen bound certifications for things like marksmanship and diving. Even a cap, the white fabric and black plastic formal and stiff.

She didn’t know this world. She didn’t know the man who’d belonged in it. Why was she bringing it into her son’s life?

Because she didn’t have a choice, she realized with a sigh. Eyes burning with tears she refused to shed, Harper tucked the box under the kitchen desk, then tossed the note and large envelope addressed to her on the built-in kitchen desk to deal with later. She wanted to toss the box out the door but refrained.

Did she need this right now? She stormed through dinner prep like a woman riding a tornado. Oil heated, lettuce ripped and—screw it—the oven door slammed on frozen French fries.

Wasn’t it enough to have to deal with Nathan going away on his first trip longer than an overnight sleepover? Not only away, but away at camp on a tiny island in the middle of the freaking ocean. Okay, not quite the middle, but it was an island and it was surrounded by Pacific waters.

She was handling that, wasn’t she? Granted, she hadn’t told him that he was going yet. Once she did, she wouldn’t be able to change her mind. This morning Andi, with her usual efficiency, had forwarded the email showing the camp registration fee paid in full. Now Harper had no choice. But she hadn’t had a tantrum about that, had she?

Had she climbed onto the roof, yanked at her hair and screamed her throat raw yet over Brandon’s dramatic reentry into her life? Leave it to him to force his presence into Nathan’s life in a way she couldn’t stop. He would have known she’d tell him to take a flying leap if he’d contacted her about meeting Nathan, about being a part of her son’s life. He’d had his chance. He’d made his choice.

Now he’d never get to change his mind, or try to change hers. Her gaze slid to the red-and-blue-striped priority shipping box that’d been delivered an hour ago. She’d shoved it under the small kitchen desk, half-hidden but all too visible.

Harper grabbed her drink. Her teeth clenched tight on the straw as she sucked down a long sip of lemon-infused water and tried to settle the flood of emotions pouring through her. The water cooled her throat, but it didn’t help with the confusion storming through her chest.

Was she supposed to be sad? Was she supposed to grieve? And how did she tell her son that the father she’d never once mentioned was dead? Would he care? By trying to keep him from getting hurt, had hiding Brandon from Nathan actually hurt him?

And how was that for a convoluted guilt trip? Harper closed her eyes to the pain she didn’t understand and took a shaky breath. A part of her wanted to gather Nathan and run, hide. The rest wanted to climb in bed, pull the covers over her head and pretend that none of this was happening.

Since Harper was made of stronger stuff than that, she did neither.

Instead she finished dinner preparations.

“Mom, I’m starving. Like, I could eat a whole Tauntaun,” Nathan announced as he ran into the kitchen.

“I didn’t have time to stop by the planet Hoth for Tauntaun, so we’re having chicken instead.” Harper forced a smile. She had to struggle with some of the Star Wars references, but anything from the first three movies, she was solid on. She pointed a finger at her son before he could slide into his chair. “Wash. Then set the table.”

“’Kay.” He hurried to the kitchen sink, nudging the stool in with his foot and turning the water on before she could remind him of her opinion on kicking the furniture. “Chicken is way better than fish. Jeremy said his mom is making him eat something called hall butt tonight because he’s going to adventure camp.”

“Halibut.” Harper’s lips twitched and just like that, the bulk of the stress drained away. “And you hate eating fish.”

“I’d eat it if I went to adventure camp. It’d be different there, cuz I’d be catching it and all that stuff. Jeremy says they go fishing and hiking and all sorts of cool things. They even learn how to tie knots.” Nathan jumped down, not bothering to move the stool aside before hopping over to gather the dishes she’d already set out on the island. “Do you think they tell ghost stories around a campfire, too? That’d be cool. I know some good stories.”

Harper let the questions roll over her as she tried to figure out how to tell Nathan that his father was dead. Did she explain that before she told him he was going to camp? Or did she start with the camp news and let him revel for a while before she burst his happy little bubble?

“Mom?”

“Hmm?” Forcing herself to shake off the what-ifs and focus on what mattered—Nathan—Harper brought the salad to the table.

“Those are guy things, aren’t they?”

Guy things? She replayed the conversation as she handed Nathan a bowl of salad, then arched one brow.

“Are you trying to say that a woman couldn’t hike or fish or sail?” she asked, dishing up her own salad while giving her son a narrow look.

“Sure. Girls can if they want.” He stabbed a chunk of cucumber, then shot her a wicked smile. “Not you, cuz you don’t like anything that’s dirty or slimy. After we tried camping last summer, I heard you tell Andi that you’d rather eat slugs than sleep on the ground again. But I suppose some girls prob’ly like dirt and slime. It’s okay that you don’t.”

“Smart boy,” she murmured. Andi was right. She couldn’t be enough for Nathan. Not by herself, she admitted as a wave of guilt washed over her. This guilt was as familiar as her own skin. It’d come with the pregnancy hormones and never left.

“Eat your salad” was all she said.

“I met the guy who’s living at Mr. Lowenstein’s house.”

“So I saw.”

Oh, yeah. She’d seen the guy. A muscle-bound, Harley-riding guy with an intimidating stare, and most likely an IQ lower than he could bench-press. Starting on her own salad, Harper told herself to relax. She was sure he wasn’t dangerous. The Riviera Enclave was an exclusive gated community and the Lowensteins were vigilant in their screening. Added to that, the longest they ever sublet was a month. So the man might be a little intimidating, but he wasn’t likely to have any real impact on their lives.

“His name is Diego. He fixes things and secures stuff. He doesn’t got a kid, but he likes pets.” With the look of wide-eyed guile that he’d perfected, Nathan smiled at his mother. “That’s a good thing, right? In case we ever had to go on a job that’s overnight like the one you did in San Diego last summer for that music lady, there’d be someone next door to feed a pet. If we had one, I mean.”

Nicely done, Harper thought, appreciating how many creative ways he could make that pitch. While he rambled on about the care and needs of a kitten and debated the cuteness factor of gray tabbies versus orange, she pulled the warming chicken and finished fries from the oven.

“Chicken fingers?” Nathan exclaimed, pausing in his recital of possible cat names. His excitement slid into a frown as he noted the potatoes she was scooping onto the royal-blue Fiesta platter. “And fries? Why’re we having Saturday food? Isn’t today Wednesday?”

“Sure it is. But you’ll be at camp on Saturday, so we’re having Saturday food today instead.” Nathan’s jaw dropped. He gave a war whoop at the same time he shot out of his chair and launched himself into her arms.

His grateful enthusiasm was almost enough to drown out her concerns.

“You’re the best, Mom. The absolute best. Thanks. I’m gonna call Jeremy. Can I? Can I? I want to tell him so we can bunk together.”

“After dinner.” Harper held on a moment longer. Then because she knew she had to start getting used to it, she slowly let go. She scooped her fingers through the wavy mass of his hair, then tilted her head toward the table. “That way the two of you can talk as long as you like.”

That he’d still have words for later was just one of those things that always amazed her about Nathan. He’d talk through the meal about everything from camp to the LEGO project he was working on to baseball and back again. Unlike his mother, he never ran out of words. Never had to search for them.

But she was searching now. For the words, for the right way to tell him what she had to share. As he scooped his last fry through his ketchup, she still hadn’t figured it out. But like most of motherhood, she realized she’d have to figure it as she went.

“Leave the dishes for now, Nathan.” She laid her hand on his arm to keep him from jumping up from the table. “We need to talk.”

“Am I in trouble?” His face creasing, Nathan settled into his chair again.

“No, sweetie,” she rushed to say, sliding her hand down to mesh her fingers through his smaller ones.

He was growing so fast. Once, those fingers had been tiny as they’d wrapped around hers, his just-born eyes staring into her face as if she were his world. Those fingers had gripped hers as he’d taken his first teetering steps; that hand had held tight the first day of school.

She’d spent her entire life trying to protect him. To give him the best and keep him as happy as she could. Now she had to hurt him. God help her, she blamed Brandon.

Harper took a deep, shaky breath as she tried to fight back the tears clogging her throat, then gave her son a reassuring smile.

“You’re not in trouble. I just need to tell you something.”

“Something bad?” he ventured when she bit her lip, trying to gather the words she still hadn’t found.

She wanted to assure him that it wasn’t bad. She wanted to continue ignoring Brandon’s existence. His death shouldn’t change that.

Except that she couldn’t. And it did.

Once again, Brandon had managed to turn her entire world upside down, and once again, he hadn’t stuck around to watch the fallout.

CHAPTER FIVE

SO THIS MUST be what it felt like to get run over by a truck.

A very large, dirty truck overloaded with painful regrets and parental guilt.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, head resting in her hands, Harper used her fingers to try to massage away the pain throbbing a tango on her scalp.

He’d taken the news well.

Too well.

She’d told him that the man who’d fathered him was dead, and Nathan had simply nodded. He hadn’t asked any questions. He hadn’t been interested in Brandon’s heroics as a SEAL, or why he’d never been around. He didn’t care what was in the box of effects sent to him by the person who claimed to be Brandon’s best friend. The first time he’d shown any emotion was when she’d suggested he might want the glass-fronted rosewood case of medals to keep in his room, and that’d been to throw the case back into the packing box with a scowl.

Before she could ask if he wanted to talk about it, or if he had any questions, he’d demanded to know if they were done yet so he could call Jeremy.

Harper hadn’t known what else to do other than wave him toward the phone. Maybe he was just too excited about camp to focus on the other. Or maybe he simply didn’t care.

She’d spent the rest of the evening watching for signs while pretending not to. She’d done her yoga in the TV room while he chatted on the phone. She’d worked on her laptop in the dining room while he’d tossed his baseball in the backyard. And she’d curled up with him on the couch while he grumbled over his summer reading.

But she hadn’t seen a single sign of grief or confusion. He’d been his usual, upbeat self.

Maybe he was repressing something.

Or maybe he simply didn’t care.

“Mom?”

Harper jumped to her feet, hurrying down the hall to Nathan’s bedroom.

“What do you need, sweetie?”

“I can’t find my baseball.” In Thor pajamas, wrapped in the bedtime scent of coconut soap and bubblegum toothpaste, Nathan sat in the middle of his floor surrounded by LEGO pieces. “I wanted to use it as the power source, but it’s not here.”

“Power source, huh?” Harper knelt down next to him, careful to avoid jabbing a tiny plastic block into her knee. “Is this going to be a space station?”

“Yeah. It’s gonna be Kylo Ren’s hideout.” He didn’t look at her, but Harper didn’t need to see his eyes to conclude he was upset. “He’s gotta recover and learn to control his temper and figure out stuff.”

Kylo Ren. Harper’s breath came slow and painful as she tried to figure out how to ask her little boy if he was suddenly relating to the villain’s father issues. She wanted to gather Nathan tight in her arms and rock away any pain, soothe any confusion.

Her eyes burned as she looked at the top of her son’s tousled hair as it lay drying in shaggy waves. He wasn’t a baby anymore. And while she didn’t claim to understand much about the male ego, she knew her little boy was already too much a man to accept either words or hugs until he was ready for them.

She didn’t know what it said that she grieved over that more than anything else today. But there it was.

So she did what she always did. She sidestepped the emotional drama and went for the practical.

“You were playing with your ball when you were in the yard. Did you leave it out there?”

“Maybe.” His face creased as he continued to snap the tiny gray pieces together. “I think so.”

“I’ll find it,” she said, giving in to the urge to run her hand over his hair before rising.

“Can I listen to a story, too?” he asked before she reached the door.

“Percy Jackson?” Harper asked, reaching for the remote she kept on the spaceship-shaped shelving unit and aiming it for the CD player. Already queued to chapter 7, the narrator’s voice filled the room with the adventures of Percy and Grover. Harper waited another moment, but Nathan seemed content.

He wouldn’t be in a half hour when she called for lights-out, though. Not without his ball. He’d never had a blankie or teddy bear. Just like he’d never had a father.

He’d had her. And he’d had his baseball.

Since he’d probably left it in the backyard, she started her search there. It wasn’t until the evening air cooled her hot cheeks that she realized they were covered in tears.

Harper dried them with an impatient swipe of her hands, bending low to peer under chairs, stretching sideways to check behind the bank of variegated hosta plants and rich purple spikes of salvia.

It took her a few seconds to realize she was hearing more than crickets in the night. Was someone yelling hiyah?

She stepped through the iron fence and froze.

The new neighbor was in his backyard. Barefoot and shirtless, he wore what looked like black pajama bottoms. He simply flowed across the moon-drenched lawn. Kicks, turns, chops and punches flowed in a seamlessly elegant dance.

Was that martial arts he was doing?

Shirtless.

She couldn’t quite get past that one particular point.

It was too delicious.

But instead of licking her lips, Harper clenched her fists tight at her sides.

Why the hell was a man who looked like that living next door to her? More to the point, why did her libido choose now to wake up? Was it some cosmic joke that she’d remember now, despite her claims to the contrary, she was a sexually aware woman who had needs and desires?

Harper watched him do some sort of flip, feet in the air and his body resting on one hand. Muscles rippled, but he wasn’t even breathing hard as he executed an elegant somersault to land, feetfirst on the grass, knees low and arms extended.

Wow.

She’d bet all of her needs and desires could be handled quite nicely by her gorgeous, and quite physically impressive, new neighbor.

Harper would have growled if she weren’t worried the guy would notice the slightest sound and turn around. The last thing she wanted while she was going through this personal crisis was attention.

She wanted to blame Andi. Oh, not for the new neighbor. Arranging for good-looking neighbors wasn’t one of Andi’s oft-bragged-about skills. But putting the idea of sex and lust and, yes, dammit, craving, into Harper’s mind so her imagination ran wild when she looked at the new neighbor? That was totally and completely Andi’s fault.

Her stomach tightened with an edgy need she recognized as desire as the guy did a series of kicks, each one higher than the other with the last aimed straight overhead.

Again, wow.

He had tattoos.

A cross riding low on his hip and something tribal circling one bicep.

Who knew tattoos were so sexy?

Harper’s mouth went dry. Her libido, eight years in deep freeze, exploded into lusty flames so hot they scorched away all her spit. She couldn’t swallow, could barely breathe. She had to try twice to clear the tight knot of lust in her throat.

Wow, she thought for the third time.

Because some things definitely deserved repeating.

The man was incredible.

Gorgeous. She was pretty sure he was gorgeous. It was hard to tell, though, because her head was spinning.

He looked like some kind of pagan god—the ones who liked to deflower virgins—with that commanding air, impressive body and golden skin stretched over well-toned muscles.

Short black hair that spiked here and there over a face made for appreciative sighs. Sharp cheekbones rose high, accenting full lips. Thick brows arched over deep-set eyes, and he had a scar on his chin that glowed in the moonlight.

She heard herself gulp before she realized she’d done it.

Wondering where her spit had gone, Harper decided that she’d better get the hell out of there. Before he saw her. Before she did something to make sure he saw her.

But just as she turned to go, she spotted Nathan’s baseball sitting on a raised brick flowerbed. It was all she could do not to groan out loud. Her hint of a sigh must have been enough though, because the guy looked her way. Just a glance, not enough to slow the elegant ballet of kicks and punches. But enough to show that he knew she was there. He’d probably known all along.

“You looking for the ball?” His words were lightly accented with a familiar Hispanic lilt. They came low and easy like his smile, which made it all the more irritating that Harper was still too breathless to reply right away.

“Yes, my son lost it.” She eyed the distance between her nice, safe spot next to the fence and the ball. It wasn’t far, but she’d have to skirt awfully close to the man who was now, what? She narrowed her eyes. Was he praying?

Palms together, eyes closed, he lifted his hands high overhead so that long body stretched toward the moon. Shimmering light danced over a puckered scar riding high on his chest, glistened off the sharp-edged tattoo that circled his bicep like barbed wire before he lowered his hands to chest height. Eyes still closed, he took a deep breath. Wondering if he’d do it again, Harper edged a few inches inside the fence line. Before she’d taken a full step, though, his eyes shot open.

“Good yard for working out,” he said with a nod of approval. He moved across the lawn with the same light-footed grace as he’d shown in his martial arts dance. He stopped along the way to grab the ball, then continued until he was a couple of feet from her. There, he simply stood, tossing the ball from hand to hand, staring.

“I should get that to Nathan.” She cleared her throat, tried a smile. It failed but she figured she at least got points for trying. “He’s very attached to it.”

“The kid’s a pistol.” His eyes were much too intense as he watched her face.

Didn’t the man blink?

That’s when she realized what she must look like. She’d tossed an oversize tee claiming Just Say Zen atop her green yoga bra and leggings, so unlike some people, she was decently covered. But her hair was pulled into a sloppy ponytail, and she was sure that whatever makeup she hadn’t sweated off during her workout had washed away during that first, or maybe the second, crying jag.

The only way this could be any worse was if she threw herself on his chest and started licking her way down his body. And given her reaction to simply thinking about it, she decided she’d better hurry up and get out of there before she did exactly that.

From the look on his face, he knew it, too.

“Thanks for finding it.” She held up one hand to indicate that he throw her the ball. But while he tossed it in the air, it was only to catch it again. What was he waiting for? She had to remind herself that this was a friendly neighborhood, and people expected actual conversation from time to time.

“I appreciate you taking the time to fix Nathan’s bike,” she said, wishing she could clear the nerves out of her throat. But that would just give him proof that he had her all stirred up, and one thing Harper had learned young was to never give a man that kind of upper hand.

“Fix his bike?” he repeated, as if surprised. “You mean out front today? We were just talking.”

Despite the shimmying tension in her belly and the tightness in her chest, that attempt at innocence in his voice made Harper laugh.

“Mmm, he’s having trouble with the chain. Probably has something to do with jumping his bike when he’s not supposed to.”

“Wouldn’t know about that. Like I said, we just talked for a few minutes. He’s a friendly kid.”

The compliment smoothed out her frayed nerves just a little. Breathing deep for the first time since he’d stepped through the hedges, Harper glanced up at the second floor of her fancy new house. Nathan’s window glowed with friendly cheer.

“He’s comfortable with people,” she said, half to herself. “Easy with them.”

“How about you?” He waited until her eyes met his again, the shadows dancing in wicked angles over his face. “Are you just as at ease and comfortable with strangers?”

She wasn’t even that comfortable with friends. But that wasn’t any of his business.

“I’m not seven years old, so I see people a little differently than Nathan does” was all she said.

“I guess he gets that easiness with people from his dad, huh?” Even as his lips quirked, that dark gaze seemed to intensify. “Me, all I got from my old man is my height.”

His expression was easy, his demeanor mellow. Still, nerves did an edgy cha-cha through her system. Maybe it was the mention of fathers, or just the pointed reminder of Brandon. Whatever it was, Harper didn’t like it.

“It’s a little soon to tell how tall Nathan will be,” she said, her words a chilly sidestep to his question. “Thank you for the help finding the ball. I’ll take it in to him now.”

His eyes not leaving hers, he moved closer.

Close enough that his scent—fresh male with a hint of earthy sweat and clean soap—wrapped around her.

Close enough to touch. All she had to do was reach out to trail her fingers over that hard flesh. Was he warm and slick after that workout? Or had his skin cooled, sweat sticking like a salty blanket? Her body hummed, nerves shimmering so hard her fingers trembled. She reached for the ball.

What was he looking for? What was he seeing? Finally, he placed the ball in her outstretched hand. Then, as if expecting something more, he stood there, waiting.

For what?

No matter how much her jump-started libido wanted otherwise, she wasn’t actually going to lick him.

“Thanks,” she murmured, gripping it tight. It was stupid for her heart to speed up now that she was only a moment from safe, but race it did. Harper gave the no-longer-smiling neighbor a brief nod, then turned to duck back through the vine-covered gate.

“Hey.”

One hand filled with the soft leaves, the other gripping the ball to her chest, Harper stopped to glance over her shoulder.

“Everything okay?”

No. But since she didn’t know why it wasn’t, she lied. “Fine.” Unable to resist, she added, “Why do you ask?”

Clouds cloaked the moon now, dimming its light so his eyes were cast in night shadows. But Harper could still feel the power of his stare.

“Maybe I just don’t like seeing a beautiful woman in a hurry to get away from me.” The shadows did nothing to hide the wicked charm of his smile or the hint of sexual heat in that shielded gaze.

It was the same heat Harper felt sizzling deep in her belly. An awareness and a whole slew of promises—all of which were as suited to the dark night as the man himself seemed to be.

Who knew she’d want that so desperately?

Oh, boy, there it was, Harper realized in a flash.

The reason for her nerves. All that masculine energy, all that sensual interest, all the impossible possibilities, they crowded her thoughts, filled her body.

Thankfully, the tiny voice in her mind still had enough control to scream danger.

“I’m hurrying because I don’t like to leave my son inside alone,” she managed, hoping her words didn’t sound as breathless to him as they did to her. “Again, thanks for your help.”

And with that, she tossed pride and dignity aside and slipped through the hedge before he could say another word. It wasn’t until she was inside the house that she realized she was holding her breath. Releasing it in a harsh whoosh, Harper leaned against the closed door and focused for a moment on getting the air in and out.

What was she doing? Getting lusty over a man just because he had a sexy smile and a gorgeous body? Just because his eyes promised all sorts of delights and his chest made her fingers tingle to touch? Sure, he looked as if he could’ve posed for Michelangelo’s David with those sculpted muscles and all that smooth skin. And maybe the hint of an accent and flashes of humor were intriguing. But was that an excuse to picture the man naked? To wonder if he had the kind of talent in bed to make her moan with pleasure?

At that point, Harper had enough breath to laugh at herself. Because if those weren’t reasons to get lusty, she couldn’t think of what was. Deciding to give herself a break, she peeled herself off the door and, resisting the urge to peek out the window, flipped the lock and turned off the lights.

Wouldn’t Andi be proud, Harper thought, grinning and tossing the ball from hand to hand as she climbed the stairs. Not that she would tell her. Andi wouldn’t understand. Because as much fun as it was to discover that, yes, indeed, she had a libido, Harper had no intention of doing anything about it.

No matter how lusty the guy made her feel.

* * *

AN HOUR LATER, halfway through her nightly bedtime routine, Harper glanced in the bathroom mirror and frowned. Was that a wrinkle?

She rubbed her finger along the faint line scored between her meticulously arched brows.

Her frown deepened. So did the line. It was a wrinkle. How could she have a wrinkle? She was only twenty-five. Weren’t wrinkles at least a decade away?

What the hell was she thinking, wondering if she should get naked with the hottie next door when her face looked like this? She yanked open the bottom drawer of the floor to ceiling corner cabinet and pawed through the array of bottles and jars and tins. Bubble bath, body lotion, tanning cream. Eye shadows, miracle mascaras, blushers by the dozen. Harper shuffled and dug until, a fistful of samples in hand, she rose to spread the tubes and tins over the bathroom counter.

After squinting her way through the tiny print and wondering if bifocals were next, she settled on four antiaging ones that promised to turn back time. A daytime moisturizer with SPF, a hydration-boosting serum, an age-reversing night cream and a mask rich in botanicals.

She’d need to visit one of those skin care counters at the mall, but she figured there wasn’t a moment to lose fighting the affects that that bitch, age, was trying to gash into her face. She’d be damned if she’d let her win.

Twenty minutes later, she’d washed, masked, toned and moisturized. She flexed a little, feeling righteous in her fight. Take that, bitch, she huffed into the mirror.

Hair pulled back in a tight ponytail and her face glistening with a thick layer that promised dewy youth, she caught sight of herself in the cherry-trimmed cheval mirror.

She had to laugh.

She looked like this, and she was worrying about wrinkles keeping her from hitting on the neighbor?

This was the closest thing to seduction wear she owned. The black nightshirt fit just fine, skimming her breasts and hitting midthigh. But it was roomy rather than revealing, and while the cotton was wonderfully soft, Wonder Woman was so wash-worn that she was more a shadow than an actual image.

She was so not the seduce-the-neighbor-into-a-puddle-of-lust type of woman.

Hoping that little taste of reality would put an end to the crazy thoughts that kept trying to take hold, she headed down the hall. She stopped to take a quick peek at Nathan. In the glow of the star-shaped nightlight, her son slept with his usual exuberant abandon. Blankets kicked this way, arms and legs sprawled. His face buried in the pillow, his hair stuck up in little tufts. Her fingers itched to smooth it down, to straighten his blankets and settle him into the center of the bed. But he’d wake at the lightest touch. So she simply listened to the gentle sound of his breath, watched the easy rise and fall of his chest. After a long moment, she pulled the door three-quarters shut again and went to her own room.

The bulk of the furnishings in the house belonged to Andi, including the four-poster bed. But the bedding, oh, that’d been Harper’s single indulgence for herself when they’d moved in. Heavy gold brocade and apricot satin, it was so rich and elegant, it made her feel like a princess. She woke every morning feeling as if she actually belonged in a house this fancy, as if she’d finally earned the right to such sumptuous surroundings. That she’d finally shed the grasping guttersnipe label pinned on her so many years before by Brandon’s mother.

With that thought firmly in mind, knowing she’d put it off long enough, Harper reached under the mound of decorative pillows on her bed and pulled out the envelope that had come with today’s delivery of a box of memories.

She tapped it on her palm a couple of times, then set it on the nightstand. She pulled back the blankets, climbed beneath the cool sheets and fluffed her pillow a couple of times before leaning back.

Then she lifted the envelope again. With a deep breath, she slid her thumb beneath the flap and carefully tore the seal.

Ms. Maclean,

You don’t know me but I served with Brandon Ramsey. He was my mentor, my friend and my roommate. He was a hero who deserves to be honored. But the Navy is tying that honor up in red tape. They are trying to make him a scapegoat for a team too incompetent to retrieve his body. That means they won’t send Brandon’s son the benefits he deserves. Instead they’re destroying the legacy your son’s father left behind. I’m sending a few things so his son can appreciate what a great man he was. But that’s not enough. They need to honor Brandon, to show the world what a hero he was. This is a mess. I hope you can help me fix it.

Keep the Spirit Alive!

Dane Adams

Harper read it again, then one more time, then glanced at the rest of the papers. News clippings, write-ups on Brandon’s deeds, certificates.

She could only sigh.

This poor guy. Of course the situation was a mess. What else would Brandon leave behind? She didn’t understand the part about the Navy making Brandon a scapegoat. More likely it was just red tape and some sort of military rules or regulations that this guy was upset over.

It wasn’t until she saw a tear splash onto the paper that Harper realized she was crying. She didn’t know why. Brandon had destroyed all of her illusions years ago when he’d crushed her heart.

She shoved the unread documents back into the envelope.

This wasn’t her life. It wasn’t her problem.

Whatever Brandon had done, whether he’d died a hero or not, it didn’t matter.

Not to her.

But tears still came, even as she slowly drifted into sleep.

Not for Brandon this time. Or even for Nathan.

But for the girl she’d been, the one who’d believed in heroes.

CHAPTER SIX

SO THAT WAS Ramsey’s ex.

Now that he’d seen her up close and personal, all Diego could think was, Hot damn.

Ramsey might have had a tendency to be an ass, and he might have had serious issues sharing the spotlight. And Diego wasn’t sure if the man had been a good SEAL or a dirty, rotten sonovabitch.

But he had to credit Brandon Ramsey with having good taste in women.

Diego had just finished installing cameras and listening equipment around the exterior of her house when he’d seen her heading out the back door. He’d had his cover handy, jumping right into a tai chi workout. She’d been emotional, but she hadn’t acted suspicious. He’d have thought she’d act a little warier if she were dirty. But maybe she was cucumber cool. Maybe Ramsey hadn’t shared the extent of how bad his actions were.

Or maybe Ramsey was alive, and she knew just how deep in the ugly her ex swam.

As Diego headed inside his temporary quarters, he brought her image to mind.

Her eyes were a work of art under strongly arched dark brows. Lushly lashed, they were large in her delicate face. Probably because they’d been a little puffy and red.

What had she been crying about? Ramsey?

What little intel they had so far on her showed that she’d lived within her means until about six months ago when she’d moved into the fancy house next door, that her kid attended a pricey private school and that she had a pretty high credit card limit that she charged up and paid in full each month.

None of that, or his own limited observations, pegged her as the overly emotional type. So he doubted an evening of popcorn and chick flicks had leveled her like that.

Alive or dead, he’d figured she was crying over Ramsey. The guy had to be in her head right now. If he was alive and dirty, did she struggle with her part in treason? If he was dead and dirty, was she upset to be holding the bag?

And if he was innocent? Maybe she had simply loved the asshole.

Diego rubbed his hand over his hair, then shook his head.

God, what a thought.

Then again, maybe it wasn’t Ramsey who’d put that upset look on her face.

Maybe it had been Diego himself?

He’d kept it friendly, totally nonconfrontational, and the woman had left looking as if he’d punched her in the gut. No accusations, no grilling, not a hint that he was wondering if she was maybe harboring a supposed-to-be-dead, treasonous, backstabbing bastard.

Maybe he’d been too focused on doing all that to hide the fact that he thought she was hot, but he figured she was used to that. She had to be. The woman looked like a cross between a centerfold, a society princess and a sexy Betty Crocker. The kind of woman who’d wear diamonds and one of those cute white aprons while baking homemade cookies...naked.

A man would have to be a month dead and incredibly stupid to ignore a woman like that.

Diego was neither.

He just had to figure out which one Ramsey was.

An hour later, his skin cool from his shower and his stomach comfortably full thanks to a freezer full of take and bake, Diego glanced out the window at the house next door. The lights were off downstairs and faint enough upstairs to give the impression that she and the kid had both hit the sack. Turning away, he flipped through his notes, hoping to find something new that would spark an opening. They had to find Ramsey. Had to confirm dead or alive, then go from there.

And he had jack diddly toward that end. He’d had eyes on the blonde for fifty-six hours now, but he didn’t have much to add to his notes. At least, not much that was relevant.

Frustration dogging his mood, Diego tossed the file onto the little table next to the window. Papers slid across the dark wood, a mocking reminder that he had nothing.

Probably because there was nothing to have, dammit.

It was crazy to think Ramsey was alive.

If he was, it meant that the guy had betrayed his country, his vows, his team.

Diego dropped onto the bed, almost sinking into the cloud-soft mattress as he covered his eyes with his forearm. As if shading the light would dim the headache brewing behind them while he tried to shove through his tangled thoughts.

The facts were clear enough. The mission had been compromised, confidential information had been sold and someone was a traitor. Lansky was sure that was Ramsey. Diego still wasn’t sure if that belief was fueled by certainty or by Lansky’s hate for the guy.

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 might 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.

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