Navy SEAL to Die For (4 page)

She frowned, but couldn’t find it in her heart to be mad at him. He’d offered his apartment, his clothes and his protection, and he hadn’t made another pass at her since she’d arrived.

Quentin disappeared into his bedroom, leaving the bedroom door open, but closing the door to the bathroom behind him.

Becca unwound the towel from her head and shook out her damp hair. Come to think of it, he hadn’t even tried to coerce her into kissing him since Royce had asked him to be her bodyguard. Now that Quentin wasn’t pressuring her, Becca had the odd sensation of missing his teasing and coy remarks.

The door opened and a pair of jeans landed on the floor.

Becca hurried forward to gather the clothes.

As Becca entered his bedroom, Quentin stuck half of his body through the opening, stopping short of exposing his private parts.

Becca’s pulse quickened and she drew in a sharp breath, her gaze drifting down his torso to the slice of hip and thigh visible through the crack in the door.

Quentin winked. “Like what you see?”

Caught staring like a teenaged girl in the boys’ locker room, Becca blushed. At a complete loss for words, she threw her towel at him, spun away and closed the bedroom door behind her with a snap.

A bark of laughter erupted behind her through the thick panels of both doors.

“Egotistical jerk,” she shouted.

He laughed again.

Pressing her palms to her cheeks, Becca entered the kitchen in search of the washing machine. She found it behind a louvered door, threw her dirty clothing into the tub and started the water, trying to forget what she’d seen and heard. It was hard. The man didn’t have an ounce of fat on his body and his thighs were just as muscular as his upper body. She could imagine what it would feel like to lie next to him, naked. Her softer body against his chiseled one.

Becca groaned. Thoughts like that would get her nowhere. No, they would get her into trouble, make her lose focus and forget why she was there in the first place.

She marched back across the living room, gathered Quentin’s jeans and returned to the washer. Once she had the load going, she wandered around the kitchen, opening cabinet doors. Every dish, glass, cup and spice was placed neatly on the shelves. The man obviously believed in order and structure.

Becca did, too. Unfortunately, she hadn’t had much of it since her father’s death. Everything about her life was out of kilter. The lead she’d gotten from one of Royce’s informants had led her to Cancun following the trail of a mercenary thought to be the one who’d shot her father in cold blood.

In Cancun, she’d stumbled upon the group of SEALs, one of whom was yet another target of the mercenary. Becca had helped them solve that case, but the killer she’d hoped to question had died in the subsequent firefight. With a trail gone cold, she’d been eager to return to the States and dig for more clues as to who had hired her father’s murderer.

She hadn’t planned on the plane she was in being shot down, nor did she have any contingency in her schedule to fend off a growing desire for the SEAL Royce had tagged with providing her protection.

Other than the neatness and orderly appearance of the apartment, there wasn’t much else in the way of personal items that could give her anymore insight into Quentin Lovett.

While the SEAL was in the shower, Becca wandered into his bedroom. Here, the king-sized bed was neatly made, the pillows stacked by size against the headboard. Becca couldn’t tell by looking at the mattress which side of the bed Quentin preferred to sleep on, or if he slept in the center. Becca preferred the left side. Not that which side Quentin slept on would pose an issue. Becca had no intention of sleeping with the man.

In his closet, all of his uniforms were pressed and hanging neatly, boots and shoes lined up on the floor. His civilian clothing hung by type and color. For what appeared to be a man with OCD tendencies, he was somewhat of an enigma. How had he come to be a navy SEAL, dealing in the chaos and messiness of war?

The water switched off in the bathroom.

Becca hurried guiltily back to the kitchen near the washer. She didn’t want Quentin to know she’d been snooping in his bedroom. He’d be drying off, rubbing the towel over all those lovely muscles across his chest, down his torso and across—

The doorbell rang, interrupting Becca’s lusty thoughts. She jumped. For a moment she’d forgotten about the pizza delivery. Her stomach growled, a reminder that she hadn’t eaten since the muffin she’d had in Cancun early that morning. She grabbed the bills Quentin had left on the counter and hurried toward the door.

A quick peek through the peephole reassured her the young man was indeed from the restaurant, complete with a uniform shirt bearing the name of a pizza establishment written in bold yellow lettering.

Becca slid the chain loose and twisted the deadbolt. When she turned the door handle, the door exploded inward, catching her across the side of her face, knocking her off balance. She squealed, stumbled backward and tipped over the arm of the sofa, landing on her back.

Two men dressed all in black from the tops of their heads to the tips of their toes rushed in, both carrying handguns.

With no time to think, Becca rolled off the couch onto the hardwood floor and shoved the couch as hard as she could toward the advancing men as they aimed their guns at her. Becca somersaulted across the floor and ducked behind a lounge chair.

The couch hit the men in the thighs as they fired their weapons, throwing off their aim. But it wouldn’t take them long to regain their balance and fire again. The lounge chair wouldn’t stop bullets, only slow them down. She had to get to a safer place.

Chapter Four

Quentin had just shoved his feet into his jeans when he heard Becca’s scream. He rushed out of the bathroom into his bedroom, eased open his nightstand and pulled out the Sig Sauer P226 he kept loaded and on safe. Gunfire sounded, spurring him to move quickly across the floor, his bare feet making no noise.

He threw open the door to find two men in black advancing on the recliner behind which he suspected Becca had ducked.

“Fire another round and I’ll kill you both,” Quentin said, his voice low, his hand steady, aiming at the man nearest to the lounger.

The two men spun toward him, firing.

Expecting as much, Quentin dove and rolled as soon as he issued his warning, coming up behind the rearranged sofa.

“Hey, dirtbag!” Becca shouted from the other side of the room.

Quentin peered around the side of the sofa in time to see the recliner erupt from the floor, crash into the closest man and knock the gun from his hand.

The other man unloaded his magazine of rounds into the sofa.

Quentin didn’t rely on the sofa for cover; he low-crawled around the side and aimed at the man’s knee, careful not to fire toward the lounger. He hit dead on and the man dropped his gun and went down, screaming.

The one who’d had the gun knocked from his hand threw himself to the floor, grabbed for the other man’s gun, rolled to his feet and raced for the sofa blocking his exit. Instead of going around it, he leaped to the back, tipping it over.

Quentin rolled out of range of the big piece of furniture and into his bedroom. Getting his feet beneath him, he poked his head around the doorframe.

The man in black had stopped in the doorway, his gun aimed at Quentin.

Quentin fired and ducked back inside his doorway.

A shot was fired, splintering the doorframe where his head had been a moment before. Another round went off, then footsteps sounded, leading away from the apartment.

Quentin left the bedroom and ran toward the lounge chair, his gaze swiveling from the chair, to the man on the floor, to the open doorway.

“Becca.” With his gun trained on the man lying in the middle of his living room, he stepped around the upended recliner.

Becca lay face-down, flat against the ground, her arms over the back of her neck. She executed a full body-roll to the right and pulled her feet beneath her, ready to launch herself at him.

“Hey, sweetheart, it’s me.” He held up his free hand in surrender. “One’s gone, the other appears to be dead.”

She rose to her feet. “What are you waiting for? Go get him!”

“Hell no. I’m not leaving you. He could circle back and finish the job.”

She went for the gun on the floor and held it in her hand like she knew what to do with it. “I can take care of myself. Either you go, or I will.”

Since she appeared okay, he decided not to argue. “If he moves,” he said, pointing at the man on the floor, “shoot him.” Quentin bolted out the door and nearly fell over a young man lying next to a crushed insulated pizza delivery bag. “Got a man down out here. Call 911,” he shouted and ran out into the parking lot.

Screeching tires alerted him to the escape car before it barreled toward him in the parking lot of his apartment building.

Quentin aimed at the driver’s windshield and pulled the trigger, holding his ground until the last second. Then he dove out of the sedan’s path. The car continued out of the parking lot onto the four-lane street. Barely missed by traffic from one direction, clipped by a passing vehicle from the other, the escape car came to an abrupt halt by smashing into a telephone pole.

Quentin ran out into the street, dodging traffic. By the time he got to the crashed car, he found the driver’s door open and the seat empty. A shiny trail of blood led toward a grocery store where people hurried in and out, unaware of a potential murderer in their midst.

The farther away from the apartment Quentin ran, the more he worried about Becca. What if the man he’d shot wasn’t really dead? What if he’d been playing dead and waiting to attack until Becca had her back turned?

Quentin continued on until he arrived at the entrance to the store, no longer finding a blood trail. Had the assailant ducked behind a car in the parking lot and circled back?

His pulse ratcheting upward, Quentin glanced inside the grocery store. Nobody seemed worried about a strange man bleeding amongst them. But Quentin worried he’d doubled back and was now almost to the apartment complex and Becca.

Keeping his gun out of sight of the shoppers, Quentin performed an about-face and ran back across the parking lot and waited precious seconds for a break in traffic so that he could run across the thoroughfare. He was sprinting by the time he reached the apartment building parking lot.

An SUV door opened and Montana got out, a frown creasing his brow. “Lovett, are you okay?”

He didn’t slow, running past Montana, calling out over his shoulder, “We were attacked.”

Montana fell in behind him, matching his pace to the closed door of Quentin’s apartment.

Quentin pounded his palm on the door. “Becca! It’s me, Quentin.”

The door jerked open and Becca fell into his arms. Having her body next to his was the best feeling. She was alive and apparently unharmed, based on how hard she squeezed her arms around his middle. “When you didn’t come back right away, I thought he’d gotten you.”

“I’m sorry.” He leaned back and brushed a strand of hair out of her face. “He crashed on the other side of the road.”

“Is he dead?” she asked.

Quentin shook his head. “He escaped before I could get to him.”

She leaned her forehead against his chest, reminding him that he hadn’t fully dressed and he’d run across the street barefooted. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”

“You two want to tell me what happened here?” Montana asked. He stopped outside the door and squatted next to the young man just rolling over with a groan. “What’s with the pizza delivery boy, and who’s the stiff?”

Thirty minutes later, the team gathered in Montana’s apartment. The police had cordoned off Quentin’s apartment for an investigation of the attack. He’d filled in the men on what had happened.

“I guess it’s pretty clear now that they are after Becca,” Duff was saying.

Sawyer snorted. “Two attempts in the same day is a pretty big clue. And I wasn’t anywhere near. They have to be after Becca.” He touched his hand to his cheek, tilting his head to the side, studying Quentin. “Unless they were after Loverboy.”

Montana narrowed his eyes. “You haven’t slept with some rich dude’s wife, have you?”

Sitting on a barstool, Quentin ran a hand through his hair. “Even I draw the line somewhere. I don’t sleep with married women.”

Becca paused in pacing the room. “Nice to know you have
some
standards.”

He captured her gaze, holding it with a steady one of his own. “I won’t poach on another man’s wife or life. Never have. Never will.”

“Needless to say, Becca is not safe staying in this apartment complex. They know where to find her now. If they’re willing to fire a heat-seeking missile at an airplane, they might be bold enough to launch a mortar at this building,” Duff said.

Becca’s eyes widened. “Which means that by staying here, I put everyone else at risk.”

“You don’t have many choices,” Quentin said.

“I can disappear. The fewer people who know where I am, the better.” She started for the door to the apartment. “Thank, guys, but I need to get out of here.”

His pulse quickening, Quentin stepped in front of her, blocking her exit. “You can’t go.”

“I have to leave. There are civilians in this building. We’re lucky none of the bullets hit any of them.”

“I agree, you can’t stay here, but you can’t go gallivanting around the country dressed like you are and without money or identification.” Quentin took her hand. “Wait until Royce gets here in the morning.”

“This building might be burned to the ground by then.”

“Then we disappear to a hotel. Just you and me. We’ll meet up with Royce at the unit in the morning.”

“I don’t want to put you at risk, as well. I can go by myself.”

Quentin shook his head. “Whoever hired the assassins seems to have money to burn, recruiting enough people to form an army. So far they’ve used an expensive missile that is hard for the average person to get a hold of. They’ve sent multiple assassins to find and eliminate you, and we don’t know how many others they will send in their place. You need someone to watch your six.”

Duff pounded Quentin on the back. “And from what Loverboy says, your boss asked him to be that for you.”

Quentin held his breath, thinking up additional words to counter any other arguments.

Becca glanced from Quentin to Duff and back. Then she sighed. “Fine. You’ll be my six. But we do this my way.”

Quentin popped a salute. “Yes, ma’am. I can follow orders when I need to.”

Duff grinned. “He can. If the orders are going his way.”

A frown pulled at Becca’s brows. “Then you better start thinking my way. Our lives might depend on it.”

“Thinking that way already,” Quentin agreed, glad she was at least allowing him to tag along. When he’d come out of the bathroom to see two men holding guns on her, his heart had stopped momentarily. That she’d escaped alive was nothing short of a miracle. Quentin was determined to ensure her good luck held.

* * *

“W
E
NEED
TO
get out of here without being detected.” Becca stared across at Sawyer, who wore an Atlanta Braves baseball cap. “I need your hat and shirt.”

Sawyer handed over the hat and ripped the shirt over his head, holding it out. “I’ll trade you,” he said and winked.

Quentin took the shirt and hat. “Don’t push your luck.”

Sawyer grinned. “Just wanted to get a rise out of you. I’m not trying to steal your girl. I have one of my own.”

“I’m not his girl,” Becca insisted. She snatched the shirt and hat from Quentin and disappeared into the bathroom. After pulling Quentin’s shirt off, Becca dragged Sawyer’s on. Though she preferred Quentin’s she’d have to leave it with Sawyer for her plan to work. She took a moment to stuff her hair into the ball cap, careful to get all of it hidden. When she emerged from the bathroom, she pointed to Duff. “Quentin will need your shirt.” Facing Montana, she asked, “Do you have a pair of sweats and some shoes I can wear?”

“My sweats and shoes will swallow you.”

“I don’t have a choice. I need to walk out of here as Sawyer.”

Montana entered his room. A few moments later, he returned with a pair of gray sweats that had seen better days, but had a drawstring she could pull tight to keep them from falling off. She pulled them on over her shorts and cinched the waist.

Montana handed her a pair of socks and tennis shoes. “The strings are long enough you can tie them around the shoe and your foot. Hopefully that will get you to the nearest vehicle.”

“Thanks.” She slipped into the shoes, her feet swallowed by the vastness of them. She tied the strings around the top of her foot and under the bottom of the shoe, praying they’d stay on long enough for her to get to a vehicle. When she had the string bound securely, she stood and practiced walking in the oversized shoes.

Quentin chuckled. “If someone doesn’t shoot you first, you’re going to trip over those boats and kill yourself
for
them.”

“Can’t be helped.” She stared around at Quentin, Sawyer, Montana and Duff. “We need wheels. Sawyer’s or Duff’s since we’re dressing as them.”

Duff held up his keys. “You can take my SUV. I’ve been wanting to get a truck, anyway.” He told them exactly where he’d parked.

Becca nodded, biting on her bottom lip, her nerves jumping inside her body. “Thanks.” She faced Quentin. “Do you have any money?” she asked. “Enough cash for a hotel room?”

Quentin had swapped shirts with Duff and wore shoes he’d taken from his apartment before the authorities had arrived. “I grabbed my mad money before the police descended on us. If we’re going to get out of here, we need to leave before we’re questioned again, and before the parking lot clears of emergency personnel.”

“I’m ready.” She held up her empty hands. “I’m traveling light.”

“We need to get you some clothes that fit as soon as we can stop long enough to hit a thrift shop.”

“My clothes are not as important as getting out of here without being detected.”

Montana tossed Quentin a ball cap. “You’ll need this to shade your face.”

Quentin jammed the hat on his head. “Let’s go.” He held out his hand to Becca.

She placed hers in his, her pulse pounding, adrenaline shooting through her veins. If someone wanted her dead, assassins could be waiting for her to leave, watching for her every move. Their deception could buy them enough time to get the hell out of the apartment building and into a hotel. When Royce arrived the next day, he’d bring her a new identity in the form of a driver’s license, credit card and cash.

Quentin paused in front of Duff and touched his shoulder. “I’ll get word to you on where you can find your vehicle.”

“No worries. If I can’t find it, I’ll report it as stolen. The police will find it for me.”

“Wait until we’ve been gone at least an hour before you leave Montana’s place.”

“Don’t worry about us,” Duff said. “We’ll stay the night. We expect to see you two in the war room in the morning.”

“If we don’t see you, we’ll understand that you think it’s not safe,” Sawyer added.

Becca had no intention of returning to the war room on Stennis.

Quentin was first out the door of Montana’s apartment. He glanced around, then turned back. “Night. See you all in the morning. Oh, and Lovett, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

The men inside the apartment responded with forced laughter.

Becca stepped out, pulling the cap low on her forehead.

“And Duff, you better drive,” Duff called out, doing his best to sound like Quentin. “Sawyer’s had more than his limit.”

“I got his six,” Quentin said, pitching his voice low, like Duff’s. He crossed the parking lot to Duff’s SUV, leaving Becca to follow.