Alpha Squad. Suzanne Brockmann
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he said flatly. “We will have to cancel. Arrange a flight back to—”
“I didn’t say I couldn’t do it,” Veronica interrupted, quickly adding, “Your Highness.”
The prince turned back to her, one elegant eyebrow raised.
Veronica could hear an echo of Wila’s voice. “I’m counting on you, Véronique. This American connection is too important.” If this tour were canceled, all of Wila’s hopes for the future would evaporate. And Wila’s weren’t the only hopes that would be dashed. Veronica couldn’t let herself forget that little girl waiting at Saint Mary’s…
“Well?” Tedric said impatiently.
“All right,” Veronica said. “I’ll give it a try.”
Senator McKinley hung up the phone with a triumphant crash. “I think we’ve found our man,” he announced with a wide smile. “His name’s Navy Lieutenant Joseph P.—” he glanced down at a scrap of paper he’d taken some notes on “—Catalanotto. They’re faxing me an ID photo right now.”
Veronica felt an odd flash of both hot and cold. Good God, what had she just done? What had she just agreed to? What if she couldn’t pull it off? What if it couldn’t be done?
The fax alarm began to beep. Both the prince and Senator McKinley stood and crossed the spacious suite to where the fax machine was plugged in beneath a set of elegant bay windows.
Veronica stayed in her seat at the table. If this job couldn’t be done, she would be letting her best friend down.
“My God,” McKinley breathed as the picture was slowly printed out. “It doesn’t seem possible.”
He tore the fax from the roll of paper and handed it to the prince.
Silently, Tedric stared at the picture. Silently, he walked back across the room and handed the sheet of paper to Veronica.
Except for the fact that the man in the picture was wearing a relaxed pair of military fatigues, with top buttons of the shirt undone and sleeves rolled up to his elbows, except for the fact that the man in the picture had dark, shaggy hair cut just a little below his ears, and the strap of a submachine gun slung over one shoulder, except for the fact that the camera had caught him mid-grin, with good humor and sharp intelligence sparkling in his dark eyes, the man in this picture could very well have been the crown prince of Ustanzia. Or at the very least, he could have been the crown prince’s brother.
The crown prince’s better-looking brother.
He had the same nose, same cheekbones, same well-defined jawline and chin. But his front tooth was chipped. Of course, that was no problem. They could cap a tooth in a matter of hours, couldn’t they?
He was bigger than Prince Tedric, this American naval lieutenant. Bigger and taller. Stronger. Rougher edged. Much, much more rough-edged, in every way imaginable. Good God, if this picture was any indication, Veronica was going to have to start with the basics with this man. She was going to have to teach him how to sit and stand and walk…
Veronica looked up to find Prince Tedric watching her.
“Something tells me,” he said in his elegant accent, “your work is cut out for you.”
Across the room, McKinley picked up the phone and dialed. “Yeah,” he said into the receiver. “This is Sam McKinley. Senator Sam McKinley. I need a Navy SEAL by the name of Lieutenant Joseph—” he consulted his notes “—Catalanotto. Damn, what a mouthful. I need that lieutenant here in Washington, and I need him here yesterday.”
Chapter Two
Joe lay on the deck of the rented boat, hands behind his head, watching the clouds. Puffs of blinding white in a crystal blue California sky, they were in a state of constant motion, always changing, never remaining the same.
He liked that.
It reminded him of his life, fluid and full of surprises. He never knew when a cream puff might turn unexpectedly into a ferocious dragon.
But Joe liked it that way. He liked never knowing what was behind the door—the lady or the tiger. And certainly, since he’d been a SEAL, he’d had his share of both.
But today there were neither ladies nor tigers to face. Today he was on leave—shore leave, it was called in the navy. Funny he should spend the one day of shore leave he had this month far from the shore, out on a fishing boat.
Not that he’d spent very much time lately at sea. In fact, in the past few months, he’d been on a naval vessel exactly ninety-six hours. And that had been for training. Some of those training hours he’d spent as an instructor. But some of the time he’d been a student. That was all part of being a Navy SEAL. No matter your rank or experience, you always had to keep learning, keep training, keep on top of the new technology and methodology.
Joe had achieved expert status in nine different fields, but those fields were always changing. Just like those clouds that were floating above him. Just the way he liked it.
Across the deck of the boat, dressed in weekend grunge clothes similar to his own torn fatigues and ragged T-shirt, Harvard and Blue were arguing good-naturedly over who had gotten the most depressing letter from the weekly mail call.
Joe himself hadn’t gotten any mail—nothing besides bills, that is. Talk about depressing.
Joe closed his eyes, letting the conversation float over him. He’d known Blue for eight years, Harvard for about six. Their voices—Blue’s thick, south-of-the-Mason-Dixon-Line drawl and Harvard’s nasal, upper-class-Boston accent—were as familiar to him as breathing.
It still sometimes tickled him that out of their entire seven-man SEAL team, the man that Blue was closest to, after Joe himself, was Daryl Becker, nicknamed Harvard.
Carter “Blue” McCoy and Daryl “Harvard” Becker. The “redneck” rebel and the Ivy League-educated Yankee black man. Both SEALs, both better than the best of the rest. And both aware that there was no such thing as prejudices and prejudgments in the Navy SEALs.
Out across the bay, the blue-green water sparkled and danced in the bright sunshine. Joe took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the sharp salty air.
“Oh, Lord,” Blue said, turning to the second page of his letter.
Joe turned toward his friend. “What?”
“Gerry’s getting married,” Blue said, running his fingers through his sun-bleached blond hair. “To Jenny Lee Beaumont.”
Jenny Lee had been Blue’s high school girlfriend. She was the only woman Blue had ever talked about—the only one special enough to mention.
Joe exchanged a long look with Harvard.
“Jenny Lee Beaumont, huh?” Joe said.
“That’s right.” Blue nodded, his face carefully expressionless. “Gerry’s gonna marry her. Next July. He wants me to be his best man.”
Joe swore softly.
“You win,” Harvard conceded. “Your mail was much more depressing than mine.”
Joe shook his head, grateful for his own lack of entanglement with a woman. Sure, he’d had girlfriends down through the years, but he’d never met anyone he couldn’t walk away from.
Not that he didn’t like women, because he did. He certainly did. And the women he usually dated were smart and funny and as quick to shy away from permanent attachments as he was. He would see his current lady friend on occasional weekend leaves, and sometimes in the evenings when he was in town and free.
But never, ever had he kissed a woman good-night—or good-morning, as was usually the case—then gone back to the base and sat around daydreaming about her the way Bob and Wesley had drooled over those college girls they’d met down in San Diego. Or the way Harvard had sighed over