Dangerous Attraction Romantic Suspense Boxed Set (136 page)

“You smell good.”
You taste good, too.
Cherry wasn’t his favorite flavor. He liked the way she tasted all by her little lonesome, he thought as he scanned her many alluring attributes. And he’d told her that one time, just before she exploded in his arms. Telling her things like that worked real well on Daisy. Like some of the girls in high school he had read scriptures to, especially the Love Chapter from Psalms. Make them hot as hell, and so willing to show it.

Her knees sunk onto the bed and crawled her way up to straddle him. “I’m gonna be late for work if you aren’t quick.”

By the time he gave his assent, she had already removed her T-shirt and 38 DDD bra.

* * *

Just before Daisy left, Coop had to remind her to remove his cuffs. Then, while he waited for the water to warm up again, he sat in his boxers at the nook, chowing down on granola and whole milk. He checked between the metal blinds in the window and watched a couple of early Costco employees arrive. That also meant it was time for him to leave.

His cell phone chirped.

“Coop here.” He recognized the number belonging to his Chief Petty Officer Timmons.

“Mornin’ Coop. Say, mind if we have a word?”

“Sure. When do you need me in by?”

“How soon can you get here?”

Something was up, and it wasn’t good. “Can you tell me a little about it?” Coop asked.

“No, mister. I gotta do this eyeball to eyeball.”

Coop hesitated a bit before answering. Timmons hadn’t said it involved anyone else, so this wasn’t a Team thing. Had someone complained about him parking the Babemobile at the beach? Some jerkoff do-gooder Ranger exerting himself on the community they loved to bust for littering and public drinking?
Only because the girls would rather hang out with me than some overweight guy with a green gabardine scout leader uniform and a chronic case of sunburn.

“I can be there in a half hour, unless there’s a jam-up on the highway.”

“See you then, son.”

Son?
When his Chief called him son, it usually meant he was in trouble.
Coop felt dark fingers dig into his spine at the back of his neck. Something wasn’t right.

He called Fredo. “Timmons calling a Team meeting this morning?” he asked his Mexican SEAL friend.

“Shit if I know. What’d you do last night, Coop?”

Cooper fingered the vase of fresh flowers in front of him, and shrugged, like Fredo could see it.

Fredo whispered into the phone, “You better pray she’s over 18.”

“Not to worry, Fredo. I’m heading over there now. You want to meet me afterwards for some PT?”

“Sure, you go have your meeting with Timmons, get your strength back up, cowboy, and I’ll kick your ass in a few.” Fredo hung up.

He skipped the shower, anxious to find out what Timmons wanted. He doubted his Chief would notice Daisy’s smell or the trace of cherry lube gel instead of his usual Irish Spring. If he ran into his Team leader, Kyle Lansdowne, he’d be ordered to get wet and sandy. Old married man Kyle, with a new baby, was a real hard-ass these days. But a damn good SEAL, and the best Team leader a guy could have.

He considered taking his scooter, but decided to drive the Babemobile instead.

He climbed over the bench seat at the nook, inserting his extra-long legs under the wheel of the beast and started her up. Coop had turned the beast into a regular fortress, installing a secret weapons compartment, a sophisticated GPS unit, a satellite tracking system with infrared, and a sound system worthy of a rock star. The entire blackened roof surface of the motor home was a solar collector. He’d rather spend his money on toys than housing, so he spent half of his paycheck on special parts and upgrades for gadgets he was constantly tinkering with. The rest he dutifully saved. Something his dad had taught him growing up on the farm in Nebraska.

Never too early to plan for a rainy day, his dad had always told him.

He opted for the
Gone Country
satellite channel, donned his sunglasses and departed for the check-in.

Coop rounded the corner to the Special Warfare base at Coronado, stopped at the guard shack and addressed the flunky on duty. A new one. Navy Regular. Clean cut. Cooper was thinking he might luck out and get on base without a wisecrack since the guy was new, but had no such luck.

“Well if it isn’t the stud of Coronado and his limp dick pleasure palace.”

Coop studied the new man’s nametag,
Dorian Hamburg.
He and his Team guys could have fun with that name. And the look on the man’s face told him he had a hair trigger. That was always fun. So the other regulars had told him about Coop’s motor home. No problem. If the guy wanted to spar, Coop would spar with him, and make him pay for it.

“Nice to see the ladies’ve told you about it. That’s why they won’t lick your sorry ass.” Coop watched his words punch Dorian in the face and make him redden. But the man was quick on his feet, unlike some of the other Navy regulars.

“I hear the health department wants to do a study of all the interesting cultures growing in that bat mobile, especially on the ceiling…”

“Nice try, asshole, or is it Dorian? If I were you, I’d go by the name asshole. Dorian sounds queer.”

“You ought to know…” Dorian squinted at Coop’s upside down nametag hanging at a slight angle. “Calvin.”

Sticks and stones don’t bust my balls…

“Well
Dorian,
you can call me Special Operator Cooper. But for your information, the only other Calvin I ever met was a real big black dude, and he
definitely
wasn’t gay.” Coop handed over his military ID.

“When are you gonna fix that rag on your head? Don’t they pay you boys enough for a hairpiece or some plugs?”

“Lost all my hair going down. If the girl likes it, she kinda tugs. Hurts sometimes, get my drift?”

“Um hum.” The sentry handed Coop back his card. “You be careful how you park, hear? And straighten that god-damned nametag.”

The rumble of the engine left a thick cloud of black smoke in its wake. Happened every time Coop plastered his foot against the floorboard.

Timmons’s office was all metal and no frills, except for the bright lime-green ceramic frog holding a surfboard that SEAL Team 3 bought him. It stood two and a half perilous feet tall, perched on top of a metal bookshelf. This was the replacement to the statue Timmons had destroyed on a rather ill-tempered day last year.

Timmons had bouts of anger, more frequently now, especially about procedural things. Coop knew the enlisted man was not longing for the forced retirement. It meant more time at home with a wife who publicly made fun of him. The Navy was his life, always had been. But that wasn’t going to stop them from retiring him anyway.

“Chief?” Coop called out as he stooped under the doorframe to avoid hitting his head.

“Sit down, son,” Timmons said, pointing to one of two metal folding chairs in front of his paper-strewn desk.

The cold chair matched the eerie chill that tingled up his spine every time his Chief Officer used the term
son.
He licked his lips and waited while Timmons looked like he was gathering strength. Whatever it was, it wasn’t anything good.

“I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news. We’ve just been contacted by the authorities in Nebraska.” He looked up at Coop with his watery light blue eyes. Coop held his breath.

“I’m not sure if you’ve heard it in the news, but there’s been a tornado in Pender and parts nearby, and I’m sorry to say that your family and the farm are gone, son.”

Cooper had been trained to deal with the death of a Team guy. He’d held them sometimes as the life force exited their bodies, rocking them slowly or telling them little jokes to ease their way home. But his real home, his roots in Nebraska, those always remained.

Gone? All of them? Gone? He never figured this could ever happen. I’m completely alone?

His body tensed as he came to terms with the reality of what was just spoken. One by one, every nerve ending began to shout, until the rage inside, the scream
Hell, no!
consumed all his energy. He dug his fingernails into his thighs and, without realizing it, had drawn blood through the green canvas of his cargo pants.

Timmons got up, which prompted Coop to stand as well, although he was weaving. If Timmons hugged him, he’d deck the guy and end his career for sure. But Timmons stood a healthy two feet away, which was close enough to smell the angst of the older man who nervously flexed and unflexed his fingers at his side. “I’m so sorry, son.”

There’s that goddamned word again.
Coop took a deep breath and then felt the tears flood his eyes.
I’m no one’s son any longer
. Mercifully, he couldn’t see his Chief’s expression. Coop’s fists tightened, he stepped to the side and belted the frog statue, which crashed up against the side of the wall and shattered. Although his Team had recently replaced it for well over two hundred dollars, the green, glassy fragments exploded and fell in a satisfying tinkle all over the floor, the windowsill and Timmons’s desk.

Timmons looked over the mess in silence, nodding his head. He apparently thought the frog had suffered a good, honorable death, after all. Team 3 would have it replaced as soon as the donations came in. Next time maybe he should find a way to bolt it to the wall. But that could be dangerous.

For the wall.

Chapter Two

It was a dusty day as the silver plane nosed down through billowy clouds on its way to kiss the ruined earth. A united gasp went up from passengers as they saw the raw, brown, smoking soil that would normally be covered in patchwork patterns of an industrious agricultural people. But what was missing was the green. Coop clenched his jaw, grinding ice, and rocked to the loud metallic music of selection number seven on the in-flight radio. He held his breath.

Looks like a flooded and bombed-out valley in Afghanistan.

He wasn’t used to seeing Nebraska look like a wasteland. Wastelands got you killed or killed your friends. They never healed. Nobody loved them.

He stared down at the remains, and, as incredible as it was, he still loved
this
place.

He’d never felt alone before. Completely alone. He’d missed so much, being away on deployments, but he had always had home to come back to. Even as he clowned around on Coronado Island, home was always here, in Nebraska. It had always been a constant. He just couldn’t deal with it being gone for good.

All of them. How could this have happened?

The stewardess walked up the aisle quickly, scanning the packed plane for seatbelt violators. Her expression was grim, and Coop would have enjoyed a little flirtation on any other day.

But the miracle of good times seemed a distant memory. Even the babies on the plane were quiet, as if suspecting their cries would be inappropriate. People with window seats looked straight ahead, not outside at the devastation. There were those in the middle and aisle seats who wanted to see, and took turns jockeying for the right position, without offending. Coop could hear sniffles and someone softly sobbing. A toddler asker her mother what
THAT
was. THAT was a huge gash in the earth that had taken his whole family and many others.

A few minutes later came a message. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have begun our final approach to Omaha International Airport. Please remain in your seats with your seat belts fastened. We anticipate a bumpy landing, due to the storm.” The sweet lilting voice was not reassuring. Coop could feel the pull of thoughts sending them deeper, faster. As if everyone on the plane wanted to end their lives together.

The landing was hard, shaking everyone, but the passengers accepted it. An overhead bin burst open from the impact, dumping its contents on the balding, elderly man seated below. Underwear and T-shirts cascaded, followed by someone’s hand-knit afghan and a cap. Several passengers helped unbury the gentleman, who managed to laugh and shake his head, unharmed but embarrassed.

The plane turned sharply and then revved up engines to taxi down another lane. A large Red Cross vehicle and several military transports idled nearby, swarming with an anthill of people loading packages and white plastic cargo containers marked with the familiar red emblem. Coop knew what a cargo staging area looked like. Helped that it was in the good old U.S. of A. and not some sand cave where you waited with a dying man and prayed to God the chopper would come in time.

But never in Nebraska. The land where it was green and cool. Where churches were kept clean and kids still walked home from elementary school by themselves.

Not that his mom didn’t worry. All during Cooper’s boyhood, Mrs. Cooper would be at the back kitchen door holding back his dog, Bay. When Coop came home from school and started down the little rise that was the only “mountain” in the county, a whole one hundred feet tall, she would let Bay run out to meet him. That dog tried to break his timed runs every day. And every school day Coop would brace himself as the brown mutt leapt into the air to nearly tackle him in a belly-to-belly thing that could only be called a hug. He felt the arms and hands that dog never had, just in the way he crashed into him. Even the last time he was home and Bay was going on twelve. He still looked out the kitchen door, waiting for the little boy who was now a man and came less often.

Bay’s gone too. They’re all together now.

It looked like rain outside until Coop realized his eyes were filled with tears.

The plane had been emptied.

He grabbed his duffel, put on his canvas jacket with the SEAL Team 3 logo in black stitched onto the breast pocket.

The captain was just exiting the cockpit.

“Mornin’, son.”

That word again. Everyone’s calling me son.

Coop nodded in the captain’s direction and briskly walked by before he could be snagged in an unwanted conversation.

Music in the terminal was ridiculously loud and cheerful. Couldn’t they turn the goddamned thing down? Have a little respect for the dead?

Coop hunched his shoulders and sighed. He knew life went on. He just didn’t like to be reminded of it.

* * *

The funerals couldn’t be held in the church he was baptized in, because it was missing, as well as any evidence a family of Coopers ever existed on the face of the Nebraska earth. His grandpa would roll over in his grave, if they ever found his body, at being attended at a Unitarian church. The family had been Baptist since their folk came from Denmark to freely practice their religion, and try their hand at farming. They were three generations of Danish-American farmers who had lived in Nebraska for nearly a century. But now, it was like they had never existed.