of the SEALs—a blond lieutenant with an even, white-toothed smile and a much too handsome face, who looked as if he might’ve come straight from the set of Baywatch—pulled out a chair for her. Nodding her thanks, she sat next to him.
“Name’s Luke O’Donlon,” he whispered, holding out his hand.
She shook it quickly, absently, smiling briefly at both O’Donlon and the SEAL on her other side, an enormous African-American man with a shaved head, a diamond stud in his left ear, and a wide gold wedding band on his ring finger. As she set her bag down in front of her, her attention was held by the men on the other side of the big table.
Three admirals. Holy Mike. Whatever this assignment was, it required this spy-proof room and three full-grade admirals to launch it.
The admiral without the budweiser had snow-white hair and a face set in a permanent expression of disgust—as if he carried bad fish in his inside jacket pocket. Stonegate, that was his name. Zoe recognized him from his newspaper picture. He was always showing up in The Washington Post. He was part politician, something she didn’t quite approve of in a man of his rank and standing.
Beside her, O’Donlon cleared his throat and gave her his most winsome smile. He was just too cute, and he knew it, too. “I’m sorry, miss, I didn’t catch your name.”
“I’m afraid that info’s need-to-know,” she whispered back, “and probably beyond your security clearance level. Sorry, sailor.”
The senior chief next to her overheard and deftly covered his laughter with a cough.
The admiral who had reclaimed his seat next to Stonegate had a thick head of salt and pepper hair. Admiral Mac Forrest. Definitely a cool guy. She’d met him at least twice in the Middle East, the last time just a few months ago. He nodded and smiled as she met his eyes.
The admiral on Mac’s left—the man directly across the table from her—was still standing, his face hidden as he quickly rifled through a file. “Now that we’re all here,” he said, “why don’t we get started.”
He looked up then, and Zoe found herself looking into eyes that were amazingly, impossibly blue, into a face she would’ve recognized anywhere.
Jake Robinson.
The one and only Admiral Jake Robinson.
Zoe knew he was in his early fifties—he had to be unless he’d performed his heroics in Vietnam as a twelve-year-old. Still, his hair was thick and dark, and the lines around his eyes and mouth only served to give his handsome face strength and maturity.
And handsome was a complete understatement. Jake Robinson was way beyond handsome. He needed a completely new word invented to describe the sheer beauty of his face. His mouth was elegant, gracefully shaped and ready to quirk up into a smile. His nose was masculine perfection, his cheekbones exquisite, his forehead strong. His chin was just the right amount of stubborn, his jawline still sharp.
Lieutenant Cutie-Pie sitting next to her—now he was merely handsome. Jake Robinson, on the other hand, was the Real Deal.
He was looking around the table, quickly making introductions that Zoe knew were mostly for her benefit. Everyone else here knew each other. She tried to listen. The two enlisted SEALs were Skelly and Taylor. One was built like a pro football linebacker, the other looked like Popeye the sailor man. Which was which, she didn’t have a clue. The African-American senior chief was named Becker. She’d met O’Donlon. Hawken, Shaw, Jones. Try as she might to memorize names, to attach them permanently to faces, she couldn’t do it.
She was too busy flashing hot and cold.
Jake Robinson.
Great glorious God, she was being given a chance to work a long-term assignment under the command of a living legend. His exploits nearly thirty years ago in Vietnam were legendary—along with his more recent creation of the Gray Group. Robinson’s Gray Group was so highly classified, so top secret, she could only guess the type of assignments he handed out. But she could guess. Dangerous. Covert. Intensely important to national security.
And she was going to be part of one.
Zoe’s heart was pounding as if she had just run five miles. She took a deep breath, calming herself as the admiral introduced her to the rest of the room. By the time fourteen pairs of very male eyes focused on her, she was completely back in control. Calm. Cool. Collected. Positively serene.
Except thirteen of those fourteen pairs of very male eyes didn’t seem to notice how absolutely serene she was. Instead, they all focused on her ponytail and her little blue flowers. She could read their speculation quite clearly. She was the secretary, right? Sent in to take notes while the big strong men talked.
Guess again, boys.
“Dr. Zoe Lange is one of the top experts in the country—possibly in the world—in biological and chemical weapons,” Jake Robinson told them in his husky baritone voice.
Around the room, eyebrows went up. Zoe could almost smell the skepticism. Across the table, the admiral’s eyes were sparkling with amusement. Clearly, the skepticism’s stench was strong enough for him to smell it, as well.
“Dr. Lange works for Pat Sullivan,” he added matter-of-factly, and the mood in the room instantly changed. The Agency. He didn’t even need to say the name of the organization. They all knew what it was—and what she did for a living. Admiral Robinson had known exactly what to say to make them all sit up and take notice of her, little blue flowers or not. She sent him a smile of thanks.
“I truly appreciate your being able to join us here today, Doctor.” The admiral smiled at her, and it was all Zoe could do not to melt at his feet.
It was true. Everything she’d ever read or heard about Jake Robinson’s smile was absolutely true. It was warm and genuine. It was completely inclusive. It lit him from within, made his eyes even more blue. It made her want to follow him anywhere. Anywhere.
“It’s my pleasure, Admiral,” she murmured. “I’m honored that you invited me. I hope I can be of assistance.”
“Actually—” his face sobered “—it’s unfortunate that we need your assistance.” He looked around the table, all amusement gone from his eyes. “Two weeks ago, there was a break-in at the Arches military testing lab just outside of Boulder, Colorado.”
Zoe stopped watching the man’s eyes and started paying attention to his words. A break-in. At Arches. Holy Mike.
She wasn’t the only one shifting uneasily in her seat. Beside her, Senior Chief Becker was downright uncomfortable, as were most of the other SEALs. Like Zoe, they all knew what was tested at Arches. They all knew what was stored there, as well. Anthrax. Botulinum toxin. Sarin. The lethal nerve gas VX. And the newest man-made tool of death and chemical destruction, Triple X.
The last time Zoe had been in Arches, she’d written a hundred-and-fifty-page report on the weaknesses in their security system. She wondered now if anyone at all had bothered to read it.
“The break-in was done without force, without forced entry, even,” the admiral continued. “Six canisters of a deadly nerve agent were removed and replaced—it was only by dumb luck we discovered the switch.”
Zoe couldn’t stand it a minute longer. “Admiral,
