P.J. had never done so much shooting in her life. They were going on day fourteen of the training, and during every single one of those days she’d spent a serious chunk of time on the firing range.
Before she’d started, she could outshoot the three other FInCOM agents, as well as some of the SEALs in Alpha Squad. And after two weeks of perfecting her skill, she was at least as good as the quiet SEAL with the thick Southern accent, the XO or executive officer of Alpha Squad, the one everyone called Blue. And he was nearly as good as Alpha Squad’s CO, Joe Cat. But, of course, nobody even came close to Harvard.
Harvard. P.J. had managed successfully to avoid him since that day she’d been so mad she’d forgotten even the most basic social graces. She still couldn’t believe she hadn’t remembered to ask him about his father’s health. Her anger was a solid excuse, except for the fact that that degree of rudeness was inexcusable.
Lord, she’d made one hell of a fool out of herself that evening.
But as much as she told herself she was avoiding any contact with Harvard out of embarrassment, that wasn’t the only reason she was avoiding him.
The man was too good at what he did. How could she not respect and admire a man like that? And added onto those heaping double scoops of respect and admiration was a heady whipped topping of powerful physical attraction. It was a recipe for total disaster, complete with a cherry on top.
She’d learned early in life that her own personal success and freedom hinged on her ability to turn away from such emotions as lust and desire. And so she was turning away. She’d done it before. She could do it again.
P.J. went into the mess hall and grabbed a tray and a turkey sandwich. It turned out the food they’d been eating right from the start wasn’t standard Uncle Sam fare. This meal had been catered by an upscale deli downtown, as per the FInCOM rule book. Such a list of rules did exist. Harvard had been right about that.
She felt his eyes following her as she stopped to pour herself a glass of iced tea.
As usual, she’d been aware of him from the moment she’d walked in. He was sitting clear across the room, his back against the far wall. He had two plates piled on his tray, both empty. He was across from the quiet SEAL called Crash, his feet on a chair, nursing a mug of coffee, watching her.
Harvard watched her all the time. He watched her during physical training. He watched her during the classroom sessions. He watched her on the firing range.
You’d think the man didn’t have anything better to do with his time.
When he wasn’t watching her, he was nearby, always ready to offer a hand up or a boost out of the water. It was driving her insane. He didn’t offer Greg Greene a boost. Or Charlie Schneider.
Obviously, he didn’t think Greg or Charlie needed one.
P.J. was more than tempted to carry her tray over to Harvard, to sit herself down at his table and to ask him how well she was doing.
Except right now, she knew exactly how well she was doing.
The focus of this morning’s classroom session had been on working as a team. And she and Tim Farber and Charlie and Greg had totally flunked Teamwork 101. P.J. had read the personnel files of the other three agents, so when asked, she’d at least been able to come up with such basic facts as where they were from. But she hadn’t been able to answer other, more personal questions about her team members. She didn’t know such things as what they perceived to be their own strengths and weaknesses. And in return, none of them knew the first little teeny thing about her. None of them were even aware that she hailed from Washington, D.C.—which, apparently, was as much her fault as it was theirs.
And it was true. She hadn’t made any attempts to get to know Tim or Charlie or Greg. She’d stopped hanging out in the hotel bar after hours, choosing instead to read over her notes and try to prepare for the coming day’s assignments. It had seemed a more efficient use of her time, especially since it included avoiding Harvard’s watching eyes, but now she knew she’d been wrong.
P.J. headed for the other FInCOM agents, forcing her mouth into what she hoped was a friendly smile. “Hey, guys. Mind if I join you?”
Farber blinked up at her. “Sorry, we were just leaving. I’ve got some paperwork to do before the next classroom session.”
“I’m due at the range.” Charlie gave her an insincere smile as he stood.
Greg didn’t say anything. He just gathered his trash and left with Charlie.
Just like that, they were gone, leaving P.J. standing there, holding her tray like an idiot. It wasn’t personal. She knew it wasn’t personal. She’d arrived late, they had already eaten, and they all had things that needed to get done.
Still, something about it felt like a seventh-grade shunning all over again. She glanced around the room, and this time Harvard wasn’t the only one watching her. Alpha Squad’s captain, Joe Catalanotto, was watching her, too.
She sat and unwrapped her sandwich, praying that both men would leave her be. She took a bite, hoping her body language successfully broadcast, “I want to be alone.”
“How you doing, Richards?” Joe pulled out the chair next to hers, straddled it and leaned his elbows on the backrest.
So much for body language. Her mouth was full, so she nodded a greeting.
“You know, one of my biggest beefs with FInCOM has to do with their refusing to acknowledge that teams just can’t be thrown together,” he said in his husky New York accent. “You can’t just count down a line, picking, say, every fourth guy—or woman—and automatically make an effective team.”
P.J. swallowed. “How do the SEALs do it?”
“I handpicked Alpha Squad,” Joe told her, his smile making his dark brown eyes sparkle. It was funny. With his long, shaggy, dark hair, ruggedly handsome face and muscle-man body, this man could pull off sitting in a chair in that ridiculously macho way. He made it look both comfortable and natural. “I’ve been with Blue McCoy, my XO, for close to forever. Since BUD/S—basic training, you know?”
She nodded, her mouth full again.
“And I’ve known Harvard just as long, too. The rest of the guys, well, they’d developed reputations, and when I was looking for men with certain skills… It was really just a matter of meeting and making sure personalities meshed before I tapped ’em to join the squad.” He paused. “Something tells me that FInCOM wasn’t as careful about compatible personalities when they made the selections for this program.”
P.J. snorted. “That’s the understatement of the year.”
Joe absentmindedly twisted the thick gold wedding band he wore on his left hand. P.J. tried to imagine the kind of woman who’d managed to squeeze vows of fidelity from this charismatic, larger-than-life man. Someone unique. Someone very, very special. Probably someone with the brains of a computer and the body of a super model. “What FInCOM should have done,” he told her, “if they wanted a four-man team, was select a leader, have that leader choose team members they’ve worked with before—people they trust.”
“But if they’d done that, there’s no way I would be on this team,” she pointed out.
“What makes you so sure about that?”
P.J. laughed.
Joe laughed along with her. He had gorgeous teeth. “No, I’m serious,” he said.
P.J. put down her sandwich. “Captain, excuse me for calling you crazy, but you’re crazy. Do you really think Tim Farber would have handpicked me for his team?”
“Call me Joe,” he said. “And no, of course Farber wouldn’t have picked you. He’s not smart enough. From what I’ve seen, out of the four of you, he’s not the natural leader, either. He’s fooled a lot of people, but he doesn’t have what it takes. And the other two…”