Introduction To Romance (10 Books). Кэрол Мортимер
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4
TIME TO ROCK AND ROLL. Brody, along with the rest of the team, loaded onto the Chinook helicopter. They didn’t have to go over the mission. It was etched in their minds, every aspect of it not only committed to memory, but muscle memory. They were machines, ready to engage.
He eyed the extra guy in the bird, separate from the team. Watching. He didn’t acknowledge them and as far as the team was concerned, he was just cargo.
Government cargo.
All SEAL missions were covert. Top secret was the name of the game, whether it was a direct action, recon or rescue.
Which usually meant no audience.
He puffed out a gust of air, then strapped himself in as the bird started liftoff. This wasn’t his first rescue mission by far. But he figured it would be the first time he’d ever have the opportunity to meet the Cin C’s right hand. He looked toward the passenger one more time, then dismissed him.
Tee minus five.
While the blades of the helo whirled their deafening hum, everybody went into prep mode.
The usual banter flew through the team as they did one last equipment check.
And then they went silent.
Brody had never worried about clearing his head before a mission. In the ten years he’d served in the navy, he’d learned a few things. Focus. Discipline. And confidence. Not the cocky bravado he’d perfected as a teen. But the absolute assurance that he was damned good at what he did and didn’t have a thing to prove to anyone.
He was a finely honed weapon, trained with the necessary skills to carry out this rescue mission. He didn’t have a single doubt that he’d do his job, and do it well. Because he had nothing, nobody, in the world that meant a damned thing to him except his team. His platoon. His duty.
He glanced around the belly of the plane. Cormack had his head tilted back, eyes closed as he muttered Buddhist chants. Masters looked fierce, as if he was going over the plan one more time in his head. But Brody knew he wasn’t. The plan was imprinted; they didn’t need to review it. Nope, the guy was mentally reciting The Iliad.
Brody usually thought about nothing at this point.
This time, just before he flipped the switch and became a military machine, the image of Genna Reilly filled his head. Her smile warming his belly, the wicked delight in her eyes reminding him of his past.
Was she still as bright as the sun, drawing people to her like a spotlight? Did her laugh gurgle the way it had when she was younger, deep and husky? And just how would she look in that little blue nightie she kept writing to him about? Or more to the point, how would she look out of it?
Was she still as sexy? Her hair a heavy curtain of long black silk, like in his fantasies? Did she make those same noises when she came? Or was sex just a way to pass time for her now? Like it was for him.
It was her smile that became his focal point as he let all thoughts fall away. He shifted his shoulders, shrugging off everything but the mission.
“It’s time,” Landon said. His words were low and calm. His expression contained. He scanned the team, gave a nod. “Let’s kick ass.”
* * *
GENNA WAS GOING crazy with boredom.
It was like there was a switch in her head that enabled her to get through the same old boring job, blah life, day in-and-day-out monotonous yawn-fest of good behavior. And that switch had flipped off.
She knew she should find a way to flip it back on.
But she didn’t want to.
If she did, she’d have to go back to making other people happy. Which still included Mr. Perfect, the troll collector, and all the pressures to go out with him on a second date.
The guy was boring.
Especially when compared with other people who needed to remain nameless, even in her own mind. People who wrote letters that made her melt before she’d even opened the envelope. People who were out living their lives, making a difference. People who, even though they didn’t even sign their name to their letters, made her want so much.
Wish that things had turned out differently.
Lunchtime chatter faded into a buzz as Genna contemplated what her life might be like if she’d never taken that dare ten years ago. Or better yet, if her father hadn’t ruined the best night of her life. If she’d rebelled instead of trying to soothe her miserable parents, and had done all the things she’d hoped to.
While her friends ordered dessert, she looked around with a sigh. She was like this café. Nice enough, but nothing exciting. Kinda like Millie, the café owner who kept the menu exactly the same month after month, year after year, so as not to upset her regulars by shaking things up.
“So that’s an apple crisp with ice cream and a fruit bowl,” the plump waitress ticked off, pointing her pencil at each woman as she recited their order. When her pencil aimed at Genna, she asked, “How about you? You want the last scoop of crisp? Or maybe some pie?”
With the nearest bakery in the next town, places like Millie’s Café did their own baking. Genna eyed the display case. The toasted, almost-black meringue on the lemon pie was sliding to one side like a drunken mushroom cap.
“I’ll pass.” She softened her refusal with a smile. She’d stop by her house on the way back to the office and grab a couple of the turtle brownies she’d made yesterday instead. Maybe she’d take the rest of the tray back to the mayor’s office. Last time she’d brought in treats for the city council meeting, everyone had raved. As they had when she’d baked for the school fundraiser, and her mom’s ladies’ tea. Sometimes Genna felt as if baking were the only area of her life where she was allowed to be free. Creative. To explore and experiment and indulge.
“Genna!”
“What?” Blinking a couple of times, Genna forced her attention back to her lunch companions. Macy was making notes in her wedding planner, but Dina was glaring.
“You aren’t listening.”
“Of course I am. You were saying you had juicy news.”
“I do. And it’s the juiciest. Better than anything you’ve got.”
Dina figured her job at the hairdresser’s should guarantee her the best gossip access, so it tended to drive her crazy that Genna often got better dirt first.
“Is it the news from this morning?” Genna asked.
“What news?”
“That Maury McCaskle ran the red light on Beeker Street because he was yelling at his wife on the cell phone again?”
“Even bigger.”
“That he was yelling at her because he found out about her affair with the pizza-delivery boy?”
“Bigger than that.”
Genna’s eyes rounded in faux shock. “Bigger? The pizza boy is only sixteen. How can you out-gossip that?”
This was what her life had come to, Genna realized with a morose sigh. Gossiping with her friends over a long lunch was the baddest she got to be. She thought of her little pen-pal project and her sigh turned dreamy. Now that was bad. So, so deliciously bad.
As bad as only a bad boy knew how to be.
Images filled her head, so vivid she swore she could reach out and touch them. Taste them. Feel them.
Thankfully, their waitress chose that moment to return with their order.
Whew, baby, it was much too hot in here for February. Even for sunny Southern California. Genna gratefully gulped down half the iced caffeine.
“This isn’t gossip. It’s more like news.