followed her out of the room. “He’s implying that you were the one who broke off whatever it was you had going.”
Melody started up the stairs. “Britt, what I said to him is not your business.”
“I always just assumed that he dumped you, you know. ‘So long, babe, it’s been fun. Time for me to go rescue some other chick who’s being held hostage.”’
Melody turned and faced her sister, looking down at her from her elevated position on the stairs. “He’s not that type of man,” she said fiercely.
She could practically see the wheels turning in Brittany’s head. “Now you’re defending him. Very interesting. Fess up, Sis. Were you the one who dumped him? Jeez, I never thought you’d turn out to be the love-’em-and-leave-’em type.”
“I’m not!” Melody started up the stairs again, exhaling noisily in frustration. “Look, nobody dumped anyone, all right? It was just a…fling! God, Britt, it wasn’t real—we hardly even knew each other. It was just…sex, and lust, and relief. A whole lot of very passionate relief. The man saved my life.”
“So naturally you decide to bear his child.”
Melody went into her bedroom and turned to shut the door, but Brittany blocked her.
“That’s what you told him before you got on the plane home, isn’t it? That crap about sex and lust and passionate relief? You told him you didn’t want to see him again, didn’t you?”
Mel gave up and sat down wearily on her bed. “It’s not crap. It’s true.”
“What if you’re wrong? What if this man is your missing half, your one true love?”
She shook her head vehemently. “He’s not.” God, over the past seven months, she’d asked herself the same question. What if…?
It was true that she missed her Navy SEAL. She missed him more than she was willing to admit. There were nights that she ached for his touch, that she would have died for a glimpse of his smile. And those amazing green eyes of his haunted her dreams.
But what she felt wasn’t love. It wasn’t.
Brittany sat next to her on the bed. “As much as you talk about passionate relief, sweetie, I just don’t see you as the type to lock yourself in a hotel room with any man for six solid days unless he means something special to you.”
Melody sank back against her pillows. “Yeah, well, you haven’t met Harlan Jones.”
“I’d like to meet Harlan Jones. Everything you’ve told me about him makes him sound like some kind of superman.”
“There you go,” Melody said triumphantly, sitting back up again. “That’s my point exactly. He’s some kind of superhero. And I’m just a mere mortal. What I felt for him wasn’t love. It was hero worship. Jones saved my life. I’ve never met anyone like him before—I probably never will again. He was amazing. He could do anything. Pilot a plane. Bandage my feet. Cut his sandals down to fit me yet make them look like new. He spoke four different languages, four! He knew how to scuba dive and skydive and move through the center of an enemy compound without being seen. He was smarter and braver and—God!—sexier than any man I’ve ever known, Britt. You’re right, he is a superman, and I couldn’t resist him—not for one day, not for six days. If he hadn’t been called back to the States, I would’ve stayed with him for sixty days. But that has nothing to do with real love. That was hero worship. I couldn’t resist Harlan Jones any more than Lois Lane could resist Superman—and that’s one relationship that could never be called healthy, or normal, either.”
Brittany was silent.
“I still think it’s wrong not to tell him about the baby,” she finally said, setting the paper with Jones’s phone number on Melody’s bedside table. She stood up and crossed the room, pausing with her hand on the doorknob. “Call him and tell him the truth. He deserves to know.”
Brittany left the room, closing the door behind her.
Melody closed her eyes. Call Jones.
The sound of his voice on her answering machine had sparked all sorts of memories.
Like finding the bandage he wore under his shirt on the back of his arm. They had been in her hotel room and she had been in the process of ridding him of that crisp white dress uniform, trailing her lips across every piece of skin she exposed. She’d pushed his jacket and then his shirt over his shoulders and down his arms, and there it was—big and white and gauze and covering a “little” gash he’d had stitched up at the hospital that morning.
When she pressed, he told her he’d been slashed with a knife, fighting off the men he’d surprised in the hangar at the air base.
He’d been stabbed, and he hadn’t bothered to mention it to either Harvard or Melody. He’d simply bandaged the wound himself, right then and there, and forgotten about it.
When she asked to see it, he’d lifted the gauze and shown her the stitches with a shrug and a smile. It was no big deal.
Except the “little” gash was four inches long. It was angry and inflamed—which also was no big deal to Jones, since the doctor had given him antibiotics. He’d be fine in a matter of days. Hours.
He’d pulled her back on top of him, claiming her mouth with a gentleness astonishing for a man so strong, intertwining their legs as he took a turn ridding her of more of her clothes.
And it was then Melody knew for dead certain their love affair was not going to be long-term.
Because there was no way this incredible man—for whom rescuing strangers deep inside a terrorist stronghold and getting sliced open in a knife fight was all in a casual day’s work—would ever remain interested in someone like drab little Melody Evans for long.
He would be far better off with a woman reminiscent of Mata Hari. Someone who would scuba dive and parasail with him. Someone strong and mysterious and daring.
And Melody would be better off with an everyday, average guy. Someone who would never forget to mention it when he was slashed by a knife. Someone whose idea of excitement was mowing the lawn and watching the Sunday afternoon football game on TV.
She curled up on her side on her bed, staring at the piece of paper that Brittany had left on her bedside table.
Still, she had to call him back.
If she didn’t call him, he’d call here again, she was sure of it. And God help her if he spoke to Brittany and she let slip Melody’s secret.
Taking a deep breath, Melody reached for the paper and the phone.
* * *
Cowboy was in Alpha Squad’s makeshift office, trying to get some work done.
Seven desks—one for each member of the squad—had been set up haphazardly down at one end of a metal Quonset hut. This hut was a temporary home base to work out the details of a training mission. Except this time, the members of Alpha Squad were the trainers, not the trainees. Within a few months, a group of elite Federal Intelligence Commission or FinCOM agents were being sent down from D.C. to learn
