Into the Storm (7 page)

Decker shifted slightly, clearing his throat to speak, but Tom cut him off.

“Everyone in this office is aware of the game you two have been playing—that you’re never in the same location at the same time—at least not for long. Everyone is also aware of the toll that’s taking on the both of you—and it
is
taking a toll. I’ve seen you expend an enormous amount of energy avoiding one another. As for how much of the company’s money you’ve wasted”—Tom put up his hand to silence Deck’s protests—“on unnecessary business trips, I don’t know. It may not be much, but I
am
sure that it’s not zero. Bottom line is this. I’m tired of it. Everyone else in this office—except maybe Tracy, who’s new—is tired of it, too, and it’s going to stop. Right now.”

Tom continued, “You’re going to iron out your differences, and you’re going to work together on this assignment with Team Sixteen.”

Sophia didn’t dare look at Decker, but she could feel him glance at her.

“And if, after this assignment is over, you decide, for whatever reason, that you can’t do that”—Tom’s voice was not unkind, just absolute—“I will expect letters of resignation on my desk.”

“There’s no need to wait.” Decker got to his feet. “I’ll get that for you now, sir.”

Sophia stood, too. He’d misunderstood. “No, Deck—”

He turned to her, and his intensity made her take a step back, bumping into her chair. She couldn’t remember the last time he’d looked at her,
really
looked at her like that.

“I’m not going to let you be the one to leave,” he told her.

“He said
letters.
Plural.”

Decker turned to look at Tom, who was still sitting behind his desk.

“You both stay or you both go,” their boss confirmed. “No one gets to play the martyr here. I won’t facilitate that game.” He let that sink in. “The choice is yours. I suggest you use this training op as a trial, to see if your differences really are irreconcilable.”

“Sir,” Decker started, but Tom didn’t let him speak.

“You’re dismissed.”

Silently, Decker led the way to the door. He opened it, stood back to let Sophia exit first.

Always the gentleman.

Well, almost always.

“I’m so sorry,” he told Sophia, as he closed Tom’s door behind them.

She spoke before he could get to the
but. But I just can’t work with you. But I can’t handle seeing you every day.
“I really like this job,” she said.

His mouth tightened, but she pressed on. “Why don’t we try to make this work?” she asked him. “You know, I actually thought—back in Kazbekistan—that we’d managed to become friends.”

Talking about this, even half in code the way they were doing, was hard for him. “And seeing me doesn’t remind you of…”

“Of the fact that you saved my life?” she asked him. “Definitely. It also reminds me that you helped me get back on my feet again. You lent me money, you helped me get this job. Yes, I’m very much reminded of that when I see you.”

“I’ve tried,” he said, his voice low. “But I just can’t forget that I took advantage of you.”

“I happen to disagree,” Sophia told him, her voice shaking slightly despite her best effort. “You didn’t take advantage. But whether you did or not, isn’t it time you stopped punishing me for it?”

He didn’t have a comeback for that one, so she left him there, heading down the hall to her office, half-hoping he would follow.

Fully knowing that he wouldn’t.

Jenk sat in silence as Izzy drove them over to Tom Paoletti’s house.

That hadn’t gone the way he’d hoped it would.

In his fantasy version, he’d walk into the Troubleshooters Incorporated reception area to find that Tracy was finally getting the hang of manipulating the voice mail system. She’d smile at him, holding up one perfectly manicured finger, asking him to wait just a sec as she flawlessly connected the caller who’d requested operator assistance. Then she’d smile at him again, thanking him for helping her find this wonderful job.

He’d remind her that he’d promised to take her to the furniture store with his truck, to pick up the dinette set she’d gotten on sale. He’d also promised he’d help bring it up to her second-floor apartment, help her put it together.

She’d suggest they go that evening, right after work. At which point he’d tell her he was babysitting for little Charlie Paoletti, and her eyes would widen the way Lindsey’s had.

Izzy glanced at him now. “Dude, I hate to break it to you, but your girlfriend wants to jump me.”

What?

Izzy nodded. “It’s true.”

“Why do people say
I hate to break it to you
when they’re obviously gleeful about the news they’re going to share?” Jenk asked.

“I’m not gleeful,” Izzy said.

“Yeah,
dude,
you are.”

“I’m actually depressed, because I really think I could have scored with her tonight.”

God. “Yeah, I don’t think so.”

Instead of his fantasy with its meaningful eye contact and warm smiles, Tracy had been on the phone with Lyle. Her scum-sucking ex-boyfriend. Jenk had walked into the reception area to find every other phone line ringing as Tracy took a personal call—forgetting to switch on the voice mail system.

Lindsey was right behind him, and the two of them got the phones back under control. Of course, by then Tracy was focusing all of her energy on trying to hide the fact that talking to Lyle had made her cry.

The news that Jenk was babysitting for Tom tonight got absolutely zero reaction.

Nothing at all. Not even a blink in his direction.

“Tracy’s got this ex who just won’t leave her alone,” Jenk told Izzy now. “He’s trying to get them back together, and…She’s pretty hung up on him. I have to figure out a way to—”

“Jenkins. Read my lips, okay? You’re seriously deluded about this girl. And even if she was interested in you, I’d be advising you to hit-and-run. Did you check out her shoes? And her handbag? She’s a shopper. Shag her, for sure, but then move on—before you’re stuck paying her credit card bills for the rest of your life.”

Shag her and move on. Jenk had done
shag her and move on.
His almost dying in Afghanistan had woken him up to a new reality. He didn’t want
shag her and move on
anymore. He wanted the kind of closeness that Tom and his wife Kelly shared. He wanted the magic that the senior chief shared with his wife.

He wanted someone waiting for him when he came home at night.

Even crazy-assed Chief Karmody had found his soulmate. If
he
could do it, Jenk could, too.

And why shouldn’t it be Tracy Shapiro?

When his sister Ginny had called, telling Jenk that Tracy was finally moving out of New York, that she wanted to come to San Diego to make a fresh start, it had seemed like a sign from God.

He’d helped her get this job—coaching her via e-mail to say all the right things during her interview with Tommy.

Sure, she was flawed. No one was perfect. But as far as vices went, shopping was a pretty minor one. Her relentless attraction to Lyle, a man who had hurt her—repeatedly—in the past, was more troubling, though, but not insurmountable.

She was funny, and sweet, and beautiful, and kind, and yes, she was even smart.

Even though Lindsey didn’t think so.

And Jenk had been crazy about her, for forever.

So why not Tracy Shapiro?

Sure, okay, she still didn’t know he existed. She still saw him as Ginny’s annoying little brother. That was a perception he was going to have to change.

Was it going to be easy? No.

Was the fact that it wasn’t going to be easy going to stop him?

No.

He was a Navy SEAL. He’d done difficult things in the past.

He
would
get Tracy to notice him, to fall in love with him, and yes, even to marry him, if that’s what he decided he wanted.

It might take a while, but there was one thing he’d learned about himself over the past few years—he was a patient man.

“That Lindsey’s pretty hot,” Izzy said, as they took the turn onto Tommy’s street. “I think she liked me, too.”

“Lindsey?” Jenk couldn’t keep the disbelief from his voice.

“You don’t think she’s hot?” Izzy misunderstood. “Asian women, man…They’re unbelievably beautiful. And smart.”

Oh, God. “Lookit, do me a favor,” Jenk said. “Just stay away from Lindsey, okay? She’s—”

“Whoa,” Izzy said. “Time out, Marky-Mark. You can’t call dibs on everyone. One at a time, right? Fair’s fair. So which is it, Tracy or Lindsey?”

Shit. “Tracy,” Jenk said. “But seriously, Zanella, Lindsey’s…different.”

“Is she, you know, a friend of Ellen?” Izzy parked in front of the Paoletti’s house. “That would be so cool. Do you think she’s got a girlfriend, because I’ve always wanted to get with some lesbians.” He laughed at the expression on Jenk’s face. “Look at you. I’m kidding. That’s the joke, right? Some asshole’s all like,
Lesbians are so hot, do you think they’ll do me?
Only he’s too stupid to know that they’re lesbians because they’re not into men and…never mind.”

“No, I get it,” Jenk said. “But Jesus, Izzy, sometimes you frighten me.”

“So what do you think?
Is
she a dyke?”

Jenk exhaled his exasperation as he got out of Izzy’s truck. “I don’t know—it wasn’t on the questionnaire I gave her about her sexual preferences. And frankly, I don’t care. I like her, all right? As a friend. I don’t want you to mess with her.”

“You can call dibs on her if you want, but then you’ve gotta toss Tracy back. Otherwise, you’ve got no right. Unless, you know, you discover Lindsey’s your long-lost sister. Then you can invoke the sister rule. But looking at the two of you, I don’t think that’s gonna fly.”

Jenk followed Izzy up the path to the front door. “I don’t know what I’m worried about. Lindsey’s gonna break your balls.”

“Perfect,” Izzy said. “I’m into pain. Weeble.”

Jenk stared at him. Had he just said…

“Tracy told me she used to call you that—right after she implied that she wanted to do me.”

It was probably all true. Tracy had dreadful taste in men. Izzy was almost as big of an asshole as Lyle, so why shouldn’t she be attracted to him?

This was going to be more difficult than he’d imagined.

Izzy grinned. “I’m guessing you were rounder when you were a kid, Wobble-Man.”

“Fuck you.”

“Fuck
you,
” Izzy said cheerfully, as if it were some sort of blessing Jenk had bestowed on him, and that he was bestowing on Jenk in return.

From inside of the house, they could hear a baby crying. Ferociously. Izzy rang the doorbell. “Two Navy SEALs versus one angry seven-month-old,” he mused. “The odds could go either way.”

L
OCATION
: U
NCERTAIN
D
ATE
: U
NKNOWN

Number Twenty was a fighter.

The lights were up in the basement, which was also a treat. Although Five knew from experience that he could turn them off at any moment. Just to increase the challenge, to ramp up the level of fear.

He fed on the fear, and tonight he was getting a feast.

Twenty was sobbing as Five rushed her. She was terrified—as well she should be.

But she’d had some kind of rudimentary self-defense training. She knew not to let Five get close enough to her head to land a blow, close enough to her throat to get a grip.

So Five kicked her in the back, and she slammed against the wall.

She made herself hate Twenty—for her relatively clean jeans, her untangled hair, the traces of makeup on her butt-ugly face—as she kicked her again.

Fear could make the prettiest girl on the planet look like a freak show.

She also hated Twenty for what her being here meant that Five would have to do.

But it was always easier with a fighter. Number Nineteen had done little more than curl up into a ball and cry.

He was on the stairs, watching, lapping up the fear, laughing as Five drove Twenty back into the corner. “Use it,” he called. “Come on Twenty, use it now!”

Use what?

And then Twenty turned, a tumble of golden curls, a flash of something else as she lashed out at Five with her fist.

She blocked the blow easily with her arm, but there was a sharp burst of pain.

She retreated. She’d been cut—her arm was…bleeding?

Twenty still sobbed, light flashing again on the blade she held awkwardly in front of her, as if to defend herself.

That son of a bitch had given Twenty a knife.

C
HAPTER
T
HREE

S
AN
D
IEGO
, C
ALIFORNIA
F
RIDAY
N
IGHT
, D
ECEMBER
2, 2005

L
indsey’s post-workout pizza had just been delivered, in all its extra cheese glory, when her cell phone rang.

She glanced at it, ready to ignore it unless it was her father or work, and saw that the caller was none other than Mark Jenkins.

So she answered it. “’Lo?”

“Lindsey. It’s Izzy Zanella. You know, Jenk’s alarmingly handsome friend?”

Jenk’s alarmingly handsome friend. Lindsey had thought that the tall, dangerous-looking SEAL was a little too convinced he was all that, but now he was mocking himself. At least she hoped he was mocking himself.

“You got a sec?” he asked.

“Is this more important than a portobello mushroom pizza?”

“In my opinion, no,” he said. “But Jenk asked me to call you, so I’m calling you. You know anything about kids?”

“If you’re calling me with your babysitting woes, simply because I’m female—”

“Actually, Jenk thought to call you because you used to be a cop. He thought maybe you’d run into a sick kid a time or two.”

Lindsey sat up. “Is Charlie sick?”

“Nah,” Izzy said. “Well,
I
don’t think so. Marky-Mark, however, is not convinced. But everyone we know who has kids is out. It must be American Annual Date Night or something. Seriously, no one’s home. And most of the babysitters we’ve talked to sound like they’re thirteen, so…We’re now up to calling everyone who may have
seen
a kid at one point in their lives.”

“What’s the problem?” Lindsey asked.

“It’s diaper-related,” Izzy said.

“As in, you want me to come over there and change Charlie’s diaper?”

“Oh, please,” Izzy said in disgust. “Give us more credit than that. We’re trained in recon. I once didn’t leave my position for fifty hours. I’m talking
didn’t move.
I crapped in my pants three times.”

“Wow,” Lindsey said. “That’s more information about you than I ever wanted to know.”

He laughed. “So, you’re, uh, finding me irresistible, huh?”

“Um,” Lindsey said.

He
did
have a nice laugh. “My point here being that a baby diaper doesn’t scare me.”

“So what’s the problem?” she asked.

“Well, in two words…”

Lindsey just knew they were going to be two very good words.

“Green poop.”

“Green poop,” she repeated.

“Like, seriously green,” Izzy reported. “Hey, you live just a few blocks away, don’t you? Is there any chance—”

“Hold up. And you would know where I live because…” She let her voice trail off dangerously.

“Choice A, I’m a serial killer and I’ve already built a shrine to you in the glove compartment of my truck. Choice B, Tommy’s got you on a list of emergency contacts on his fridge,” Izzy told her.

“He does?” Wow, this was turning into some kind of great day. First, in their private meeting, Tom had referred to her as his “secret weapon,” and now, to find out that her contact info was on his refrigerator…

“Yeah.” Izzy wasn’t as impressed by the fact. “So can you come over and do a visual? And as long as you’re coming, you know, bring your pizza?”

“I don’t think so.” Lindsey could hear Jenk shouting something in the background. There was a dog barking back there, too. Since when had Tom and Kelly gotten a dog? “Does Charlie seem sick? Is he crying or—”

“Crying’s like his specialitee. Hang on,” Izzy said, and she heard the murmur of another voice. “Oh, really?” He spoke into the phone again. “Jenk says you’re prolly too busy watching
American Idol
to come help us out with our green poop situation, which is pathetic. You really like Ryan Seacrest better than me and Jenk?”

Lindsey wondered what he’d say if she told him the truth.
No, actually, I’m already well on my way to developing a full-blown crush on Mark Jenkins, so I thought I’d limit my face time with him to work hours only. In a futile attempt to keep a train wreck from happening.

Instead, she said, “
American Idol
doesn’t start until February. But if it were on tonight? I can guarantee that Ryan wouldn’t want to eat my pizza.”

“Ryan’s also not a Navy SEAL,” Izzy pointed out, after transmitting her words to Jenkins. “He won’t come and save your life if you ever need saving.”

“Hmmm,” Lindsey said, pretending to think about it. “Nope. Won’t ever need saving—completely capable of doing that myself. I’d still stick with Ryan. If you want my opinion, for whatever it’s worth, I think the green poop means that Charlie ate something green for lunch. But if you have any doubts, you should call Tom and Kelly. You know, Kelly’s a pediatrician.”

“Yeah, but Jenk doesn’t want to bother them. Oops, I’m getting a beep. Someone’s calling me back. Ooh, it’s Tracy Shapiro. She’s definitely not a lesbian.”

“A what?” Lindsey said, totally confused.

“I bet I can talk
her
into coming over,” Izzy said. “She digs me. Later, babe.”

“Izzy, wait,” Lindsey said. Didn’t he know that Jenk had a serious thing for Tracy? God, wouldn’t
that
be a mess. But he’d already cut the connection.

She returned to her pizza, only now it didn’t taste very good.

Lindsey went to her spice cabinet, rummaging for her red pepper, disgusted with herself for worrying about the guy that she maybe could have liked, had the timing and situation been different. Yeah, worrying that Tracy was going to break Jenk’s heart was healthy—in an alternate universe.

She shook the pepper onto her slice of pizza, and when she took a bite, her mouth practically exploded. Much better.

And yet, she kept eyeing her phone. Like she should maybe call Izzy back, make sure he didn’t inadvertently hurt his friend.

Maybe she should just go ahead and skewer herself now.

California was working.

Lyle, the rat-bastard, was coming to San Diego next weekend.

He was flying into LA for business, but then he was going to hire a car and make the short drive down the coast to see her.

Tracy parked on the street in front of a trim little house, its yard all but bursting with neatly kept flowering plants. She double-checked the address she’d written on the back of an envelope—this was definitely it. Her boss’s house.

Little
was the key word despite the gorgeous gardens and pretty solar lamps lighting the front path. She’d been expecting something…more.

A whole lot more. In quantity and quality.

Something a little less relentlessly middle-class.

Tom Paoletti was the owner and CEO of Troubleshooters Incorporated. He had to be making money hand over fist. And his wife was not just a doctor, but a doctor with a trust fund. And yet, they lived here.

Go figure. Of course, it
was
a nice little neighborhood, reminiscent of the kid-friendly cul-de-sac where she’d grown up. And not everyone was like social-climbing, law-firm-partner-wannabe Lyle.

Tracy pulled down the sun visor, checking her makeup in the mirror.

People were strange and stupid. Of course, she’d have to include herself in that generalization.

She grabbed the bottle of chardonnay that she’d picked up on her way over, got out of the car, headed down the path to the house, her heels tapping on the pink bricks.

She’d come to California to get Lyle’s attention. But really, what did it say about their relationship—the fact that in order to communicate effectively, she had to move out of their condo? And not just to Brooklyn. No, she’d had to travel thousands of miles to make her point.

Straighten up and fly right.

And oh, by the way, that left hand of Tracy’s that was without a ring? A return trip to NYC would require both a diamond and a wedding band.

Mark Jenkins opened the door before she even rang the bell. “Hey, Trace. Thanks for coming.” He pushed open the screen, giving her a dazzling smile.

He had a terrific smile. She’d always thought Mark was cute in a little brother kind of way, but it wasn’t his smile that immobilized her now, making her stand and gawk at him, feet glued to the bricks like an idiot.

He wasn’t wearing a shirt. Dressed in only blue-patterned jams and sandals, with that golden tan and all those muscles—holy moly, little Weeble was
all
muscle—he looked like one of the surfers she’d seen out on the beach.

No, actually, he looked like their king.

Sure, he was on the shorter side of short, but that six-pack more than made up for it. And the way those jams hung low on his trim hips….

“Sorry, about the…” He motioned to his bare chest as if it might be a problem for her. “Apparently babies hurl as part of their regular routine. My T-shirt’s in the wash.”

Her heels made her taller than him, but he smiled up at her quite sunnily, as if he didn’t care. Why should he, with that body? He closed the door behind her and led the way into the house.

Tracy realized that she hadn’t seen him out of uniform since she’d arrived in California, since he’d gotten back from overseas. He’d helped her find her apartment and her job via e-mail, from a hospital in Germany.

His shorts went down all the way below his knees, but they fit him extremely well. Unbelievably well. Dear God, she was standing here, ogling Weeble’s fantastically tight little butt.

And she’d thought his friend, what’s-his-name, Izzy, was the hottie.

Mark turned back to look at her, amusement in his pretty green eyes. Ginny had always hated the fact that, out of the two of them, he’d gotten the long eyelashes. “You coming?”

“Yeah. Sorry.” Tracy kicked off her shoes, leaving them by the door, and, still carrying the wine, followed him into her boss’s remarkably average-looking little house.

Tracy Shapiro knew dick about babies.

Izzy had just gotten Charlie quieted down, when she came in and woke him up. The sound of a female voice laughing loudly caught the Chazster’s attention.

It probably wasn’t intentional. Still, it wouldn’t have taken a whole lot of figuring for Tracy, arriving on the scene of a babysitting emergency—so to speak—to notice that said baby was finally quiet and to keep her voice low.

The good news was that she was on Izzy and Lindsey’s side in the green poop debate. It was now three to one that it was nothing to worry about, and Jenk finally seemed down with that.

Anyone want some wine? She’d brought a bottle with her, of course.

Izzy slipped out onto the back patio while Charlie was still in the snuffling, maybe-going-to-cry phase, hoping the cool night air would distract the kid.

Also, he’d noticed that Charlie stopped crying when Izzy sang to him. Of course the kid wasn’t interested in Bruce Springsteen or Dire Straits or anything else that could be sung aloud in public. No, it had to be either Elton John or The Carpenters. Or Celine Dion, but damn. Izzy had to draw the line somewhere.

“Don’t you remember you told me you love me, baby,” Izzy sang, as he watched Tracy do her weird hot/cold thing to Marky-Mark. The big glass sliders gave him a clear view of both the kitchen and the living room.

He couldn’t hear what they were saying, but their body language told the whole story as Charlie clutched Izzy’s little finger with his teeny little fist, enthralled by his rendition of the song.

In the living room, Tracy’s hands fluttered, fixing her already perfect hair after she sat on one end of the sofa. “Your naked, manly chest has sent my estrogen levels soaring.”

Jenk came out of the kitchen, carrying a glass of wine and a plate of cheese and crackers. “Here, let me provide for you, for I am a strong alpha male despite being height-challenged.”

“Jesus, Chaz,” Izzy sang to the same melody, which was okay with Charlie. Getting the lyrics right wasn’t that big a deal for the under-two set. “Can you believe this crap?”

Inside the house, Tracy smiled up at Jenk. Accepted the glass and a microscopic piece of something from the plate. Took a nibble, turning so that her body was open to him as he crossed to the other end of the couch. “Ooh, this nourishment you have brought to me is delicious,” Izzy imagined her saying. “You are indeed a most worthy candidate for a mate. I will sit like this, so you can more easily imagine me naked.”

Jenk sat, too, but not on the sofa. Instead he perched on the arm. It both gave him height and added definition to his abs. He braced himself with one arm against the back cushion, sly devil, which put even more muscles into play. “I see that you have noticed that I am too sexy for my shirt.” He laughed, but it was one of those awkward, mixed-company laughs—definitely not a funny-joke laugh.

Tracy laughed, too, and adjusted her sweater, pulling it down by the bottom. “I see that you, too, have noticed my generous, womanly bosom. You must earn the right to look directly at it, although I will never let you forget that it is there.”

On and on and
on
it went, with Izzy hanging out on the deck long after Charlie’s eyes had rolled back in his head.

He could totally relate to the little dude.

Jenk was working it like a pro, loading on the charm, letting Tracy talk, nodding to show he was listening, always giving her plenty of sincere eye contact. It was only occasionally that he let his massive confusion show on his face, but he always covered it by smiling or even laughing. “You are as odd as all of the others of your fair sex, but I will pretend that I understand whatever the fuck you say to me in my single-minded quest to nail you to the wall.”

Tracy stood up, pointing toward the kitchen. “I will walk over here, mate-candidate, so you can check out my ass. Because that is what I want you to do, even though if I caught you doing it, I would pretend to be most upset.”

She put her glass down on the kitchen counter and vanished down the hall.

On the arm of the sofa, Jenk took the opportunity to adjust his balls. Good man. It may have been hard work, but he had the right to be comfortable while doing it. Give ’em a scratch, too. There you go.