was opinionated, aggressive, impatient and far too intelligent—a know-it-all who made damn sure the rest of the world knew that she knew it all, too.
If she tried, even just a little bit, she’d be pretty. In a very less-endowed-than-most-women way.
Truth was, if life were a wet T-shirt contest and Heather and Syd were the contestants, Heather would win, hands down. Standing side by side, Syd would be rendered invisible, outshone by Heather’s golden glory. Standing side by side, there should have been no contest.
Except, one of the two women made Lucky feel completely alive. And it wasn’t Heather.
“Hey, Lucy. Lieutenant.” U.S. Navy SEAL Chief Bobby Taylor smiled at Sydney as he slipped into the fourth seat at the table. “You must be Sydney. Were my directions okay?” he asked her.
Syd nodded. She looked up at Lucky almost challengingly. “I wasn’t sure exactly where the bar was,” she told him, “so I called Chief Taylor and asked for directions.”
So that’s how she found him. Well, wasn’t she proud of herself? Lucky made a mental note to beat Bobby to death later.
“Call me Bob. Please.” The enormous SEAL smiled at Syd again, and she smiled happily back at him, ignoring Lucky completely.
“No nickname?” she teased. “Like Hawk or Cyclops or Panther?”
And Lucky felt it. Jealousy. Stabbing and hot, like a lightning bolt to his already churning stomach. My God. Was it possible Sydney Jameson found Bob Taylor attractive? More attractive than she found Lucky?
Bobby laughed. “Just Bobby. Some guys during BUD/S tried to call me Tonto, which I objected to somewhat…forcefully.” He flexed his fists meaningfully.
Bobby was a good-looking man despite the fact that his nose had been broken four or five too many times. He was darkly handsome, with high cheekbones, craggy features, and deep-brown eyes that broadcast his mother’s Native American heritage. He had a quiet calmness to him, a Zen-like quality that was very attractive.
And then there was his size. Massive was the word for the man. Some women really went for that. Of course, if Bobby wasn’t careful to keep up his PT and his diet, he’d quickly run to fat.
“I considered Tonto politically incorrect,” Bobby said mildly. “So I made sure the name didn’t stick.”
Bobby’s fists were the size of canned hams. No doubt he’d been extremely persuasive in his objections.
“These days the Lieutenant here is fond of calling me Stimpy,” Bob continued, “which is the name of a really stupid cartoon cat.” He looked down at his hands and flexed his hot-dog-sized fingers again. “I’ve yet to object, but it’s getting old.”
“No,” Lucky said. “It’s because Wes—” he turned to Syd. “Bobby’s swim buddy is this little wiry guy named Wes Skelly, and visually, well, Ren and Stimpy just seems to fit. It’s that really nasty cartoon that—”
“Wes isn’t little,” Lucy interrupted. “He’s as tall as Blue, you know.”
“Yeah, but next to Gigantor here—”
“I like Gigantor,” Bobby decided.
Syd was laughing, and Lucky knew from the way the chief was smiling at her that he was completely charmed, too. Maybe that was the way to win Syd’s alliance. Maybe she could be Bobby’s girlfriend.
The thought was not a pleasant one, and he dismissed it out of hand. Charming women was his strength, damn it, and he was going to charm Sydney Jameson if it was the last thing he did.
Lucy got down to business. “You talk to Frisco?” she asked him.
Lucky nodded grimly. “I did. Do you think it’s possible Stonegate doesn’t really want us to apprehend the rapist?”
“Why? What happened?” Syd demanded.
“Lieutenant Commander Francisco got called in to meet with Admiral Stonegate,” Lucy explained. “Ron Stonegate’s not exactly a big fan of the SEAL teams.”
“What’d Stonehead do this time?” Bobby asked.
“Easy on the insults,” Lucky murmured. He glanced at Syd, wishing she weren’t a reporter, knowing that anything they said could conceivably end up in a news story. “We’ve been ordered by the…admiral to use this assignment as a special training operation,” he said, choosing his words carefully, leaving out all the expletives and less-than-flattering adjectives he would have used had she not been there, “for a trio of SEAL candidates who are just about to finish up their second phase of BUD/S.”
“King, Lee and Rosetti,” Bobby said, nodding his approval.
Lucky nodded. Bobby had been working as an instructor with this particular group of candidates right from the start of phase one. He wasn’t surprised the chief should know the men in question.
“Tell me about them,” Lucky commanded. He’d made a quick stop at the base and had pulled the three candidates’ files after he’d talked to Frisco and before he’d picked up Heather. But you could only tell so much about a man from words on a piece of paper. He wanted to hear Bobby’s opinion.
“They were all part of the same boat team during phase one,” Bobby told him. “Mike Lee’s the oldest and a lieutenant, Junior Grade, and he was buddied up with Ensign Thomas King—a local kid, much younger. African American. Both have IQs that are off the chart, and both have enough smarts to recognize each other’s strengths and weaknesses. It was a good match. Petty Officer Rio Rosetti, on the other hand, is barely twenty-one, barely graduated from high school, struggles to spell his own name, but he can build anything out of nothing. He’s magic. He was out in a skiff and the propeller snagged a line and one of the blades snapped. He took it apart, built a new propeller out of the junk that was on board. They couldn’t move fast, but they could move. It was impressive.
“Rosetti’s swim buddy bailed during the second day of Hell Week,” Bobby continued, “and Lee and King took him in. He returned the favor a few days later, when Lee started hallucinating. He was seeing evil spirits and not taking it well, and King and Rosetti took turns sitting on him. The three of them have been tight ever since. King and Lee spend nearly all their off time tutoring Rosetti. With their help, he’s managed to stay with the classroom program.” He paused. “They’re good men, Lieutenant.”
It was good to hear that.
Still. “Turning a mission this serious into a training op makes about as much sense as sticking the team with Lois Lane, here,” Lucky said.
“Twelve hours, seventeen minutes,” Syd said. “Hah.”
He blinked at her, temporarily distracted. “Hah? What hah?”
“I knew when you found out that I was a reporter it was only a matter of time before you used the old Lois Lane cliché,” she told him. Her attitude wasn’t quite smug, but it was a touch too gleeful to be merely matter-of-fact. “I figured twenty-four, but you managed in nearly half the time. Congratulations, Lieutenant.”
“Lois Lane,” Bobby mused. “Shoot, it’s almost as bad as Tonto.”
“It’s not very original,” even Lucy agreed.
“Can we talk about this case please?” Lucky said desperately.
“Absolutely,” Lucy said. “Here’s my late-breaking news. Four more women have come forward since Sydney’s article appeared in the paper this morning. Four.” She shook her head in frustration. “I don’t know why some women don’t report sexual assault when it happens.”
“Is it our guy?” Syd asked. “Same MO?”
“Three of the women were branded with the budweiser. Those three attacks took place within the past four weeks. The fourth was earlier. I’m