Fatal Heat: A Navy SEAL Novella (16 page)

“No,” Paige said. “Absolutely not. I just put my makeup on.”

Max gave an exaggerated sigh, but didn’t stop smiling. “A man can try.”

A sharp bark sounded and Paige looked down at her dog. He lifted his muzzle and she could swear he smiled at her.

“Is that a
smile?”
her husband asked.

“I think it is. A smug one.”

“Well, he’s a father, after all. Puppies will do that.”

Paige nestled her head against her husband’s shoulder and sighed with happiness. “Well, we’ll see how you react to your own puppies.” She smiled into his startled face. “We’re having twins.”

SEALs and Why We Love Them

Dear Reader,

Anyone who has read my books knows I often write about SEALs, simply because I admire them so very much.

I’m a romance writer and so part of what makes my writing heart tick is the appeal of my characters. On that level, any SEAL is off the charts. They are almost caricatures of manliness—brave and strong, with that relentless male focus that can be so effective, and yet can sometimes drive those of us who are married or in a relationship crazy. (I can hear you smiling.)

Their macho is in their minds—not their muscles. I’ve read lots of books about SEALs and memoirs by SEALs, and what shines through is the incredible intelligence of these men (for they are all men). They are smart in every way there is. They are book-smart
and
street-smart, an unusual and unusually attractive combination. Reading the memoirs, in particular, you find that these men take an often chaotic world and make some kind of sense of it.

The world they operate in is neither orderly nor rational nor kind, and they must act in ways that are orderly, rational, and, yes, kind. They are bound by rules their enemies do not in any way respect, so we’re asking them to go out and fight for us, put their lives on the line for us, and—oh yes, forgot!—please do that with one hand tied behind your back.

I really admire human excellence, particularly the kind that isn’t innate, the kind you have to work really hard for. The med student who spends her weekends practicing tying sutures on the bedpost; the pianist who practices those extra hours to be able to put soul—and not just technical perfection—into that Bach sonata; the scientist who runs that test for the ten thousandth time and it turns out successful, when everyone else would have stopped at the thousandth iteration. That is, perhaps, the quintessence of being human.

And, contrary to popular myth, SEALs are human, very human. They are not supermen. Bullets do not bounce off them. They bleed and they hurt and they die. They do what they do in the shadows and they do it for us.

Hats off and my heartfelt gratitude.

Lisa Marie Rice

If you enjoyed
Fatal Heat,
don’t miss out on Lisa Marie Rice’s exciting
Protectors
series in which three heroes—former Navy SEAL, Delta Force Operator, and Marine Force Recon—walk through fire for the women they love.

Into the Crossfire

A Protectors Novel: Navy SEAL

Available Now

Hotter Than Wildfire

A Protectors Novel: Delta Force

Available Now

Nightfire

A Protectors Novel: Marine Force Recon

Available February 2012

Nightfire

C
hloe Mason sat in the very elegant waiting room of RBK Security, Inc., which was in a very elegant building in very elegant downtown San Diego.

She’d spent a lot of time in plush, designer surroundings, but she was still impressed with the large room which managed to be both beautiful and designed for comfort and efficiency.

It also had another quality with which she was very familiar. Everything in the room—from the color palette of light earth tones to the lush, healthy plants to the expensive couches and armchairs, the interesting but not shrill modern artwork—was designed to calm and to soothe.

It was still the Christmas season, but the office didn’t have the usual loop of nauseatingly familiar carols playing, which many found grating and stressful, particularly if they were in trouble. Rather, the Christmas spirit was honored by soft medieval madrigals playing in the background. Instead of killing a tree, the company had put up a colored light sculpture that was both intriguing and beautiful.

She’d spent all of her childhood and a good deal of her adolescence in and out of very expensive medical clinics, and that mixture of good taste and reassurance was one she knew well.

Even the receptionist was soothing. Chloe had walked into this highly successful office and asked to speak with one of the partners. In American business-dom that just didn’t happen. She knew enough of business etiquette to be aware of that.

And yet she hadn’t made an appointment. She’d propelled herself here from Boston without even thinking of making one—excited and terrified and hopeful, in equal measure.

So she’d walked over to the elegant “U” design of the reception counter and quietly given her name to the slender, sharply-dressed receptionist with beautiful silver hair cut by someone who knew what he was doing.

The receptionist hadn’t blinked at the unexpected request. She simply looked up and asked whether the appointment was urgent.

Urgent? Was it urgent? Maybe, maybe not. Though if Harry Bolt was who she thought he was, it was more than urgent. It was life-shattering.

So she simply nodded, throat too tight to plead her case.

“Okay then,” the receptionist had said, tapping on her touch screen. “It’s a busy morning for Mr. Bolt, but I’ll do what I can.” She looked up again, eyes searching Chloe’s face. “Would one of the other partners do? Mr. Keillor has a free hour this morning.”

Mr. Keillor would be Michael Keillor, former marine, former SWAT officer, current partner. She’d read his bio on the RBK web site and seen his unsmiling photograph. He looked smart and tough and capable, just like all the partners. If she had security problems, he’d probably be just as good as Harry Bolt.

But her problems didn’t have anything to do with security.

She shook her head, hoping the receptionist wouldn’t take her inability to speak as discourtesy. And while she was at it, that the receptionist wouldn’t notice Chloe’s shaking hands.

The receptionist didn’t—she simply touched the screen again. “Okay, I can clear you for Mr. Bolt at nine thirty, if you don’t mind waiting.”

Chloe had waited all her life for this moment. Another half an hour wouldn’t make any difference. She managed to choke out a thank-you through her tight throat, and sat down to wait on one of the incredibly comfortable armchairs that dotted the enormous lobby.

So many emotions swirled in her chest that she couldn’t feel any single one in particular, just a huge pressure so powerful she could barely breathe. She wanted
so much
for—

And she stopped herself right there. Wanting didn’t make things happen. If there was one thing her life had taught her, it was that. She could want so fiercely she thought she would explode, and it wouldn’t make any difference at all. It was impossible to understand what really could make a difference. Fate? Perhaps. Randomness? Maybe. Wanting? No.

So she sat back in the extremely comfortable and attractive armchair and… disappeared.

It was her trick, learned harshly throughout her childhood. Bad things happened to her when she got noticed. She’d learned very early to sit back and become unnoticeable. She didn’t become literally invisible. It’s just that she could turn off all the subconscious signals humans sent to each other, so that no one noticed her.

She sat there, unmoving, saying nothing, and observed. Observed the other people waiting for one of the three partners. There were three men in the room, all middle-aged or older, all visibly rich and powerful. Businessmen, who wanted RBK to help them in something or with something. Two were sweating so badly a slightly acrid odor rose above their expensive colognes. The other sat in Male Mode, knees apart, clasped hands between them. He radiated anger and aggression.

Chloe didn’t dare look at him. Though she’d perfected the art of blandness, she knew through bitter experience that an angry male took even a chance meeting of eyes as aggression.

She turned her head toward the entrance door so that he couldn’t even pretend to think that she was staring at him, and watched as the sliding door swooshed open.

A man walked into the waiting room and all male eyes swiveled to him, watching his progress across the lobby. The three rich-looking men might think that they were alpha males in their own environments, but they weren’t. Chloe knew many rich men who thought their money gave them top-dog status anywhere, any time. Often it did, but not always.

This
man, striding across the room, was the alpha male. He’d be the alpha male in any grouping—rich man, poor man, didn’t make any difference.

He wasn’t tall but he was immensely broad—wide shoulders, thick arms, strong neck. A bodybuilder, but without that bodybuilder waddle, because he clearly built onto muscles that were already there. His movements were fast, precise, powerful. The strongest man in the room, hands down. And he’d be the strongest man in the room in most rooms.

Michael Keillor. The K in the RBK. He wouldn’t be billionaire-rich but he didn’t have to be. He was wealthy, successful, dominant. Enough by any person’s measure.

He scanned the lobby as he walked by, eyes dwelling for a moment on her. He didn’t break his stride, but Chloe knew he was studying her. She met his eyes, fiercely blue, very intelligent, impersonal and cold. Suddenly he blinked—the coldness vanished and something happened, but she didn’t know what.

When he walked in, he’d launched himself across the room as if it were just a way station as he arrowed toward the offices visible behind a glass-plated sliding door, but now he detoured and stopped for a moment at the desk, elbows on the counter, leaning forward to talk to the receptionist.

The woman looked startled, then shot a glance at Chloe.

Her heart gave a painful beat in her chest. He was discussing
her
? Why? Did he have some inkling of why she was here? How could he? No one on earth knew why she was here. Not even old Mr. Pelton, the family lawyer, knew, because she hadn’t approached him yet.

Time enough for that if she were successful. Not that Mr. Pelton would ever approve.

No. Her mission here was completely secret.

So why was Michael Keillor discussing her with the receptionist?

It was… it was unnatural. Chloe wasn’t used to being the focus of { thfac anyone’s attention. She didn’t remember learning the art of passing under everyone’s radar. It had always been there and she’d perfected it over the years.

She never dressed outrageously. Her clothes were expensive, but low-key, never too trendy. She was always clean and groomed, but never flashy.

All her life, people had taken one look and simply forgotten her in an instant, walking on by. Chloe didn’t want attention. Not out of shyness, but because she was afraid of it. Since she could remember, attention had meant danger. If someone looked at her too closely, her heart began pounding, an instinctive and totally uncontrollable reaction.

Michael Keillor nodded at the receptionist, took another look at her that had her hands sweating, and disappeared through the sliding glass door into the offices at the back of the lobby.

Nine fifteen. The appointment with Harry Bolt was in a quarter of an hour, if he was a punctual man.

Chloe sat back to do what she did best—wait. It seemed almost her entire childhood—what she could remember of it anyway—and adolescence had been spent waiting. Waiting for the scars to heal, waiting for the casts to come off, waiting to recover from the last surgery, waiting for the next one. She was the goddess of waiting. If there were a PhD in waiting, she’d have been awarded one years ago.