Hot Target (19 page)

Time stood still as he gazed at her, as she lost herself—just a little bit—in his beautiful eyes.

Finally—she had no idea how long they just sat there like that—he shook his head. “No,” he said. “It’s not true.”

She knew it. She
knew
it.

“So what really happened?” Jane asked. She intended to sound matter-of-fact, but her words came out as little more than a whisper.

Cosmo looked down at the table, but she knew he wasn’t seeing his book and her mug. He was millions of miles away. She held her breath for what seemed like forever. And when he finally looked back up at her, the haunted expression on his face was one she knew she’d remember for the rest of her life.

He nodded very slightly, as if he were answering his own internal question, giving himself permission to tell her something that she instinctively knew he didn’t talk about often—if at all.

“You’ve heard The Story, so you know about the villagers,” he said. “The bloodshed was—” He stopped. The muscle jumped in his jaw as once again he stared at the table, seeing what, God only knew.

Jane just waited, not daring to move, not even to reach across the table to take his hand.

“They didn’t waste their bullets on these people,” he told her quietly, not looking up. “It was all done with swords and bayonets and . . . I was helping with cleanup. Burials. The villagers who had been spared were overwhelmed—and some of the dead had no family members left alive to care for them. Some of them had only one and . . . I helped this old man whose entire family had been killed. Three sons and his daughter-in-law, his two grandkids—Christ, they were babies, Jane, and they—” He met her gaze for only the briefest moment before he looked away, shaking his head.

She leaned forward. “You can tell me,” she said. “I’m pretty tough, you know, and it might help to talk about it.”

“It won’t.” He was convinced.

“How do you know?” she asked, just as convinced that Cosmo had never told this story to anyone before.

He met her gaze. “They didn’t kill them quickly. They took the time to be particularly brutal with the children,” he told her, and she shut her mouth.

“The old man’s daughter-in-law was still alive,” he continued after another of those seemingly endless silences. “I don’t know how, with her throat cut like that, but she opened her eyes and looked right at me, and it was, you know,
Jesus God.
” He shook his head. “It was unreal. I shouted for Lopez, our corpsman—medic, you know—but he’d gone with the others. It was just me and good old Frank O’Leary at that point. So Frank gets on the radio, calling in a helo to medevac her out of there, and I’m doing first aid, and oh my holy God, Jane, I don’t know why she hasn’t bled to death already—she’s barely got a pulse. But then she starts fighting me. To this day I don’t know where she found the strength, but she’s trying to get to her kids. Trying to . . .” He faltered, briefly closed his eyes. Pushed the words out. “Put them back together. Like she doesn’t realize it’s way too late.”

“Oh, God,” Jane breathed.

“Yeah.” He cleared his throat. Rubbed his hand across the lower part of his face. “And the old man is begging us not to let her die, like we’re God or something. O’Leary goes, ‘Helo’s coming, Cos, but the closest they can get is back at the insertion point.’ ” He stopped himself again, sensitive to the fact that the military jargon was lost on her. “We inserted into the area—fast-roped down from a helicopter, you follow?—about seven miles up a steep mountain trail. That’s as close as the helo would come to pick us up. This village is right in the middle of a terrorist hot spot—the helo can’t come this far east into the valley without providing an opportunity for undesirables to test-drive their black market grenade launchers.”

Jane nodded because he was looking at her as if he wanted some kind of response. She
was
following him, but a nod was the best she could do. Words were failing her. Seven miles. Up a steep mountain trail . . . ?

“O’Leary’s going, ‘She’s not going to make it, man,’ except we’ve got a medical kit with the right equipment to . . . Well, see, I’m Oh.” Unlike
insertion point,
he didn’t explain what that meant. Clearly he thought she knew. “My medical training is pretty limited, but I’d seen Lopez do it before—”

“Hang on.” She had to interrupt. “You’re Oh?”

“Universal donor,” he said, and she still didn’t realize exactly what he meant until he added, “She needed blood and I’m type O. Technically, yeah, we’re not supposed to do that. When we go overseas we get shot full of all kinds of shit—” He winced. “Sorry.”

“Whoa—back up. Are you telling me that you . . . ?” Her mouth was hanging open.

“We didn’t have any plasma. Some kits are equipped, but this one wasn’t. So we hook up a tube, a direct line, you know, me to her and . . . Stop looking at me like that. It’s no big deal.”

Like hell it wasn’t. Still, she managed to shut her mouth because incredulity bordering on hero worship was clearly something that made him uncomfortable. This story was hard enough for him to tell as it was. She didn’t want to make it harder.

Or make him think she’d heard enough.

Indeed, Cosmo was looking at her again, muscle jumping on the side of his jaw, and again she got the feeling he was deciding just how much of the details he was going to reveal.

“We can tell it’s helping because she starts fighting harder,” he finally continued, so quietly she had to hold her breath to hear him. “She wants her kids. And the old man’s telling her, ‘They’re dead,’ but I stop him, because I know it’s what’s keeping her alive. You know?”

She nodded. That and the blood that he was giving her, directly from his veins.

“So I’m lying to her,” he said, and Jane realized that his decision wasn’t so much about how much to tell her, but how much he could bear to say. “Right to her face. I get the old man, who has some English, and he tells me the words for ‘They’re all right, they’re going to be all right,’ and coming from me, the almighty American, she buys it. She’s hanging on to me, believing me, and I’m thinking, Christ, she’s thanking me for saving her children.”

Dear God, he had tears in his eyes.

“O’Leary picks her up, he’s going to carry her because I’m, you know, a little shaky.” Cosmo shook his head. “Only she doesn’t want to leave her kids. We’re afraid to give her morphine because even though her pulse is stronger it’s still so low, and now I’m telling her that the kids will be safe with their grandfather. And she goes, ‘My baby, my baby,’ and she starts pleading with me. I don’t need to speak the language to know what she’s saying, but the old man tells me she’s not going to leave without her two-month-old and . . .”

He stopped again, this time putting his hand over his eyes.

Jane couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.

“So I carry her baby. ‘Is he all right?’ She can barely speak, but she keeps asking that. And I’m all, ‘Yes, he’s great, he’s fine.’ For seven fucking miles.” His voice broke. “And I’m holding the pieces of him together. In case she looks back at me.”

“Oh, God,” Jane said. “Cosmo—”

“Don’t!”
He said it so sharply that, startled, she stopped short almost before she’d even realized she was out of her chair and heading toward him. He softened it by adding, “Please . . .” and she slowly backed up and sat down.

But she couldn’t keep herself from leaning forward. “Cos . . .”

“Sorry. Just give me a—”

A beep came from his walkie-talkie or radio or whatever it was that provided a direct line to the guards outside, and he grabbed it and stood in one fluid motion, turning his back to her. “Yeah.”

“Hey, Cos. Just checking in.” Tess Bailey’s voice was cheerful, as usual.

“Good,” he said curtly. “Touch base again in ten.”

“Roger that.” And she was gone.

Cosmo stood there for several long seconds before he turned to face Jane. He’d managed to compose himself completely, except now he couldn’t quite manage to hold her gaze. “Sorry.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

He shook his head, and it wasn’t so much in agreement or disagreement, but rather as if he were shaking off the question. “So that’s what happened. That’s where I was when that warlord’s patrol—all eighteen of them—were killed. O’Leary made me get on the helo, too. He thought I gave away too much blood, so he ordered me back in. I was young and stupid. I was convinced I was fine—never mind the fact that I kept getting tunnel vision going up that trail. Superman syndrome—you know? Guys who get it usually end up dead, but I was lucky. I had some Gatorade on the helo, convinced the medic I was good, and came back on the flip-flop. Heading down to the village, I lost my footing on the trail and fuh—” He cleared his throat. “Freaking knocked myself out. Took, like, a seven-hour nap there in the underbrush. When I came to, it was morning. I staggered into the village, looking like hell, covered with blood. A few people made some incorrect assumptions about my previous night’s activities.”

“Which you never bothered to clear up.”

Cosmo nodded, finally steadily meeting her eyes. “Yeah. I’m pretty sure it was the villagers who retaliated. But the rumor of the vengeful SEAL single-handedly wiping out three squads . . . See, even when the myth started, the number was seriously inflated. But that kept those villagers safe because the rumors didn’t just spread among the Spec Ops forces. It’s wild just how fast news can spread in a country without telephones or technology. So I didn’t say anything to clear it all up.”

“And O’Leary didn’t, either?”

He shook his head. “No. He probably would have eventually, but he died a few years later, in a terrorist attack in Kazabek.”

Oh, God. “I’m sorry.”

“Me, too. He was a good man. A friend. I had the pleasure of helping clean up the cell that killed him.” He sat back down at the table. “I’ve taken lives, Jane. It’s an aspect of my job that I usually don’t enjoy. But if I’d had the opportunity, I
would
have enjoyed eliminating those eighteen bastards who murdered children in front of their mothers. I would have fucking ripped them apart. Maybe that’s another reason why I never bothered to stop the rumors. Excuse me.”

“Cos,” she said. “Come on, it’s really all right. I’m a big girl. You don’t need to censor your vocabulary around me.”

He smiled, a rueful twist of his lips. “Yeah, it’s just, you know, it’s my mother’s fault.”

Jane couldn’t help it. “God, you are too sweet,” she said.

Cosmo laughed at that. “No, you don’t get it. See, if I use, um, salty verbiage around my mom, well, she’ll start using it, too. I knew I had to do something when she was asking about one of my teammates and she goes, ‘Have you seen Silverman lately, Cosie? How is the little motherfucker?’ ”

Jane cracked up. “She did not!”

“Yeah, she did.”

“Now I’m really dying to meet her.” And suddenly that felt weird—her saying that she wanted to meet his mother. As if they were dating and serious. “When you bring her onto the set,” she felt compelled to add.

“Maybe next week, after she gets back,” he said.

“Great.” She took a sip of her tea. It was barely lukewarm now. “Thank you. You know. For telling me. I know that wasn’t easy—”

“It’s late,” he interrupted. “You probably have an early day.”

It was and she did. But she didn’t want to leave. She wrapped both hands around the mug, even though it was cool to the touch. “When your shift is done, feel free to crash wherever you like. Although some of those beds in the other wing are pretty decrepit.”

“I’ll be okay,” he told her. “Good night.”

Jane had been dismissed. He punctuated it by picking up his book, so she stood and turned toward the door, but then turned back. “I feel like I need to say something,” she said. “To apologize to you on behalf of all of humanity. That you should have had to endure that—”

He lowered his book. “What I endured was nothing compared to what Yasmin lived through.”

“Her name was Yasmin?” His account had been grim enough when the victims were faceless and nameless. She had to ask. “Did she live?”

Cosmo nodded. “Yeah. Much to her disappointment.”

Jane could only imagine how awful it must have been for Yasmin to wake up in a hospital and discover that her husband and children were all dead. “God . . .”

He sighed, no doubt reading her mind, as usual. But he obviously didn’t want to talk anymore.

Still, she lingered. “I’m just . . . I’m so sorry.”

Cosmo lifted his book. “Sleep well.”

“Thanks.” She stood there uncertainly for several more moments, but he didn’t look up again, and she finally headed for the stairs and her room.

Sleep well?

Snowball’s chance in hell.

C
HAPTER
T
WELVE

Patty went outside by the smokers’ tree, pretending she was on a mission to find the video camera operator who was working on a “Making Of” segment for the DVD extras, but in fact hoping to catch Robin as he was pulling into the studio parking lot.

“Anything I can help you with, Pattycakes?” asked one of the crew, a grip named Gary.

The rumor going around was that Gary’s boyfriend—how weird was that?—had left him for Harve the special effects makeup wizard, which was doubly strange. Although all three men were out here right now, having a cigarette in what seemed to be a friendly enough manner, so maybe it was just gossip.

“Oh,” she said. “Thanks, but . . .”

She craned her neck and . . . Yes! That was Robin’s sports car pulling into the lot.

Except . . . Unless she was standing here having a conversation with someone, she’d look as if she were waiting for him.

But Gary had already turned back to Harve and Guillermo.

It was too late to take up smoking. Besides, if she came home with a nicotine habit, her mother would kill her.

Maybe if she just stood near Gary and the others and pretended to be listening . . .

Then Patty saw Cosmo, the Navy SEAL, in the parking lot, getting out of his truck.

This was perfect. She’d received voice mail this morning from Decker, telling her that Cosmo would be coming to the studio today to photocopy the extras’ headshots and résumés. She could pretend she was waiting out here for him. Of course, as she greeted him, they could linger for a moment, at which point Robin would catch up, allowing them to walk inside together.

And she’d casually turn to Robin and say . . . what?
Why haven’t you returned my calls?

Bad idea. If she said that, she’d sound like a crybaby.

Maybe she should say,
Hi, Robin, this is going to sound crazy, and I know I’m paranoid, ha ha ha, but part of me is wondering if you’re avoiding me.

No. He’d come away from their exchange thinking that she was high maintenance. That was never good. Guys like Robin needed a low-maintenance girlfriend. Someone who wouldn’t wig out if he didn’t call for several days in a row.

Maybe,
Where’ve you been? I thought at least I’d see you at the dailies last night.

Except that sounded as if she were accusing him of something.

Last night’s dailies rocked. You were awesome. For a minute there I actually believed you had a real thing for Adam. Ha ha ha.

Yes, that was the perfect approach. Lighthearted teasing that also complimented his acting skills.

Except as Cosmo approached, five of the smokers broke away from the group. Patty hadn’t paid attention to who was standing out there, but she realized now that she didn’t recognize any of these people.

Four had cameras—digital video.

Shit! Paparazzi.

Including that scumsucker who freelanced for the nastier of the supermarket tabloids—what was his name? Mike Green. His one goal in life seemed to be to dish dirt on Mercedes Chadwick—and whomever she appeared to be sleeping with.

In this case, Cosmo.

The reporters were clearly lying in wait for him. They were holding their cameras behind them, waiting for him to approach before they pulled them out, so they could get high-quality close-ups.

There was only one thing Patty could do.

“Cameras! Reporters! Head down—cover your face!” she shouted, rushing toward Cosmo, trying to get between them.

Of course, now that the reporters knew that the jig was up, they rushed him, too.

“Is it true you’re a Navy SEAL?”

“How long have you been seeing Mercedes?”

“What do you know about her rift with her mother?”

“How long, exactly, were you in Afghanistan?”

“I’ve heard that you’ve recently served in Kazbekistan and Iraq as well. Isn’t this particular job—if you can call it a job—radically different from your duties overseas?”

“Yeah, and be honest now,” Green called out. “Is Mercedes Chadwick really as good as they say?”

Cosmo had been hustling toward the studio door, but now he stopped. That was not good.

“No comment,” Patty said, hoping he’d get the message.

But he didn’t. He turned and faced them. His sunglasses covered his eyes, and that, combined with the hard edge of his jawline and grim mouth, not to mention his well-above-average height and muscular build, made for a very intense picture. This was not a happy man.

Patty held her breath. She should say something, step in, intervene.

For several long moments the potential for violence hung heavy in the air. He was going to beat the crap out of them all.

It was like standing in the middle of a Quentin Tarantino movie. This man was going to tear their heads off. And, bad person that she was, she was going to get to watch. With glee.
I didn’t have time to do anything,
she’d tell Jane after it was all over.
It all happened so fast . . .

But Cosmo just stood there until the questions finally stopped, microphones jammed in his face, ready to catch his every word—which was going to be a blistering
Fuck you
—she just knew it. After which he was going to give Mike Green the pounding he deserved.

“Get him inside.” Patty looked up into Robin’s bloodshot eyes. God, he looked awful, like he’d spent the night drunk.

Again.

He handed Patty the daypack he used to carry his script and stepped between Cosmo and the press. “If you have questions about
American Hero,
you can ask me. I’m associate producer Robin Chadwick. I also play Captain Hal Lord in the film.”

Unfortunately, “Get him inside,” only worked if Cosmo wanted to get inside.

It seemed he didn’t.

Cosmo gently shook off Patty’s hand and even pushed Robin to the side.

“Mercedes Chadwick’s life has been threatened because some small-minded people don’t like the movie she’s making,” he finally said, those sunglasses still trained on Green. “And you think the big news story here is who she’s
sleeping
with?”

The reporter didn’t back down. “Is it true you just met her a few days a—”

“I don’t see how that’s your business.”

“So it’s true,” Green countered.

Cosmo smiled. It was not a friendly smile. “You know, I have friends who died to protect your right to be an asshole.” He glanced at Patty. “Excuse me.”

Mike was not moved. “Isn’t it true that with your military background, you have more in common with the patriotism and Christian values of the Freedom Network than with the, uh, shall we call them
questionable types
you’re here to guard?”

“You’re kidding, right?” Cosmo didn’t get loud, he got quiet—and it was scary as all get-out. “You do any research at all on the Freedom Network, or d’you just swallow their propaganda bullshit whole, direct from their website? They aren’t patriotic and they sure didn’t get their doctrine of hatred from asking What Would Jesus Do. Freedom Network—my big hairy ass. Only freedom they’re interested in is freedom for people who look just like them, think just like them, and believe only what they believe—”

“I think we’re probably done here.” It was Jane. Gary the Grip was the hero of the hour, because he’d gone inside to fetch her—along with Decker and Jules Cassidy and even old Jack Shelton, although God only knew what he could do if things got ugly. “Get these vermin off this lot,” Jane ordered even as she took Cosmo’s arm and, ignoring the babble of questions from the reporters, pulled him with her back into the studio.

The steel door clanked shut behind them. It was dark in the hallway—it took Cosmo’s eyes a moment to adjust, even after he took off his sunglasses.

“I am
so
sorry,” Jane told him.

“Whoa, I’m the one who needs to apologize,” he countered. “I should’ve said ‘No comment.’ ” He should’ve just kept walking.

“No, it’s my fault completely,” she said. “I started this. Damn it! It was supposed to be finished tomorrow when . . . But now those reporters are going to be all over you.”

“I can handle them.”

“Even when they follow you home, and try to trick your mother into an interview?”

“Trust me, they’re not going to do that. Besides, she’s still in San Francisco.”

Jane was really worried. “You have no idea how low these creeps can go. You might actually want to call your mother’s friends in San Fran and make sure someone’s with her at all times.”

Cos had to laugh.

“It’s not funny.” Now she was indignant, yet still looking at him with such concern.

“Yeah, it is,” he told her. “After you meet my mother, you’ll understand. She’d enjoy tangling with a tabloid reporter. I’d worry more that once she did it, it might become her favorite hobby. You know, shades of the little sister from
Philadelphia Story
? Mom would probably only speak in risqué iambic pentameter or maybe bawdy haiku.”

Jane laughed, but he could tell that she still didn’t buy it.

“That’s a real turn-on, you know,” she said. “Hearing the words
iambic pentameter
from the mouth of a man like you.”

Good thing it was dark in there, because it was possible he was now blushing. A turn-on. Christ. Was she actually flirting with him or just being her usual irreverent self?

“A man like me?” he managed to ask. “I thought we were past the labeling stage.”

“The subset I’m talking about is ‘hotties who don’t own a suit.’ You have to admit you fall into the category.”

Hotties? Did she really think of him as . . .

She was wearing heels again today, although they weren’t as high as usual. Her dress was a pretty shade of blue, but it was neither low cut, aggressively short, nor of the painted-on variety, thank you, Lord Jesus. Still, talk about hot. The soft fabric hugged her curves and screamed to be touched.

Cos clasped his hands behind his back. “What, you think a man who doesn’t own a suit and tie can’t be well-read?”

Jane smiled. “No, just that men who are well-read are usually smart enough to figure out that most women like contrast. The cargo pants and T-shirt are a very nice look for you—don’t get me wrong. But if you want Sophia to notice you, show up for your dinner party in a well-tailored suit.”

Sophia. Damn. She was still trying to set him up with Sophia.

Whereas he couldn’t stop thinking about last night, when they had sat in Jane’s kitchen and he’d foolishly told her about Yasmin, about the reality behind The Story.

Christ, he was the King of Bad Ideas—thinking he could tell her the truth, thinking she wouldn’t go and reach for him when he did.

If he’d let her last night, she would have put her arms around him. And no way on God’s green earth could he have sat there without holding on to her in return. And if he had done that . . .

Ding.

He would’ve been completely done, totally cooked.

He would’ve pulled her onto his lap. Or, okay, even if he hadn’t, even if he’d showed amazing restraint and she’d only knelt on the floor next to him, her arms around his neck, her fingers in his hair. . . .

Ah, God.

His mouth would’ve been only inches from hers and . . .

Bad,
bad
idea.

Kissing the client while on duty was not good. Not good at all.

Cosmo took another step back now, farther away from her.

“So is that why you’re here? To pick up that suit?” she asked.

Huh?

“From the costume department?” she elucidated.

“Oh, right, no.” He had to laugh. “No, Jane, that’s, you know, not . . . I’m not . . . I’m here because we’re checking out everyone who has access to the set. It’s time-consuming, but we have to do it. Process of elimination—make sure the guy we’re after isn’t right under our nose. I think I’m supposed to make copies of something.”

“Of our extras casting file.” Jane nodded. “I’ll show you where it is, except, oh. You know what? Why don’t you wait here for Patty.”

“Oh, sure,” Cosmo said. “Yeah, of course. You’re busy. I’m sorry.” He’d already been enough of a time drain, and no doubt a total pain in the ass.

“No,” she said, moving closer. Close enough to touch his arm. Her fingers were cool against his skin, and it was all he could do not to jump straight up into the air. “It’s just . . . we probably shouldn’t spend too much time together in public. Alone, I mean. You know, ‘Don’t throw bouquets at me . . .’ ” She sang the opening lines to the old Rodgers and Hammerstein classic “People Will Say We’re in Love.”

She had a nice voice. It was nothing too special—she was certainly no Broadway diamond in the rough. It was just . . . sweetly pleasant.

“The cast and crew are prone to gossip. They don’t seem to understand that a man and a woman can be friends,” Jane continued. “And since I’m working hard to undo the damage from the press conference . . .”

She’d stopped touching his arm, but she was still standing close enough so that he couldn’t breathe without smelling her subtle perfume. He couldn’t tell what it was—only that there was a hint of vanilla in it. And coffee. And lemon and . . . She smelled delicious.

“Let’s plan to meet at noon,” she suggested, gazing up at him. “Down in Costume, where no one will see us. I’ll get Jack to help pick out the right suit and . . .” She smiled, the outer edges of her gorgeous eyes crinkling. “What’s so funny?” she asked.

Cosmo realized he was standing there smiling at her like a fool, just completely over the moon as far as she was concerned. The singing had clinched it.

Yeah, he was standing there, adoring her, despite the fact that she didn’t see him as anything more than a friend.

Friends—yeah, right, Jane. Like this pull he was feeling was purely one-sided. Electricity practically crackled around them when their eyes met. That was not a one-sided side effect.

“What’s the big joke?” she asked again, laughing a little, her eyes sparkling. “Share it, Chief. Don’t hold back.”

He almost did it.

He almost herded her back into the dark corner of that hallway, pressed her up against the wall, lowered his mouth to hers, and proved to her that there was way more than friendship between them.