wore in his left ear, but he’d since put it back in, and it glistened colorfully, catching snatches of the neon light.
But it was Harvard’s eyes that P.J. had been aware of right from the start. A rich, dark golden-brown, they were the focal point of his entire face, of his entire being. If it were true that the eyes were the window to the soul, this man had one powerfully intense soul.
Yeah, he was the real thing.
As a matter of fact, more than one or two of the other patrons in the bar, both men and women, were sneaking looks at the man. Some were wary, some were nervous, and some were flat-out chock-full of pheromones.
Without even turning around, Harvard could have snapped his fingers and three or four women—both black and white—would’ve been pushing their way to his side.
Well, maybe she was exaggerating a little bit. But only a little bit.
This man could have any woman he wanted—and he knew it. And even though P.J. could still hear an echo of his rich voice saying yes, he thought she was hot, she knew the last thing he needed was any kind of involvement with her.
Hell, he’d made it more than clear he didn’t even want to be friends.
P.J. refused to feel regret, pushing the twinges of emotion far away from her, ignoring them as surely as she ignored the dull throb of her still-aching head. Because the last thing she needed was any kind of involvement with him—or with anyone, for that matter. She’d avoided it successfully for most of her twenty-five years. There was no reason to think she couldn’t continue to avoid it.
He was studying her as intently as she was looking at him. And when he spoke, P.J. knew he hadn’t missed the fatigue and pain she was trying so hard to keep from showing in her face. His voice was surprisingly gentle. “You should call it a night—get some rest.”
P.J. glanced toward the bar, toward Tim Farber and the other FInCOM agents. “I just thought I’d grab a nightcap before I headed upstairs.” Truth was, she’d wanted nothing more than to drag herself to her room and throw herself into a warm tub. But she felt she had to come into the bar, put in an appearance, prove to the other agents and to any of the SEALs who might be hanging around that she was as tough as they were. Tougher. She could go from a hospital X-ray table directly to the bar. See? She wasn’t really hurt.
See? She could take damn near anything and come back ready for more.
Harvard followed her as she slid onto a bar stool several seats away from the other agents. “It wasn’t even a concussion,” she said. She didn’t bother to raise her voice—she knew Farber was listening.
Harvard glanced at the FInCOM agents. “I know,” he said, leaning against the stool next to her. “I stopped in at the hospital before heading over here. The doctor said you’d already been checked over and released.”
“Like I said before, I’m fine.”
“Whoops, I’m getting paged.” Harvard took his pager from his belt and glanced at the number. As the bartender approached, he greeted the man by name. “Hey, Tom. Get me my usual. And whatever the lady here wants.”
“I’m paying for my own,” P.J. protested, checking her own pager out of habit. It was silent and still.
“She’s paying for her own,” Harvard told Tom with a smile. “Mind if I use the phone to make a local call?”
“Anytime, Senior Chief.” The bartender plopped a telephone in front of Harvard before looking at P.J. “What can I get you, ma’am?”
Iced tea. She truly wanted nothing more than a tall, cool glass of iced tea. But big, tough men didn’t drink iced tea, so she couldn’t, either. “Give me a draft, please, Tom.”
Beside her, Harvard was silent, listening intently to whoever was on the other end of that telephone. He’d pulled a small notebook from one of his pockets and was using the stub of a pencil to write something down. His smile was long gone—in fact, his mouth was a grim line, his face intensely serious.
“Thanks, Joe,” he said, then he hung up the phone. Joe. He’d been talking to Joe Catalanotto, Alpha Squad’s CO. He stood up, took out his wallet and threw several dollar bills onto the bar. “I’m sorry, I can’t stay.”
“Problem at the base?” P.J. asked, watching him in the mirror on the wall behind the bar. For some reason, it was easier than looking directly at him.
He met her eyes in the mirror. “No, it’s personal,” he said, slipping his wallet into his pants.
She instantly backed down. “I’m sorry—”
“My father’s had a heart attack,” Harvard told her quietly. “He’s in the hospital. I’ve got to go to Boston right away.”
“I’m sorry,” P.J. said again, turning to look directly at him. His father. Harvard actually had a father. Somehow she’d imagined him spawned—an instant six-and-a-half-foot-tall adult male. “I hope he’s all right….”
But Harvard was already halfway across the room.
She watched him until he turned the corner into the hotel lobby and disappeared from view.
The bartender had set a frosty mug of beer on a coaster in front of her. And in front of the bar stool that Harvard had been occupying was a tall glass of iced tea. His usual.
P.J. had to smile. So much for her theory about big, tough men.
She pushed the beer aside and drank the iced tea, wondering what other surprises Harvard Becker had in store for her.
CHAPTER THREE
“HE LOOKS AWFUL.”
“He looks a great deal better than he did last night in that ambulance.” His mother lowered herself carefully onto the deck chair, and Harvard was aware once again of all the things he’d noticed for the first time in the hospital. The gray in her hair. The deepening lines of character on her slightly round, still pretty face. The fact that her hip was bothering her yet again—that she moved stiffly, more slowly each time he saw her.
Harvard’s father had looked awful—a shriveled and shrunken version of himself, lying in that hospital bed, hooked up to all those monitors and tubes. His eyes had been closed when Harvard had come in, but the old man had roused himself enough to make a bad joke. Something about how he’d gone to awfully extreme lengths this time just to make their wayward son come to visit.
The old man. Harvard had called his father that since he was twelve. But now it was true.
His parents were getting old.
The heart attack had been relatively mild, but from now on Dr. Medgar Becker was going to have to stop joking about how he was on a two-slices-of-cheesecake-per-day diet and really stick to the low-fat, high-exercise regimen his doctor had ordered. He was going to have to work to cut some of the stress out of his life, as well. But God knows, as the head of the English department at one of New England’s most reputable universities, that wasn’t going to be an easy thing to do.
“We’re selling the house, Daryl,” his mother told him quietly.
Harvard
