Friendly Fire (The Echo Platoon Series, Book 3) (27 page)

As he looked back at Emma, his calm, confident gaze thawed the chill encasing her heart. "I'll be fine, Emma. This is a good thing, believe me. I'm going to break away and go for help."

"But you could get hurt," she protested, envisioning the scenario he'd so blithely described.

"They'll kill your wife and kid if you don't come back," Joe grated with his eyes closed. "Give me those pills," he added, holding out a hand to Cheryl.

The starkly violent statement rendered everyone mute.

"Oh, I'm coming back," Jeremiah promised, easing a portentous pressure that squeezed Emma's ribcage. "And the others won't be rushing back to report me, either."

"You're going to kill them?" young Noah asked.

"Noah!" his mother scolded.

Jeremiah sent him a steady look. "I hope not, Noah. Every life has value. Even our captors have a potential for good. But my job is to protect the rest of you, and I'll do whatever it takes to get us all safely out of here."

"How?" Mike asked. "Where are you going to find help around here?"

"My Task Unit can't be far from here. Not only are they waiting to hear from me, but they'll respond quickly to my SOS. I'll be back for all of you, and I won't be alone."

Emma's heart went into free fall. Anything could happen to him between that moment and when he tried to get back to her with his unit. Anything.

"Listen carefully now," he continued, interrupting her destructive thoughts. "Tonight, I want you to sleep with one eye open. If any of you see purple smoke or hear gunfire, I need all of you to put your backs against the wall and make yourself as small as possible. If someone approaches you, tell them immediately you're American. This could all be over soon, maybe tonight."

Several others spoke up, articulating questions that Jeremiah answered with patience. Emma heard nothing but calm resolve on his part. He was bound and determined to make the most of the opportunity that had come up. How could that be? Didn't he realize what he was asking of her by leaving her and Sammy here alone, without him?

Dismay ripped away the contentment she'd wallowed in only minutes earlier.

I can't do this without him. I'm not strong enough.

Then again, what choice did she have? She had fallen in love with an extraordinary man. He didn't sit by like most men and let evil encroach upon the innocent. He was a game-changer, a knight errant who took up arms in defense of the weak and the innocent.

I love him so much.

The realization spread through her like tea seeping through hot water, changing its chemical composition. Limerence had nothing to do with the way she felt. This feeling wasn't a fleeting illusion, a temporary madness, as she'd insisted to him. She had loved Jeremiah for years—perhaps from the very moment he'd stepped into her office with questions about Wordsworth. And, in all that time, she'd seen him exactly for who he was—not some idealized version. Nor had her feelings for him weakened over time. If anything, they had become so starkly real, so strong, that they put her former arguments to shame.

What surprised her most was her willingness to support him, even as far out of her comfort zone as that was. If she lost him again, she would lose the man who'd brought her back to life. His death would devastate her. But he and Tennyson were right. It
was
better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. Without this fullness in her heart, what would her life really amount to?

Nothing.

"Hey, you okay?"

Rousing from her thoughts, she realized that the others had broken off into their various support groups. Emma looked for Sammy and found her talking to Noah.

"They'll be all right for a minute," Jeremiah said, following her gaze. "Can I talk to you in private?"

"Sure."

Leading her to the other side of the room, he surprised her by sweeping her into the men's restroom and shutting the door.

"Are you okay?" he asked her.

She couldn't hide her trembling from him, given how close they stood. "I don't know. I think so."

He caught her face in his hands, cradling it gently. "Do you understand why I have to do this?" he asked in a gruff voice.

The lump in her throat prevented her from answering. She gave a nod instead.

He gathered her to him, then, holding her as if she were his most cherished possession. Tears burned the backs of her eyes as she held them in check, trying to be strong for his sake.

"I love you, Jeremiah," she heard herself whisper.

Surprise registered on his face as he pulled back to look at her. It morphed rapidly into relief and triumph, turning his eyes more gold than green.

"You have no idea how long I've waited to hear those words," he admitted, his own voice catching slightly.

"I think I do."

His eyebrows pulled together. "How do you know what you're feeling isn't limerence?"

She sighed and hung her head. "I've been an idiot," she admitted.

"No." He stroked the line of her jaw. "You've been protecting your heart. But there's no need to protect it from me. I've loved you from the day I stepped into your classroom and saw you consulting your notes. You looked a little nervous."

She laughed at the recollection. "It was only my second year of teaching." She drew in a ragged breath. "What if you don't make it back, Jeremiah?" she blurted, returning them abruptly to the present.

"I will," he promised her, with so much certainty that a portion of her fears eased.

Ducking his head, he brushed her lips with light, tender kisses that deepened as desire warmed them. Flames immediately flickered, fanned by desperation. Within seconds, their mouths were fused, tongues tangling in a common quest for fulfillment.

"This isn't how I wanted to make love to you," he said, tearing his mouth from hers to nibble a path down her neck and across one collarbone.

"My fault," she admitted, remembering the romantic ambience he'd tried to set on the balcony at the back of the ship. Here, there were four stark walls and a bare light bulb—not to mention a commode and sink. But the atmosphere didn't matter so much as the pulsing, pulling need that demanded satisfaction.

"No," he corrected. "It wasn't right then." He paused, capturing her hungry gaze with his own. "Now?"

She nodded. "I want you," she whispered, even as he backed her against the door.

Burying one hand in her hair, he kissed her again while capturing her right breast and thumbing her nipple into stiffness. With every pass of his padded thumb, her blood flowed faster, her temperature rose. A humming sound filled her ears as desire drowned out the world, leaving just the two of them—free to experience the luxury of finally touching one another.

Tunneling her hands beneath his T-shirt, she caressed his taut, silken skin, exulting in his maleness, wondering again at the scars that creased his flesh here and there. Her hand, trembling slightly, strayed lower to caress the ridge that strained the zipper of his board shorts.

He gathered the material of her yellow dress, lifting the hem to fill his palms with her curves. With a whimper of desire, she pressed herself against his fingers as he slid them between her legs. Against the fabric of her panties, he stroked her.

Dear Lord.
She was ready to explode.

Emma's legs trembled with the force of her wanting. Her skin felt feverish, her breath came fast and shallow.

"Please," she begged, unwilling to wait another second when they had waited all these years.

He lifted her abruptly, and she wrapped her legs around his hips, locking him against her. Backing her to the door again, he tugged on his zipper and freed himself. Pulling aside the gusset of her panties, he sought her warm opening. Their eyes met.

"I don't have a condom," he apologized.

"I'd love to have your baby," she whispered.

He groaned and laughed at the same time. "Why's that such a turn-on?"

"Now, please," she cried, unable to gasp enough oxygen to appease her starving lungs.

He surged into her with gratifying gusto. She had to bite her lip to contain her exultation as pleasure radiated to every extremity. He withdrew and surged again, flinging her to new heights of ecstasy.

Knowing that it was Jeremiah—the man she'd wanted for so long—filling her, bathing her in sensations so pure and wild—inspired an immediate orgasm. From its inception to its firework finale, her climax took her by storm, surpassing anything she'd ever experienced before.

And this was how good it was when they came together in a dirty bathroom in a hostage situation. She nearly laughed as she floated in a post-orgasmic haze.

Jeremiah groaned as he spent himself deep inside her, burying his face in her hair. She felt his wonderful, beloved heart pounding hard and fast in his chest, and relished the knowledge that she had touched him just as profoundly. Then his grip slowly eased. Still breathing quickly, he lifted his head to send her a dazed look.

"Sorry that happened so fast," he said, sounding out of breath.

"I'm not," she assured him. Yet now that it was over—and the uncertain future loomed so threateningly—she did wish that it had lasted longer.

"Next time," he assured her.

"There
will
be a next time," she asserted, as her eyes filled with frightened tears.

"I promise," he swore in a voice gruff with emotion. And then he kissed her, but not before she glimpsed a shadow of doubt float across the surface of his eyes.

Chapter 17

The abandoned office building swarmed with seven additional SEALs. Juliet could name most of them as every man stood out as distinctly as Tristan did—all of them as close to demi-gods as mortals could get.

They answered to two men—Lieutenant Sam Sasseville, who could have passed for some Cuban heartthrob she'd seen on TV, and Master Chief Kuzinsky. The latter was the only SEAL who didn't fit the stereotype. Red-haired and freckled, he stood only as high as her eyebrows, but what he lacked in stature, he made up for in presence, carrying an aura of quiet command about him. And when his dark brown—nearly black—eyes focused on her it was difficult not to squirm.

In her line of work, Juliet butted heads regularly with alpha males. She'd grown accustomed to their games of one–upmanship. But these SEALs were a different breed of animal from the police she worked with. They didn't waste time throwing their weight around. They maneuvered like a well-oiled machine. And whenever a teammate spoke, each man listened intently, giving equal consideration to his colleague's opinion—especially Kuzinsky's.

The first thing they'd done was to set up the adjoining offices as a temporary command post, propping up the broken desk and laying out their equipment. An intelligent-looking man, who went by the name of Hack, set up a hotspot, got his laptop on line, and started to confer with an OGA, or other government agency, as Tristan kindly explained to her. She figured the OGA had to be the CIA.

Two more SEALs, nicknamed Bronco and Wolf, studied the old factory through specialized viewers that apparently detected the presence of human activity even through brick walls. The hard part was interpreting how
many
humans were present and where in the building they were located. In less than ten minutes, they thought they had something.

"Master Chief." Bronco called both him and the lieutenant into the room with the corner window. "We might have located the recovery targets. Check it out."

He handed Kuzinsky his binoculars while Wolf surrendered his to Lt. Sasseville.

"We've got signatures on the lower level putting out a normal range of movement. But there are more people on the second story who are hardly moving at all. Given that the windows up there are boarded, I'd say the tangos hang out on the first floor and keep their captives upstairs."

Juliet crept forward, dying to take a peek as Kuzinsky pointed the viewer at the building and considered the signatures for himself.

"I agree," he said.

Juliet's heart thudded. "Can I look?" she asked, peering at the gadget's display.

"You're not going to see anything you recognize." But he showed her the screen all the same and, sure enough, the squiggly lines meant nothing.