Friendly Fire (The Echo Platoon Series, Book 3) (7 page)

He looked away toward Sammy's disappearing form. "Is she still close to her father?"

"Not really. He moved out of state. She sees him two weeks a year."

He looked back at her and frowned. "I'm sorry to hear that."

He had to be wondering how the man she'd chosen to be loyal to could have dumped her and left their daughter, too. It was the question of the century.

"And I'm sorry about last night," he added, catching her off guard a second time.

Unexpected hurt pricked her. "Are you?"

He searched her guarded expression. "Not really," he admitted, then offered her a devilish little smile that chased her hurt away. He leaned toward her, pitching his voice lower. "There's something I want to talk to you about. Would you walk with me?"

Excitement swamped her. She knew she ought to keep her distance, but she couldn't seem to help herself. "Sure."

They pushed their chairs back simultaneously. Having learned that the ship's staff would clean up, she left what remained of her breakfast and walked next to him toward the exit. Conscious of the lightweight cotton dress she wore, she brushed past him as he opened the door for her, pausing to slip on a pair of sunglasses.

"I think we need to go up," he said, indicating the exterior stairs.

As they ascended side by side, she realized they'd never actually
done
anything together. Their encounters had been limited to the four walls of her office; their adventures had been vicarious and cerebral. Well, mostly cerebral. Losing themselves in books, they had traveled in space and time, but they'd never taken so much as a walk together—until now.

Feeling invigorated, she glanced over at him. "What's up here?"

"The sports court."

She looked around as it came into view. Near the front of the ship, a running track hemmed in a blacktop area for basketball and other sports. A high net kept loose balls from sailing over the railings into the sea or—worse yet—into the open-air dining area below them.

"It also provides a landing pad for helicopters," he added as they turned and followed the track.

The random fact struck her as significant. "Where'd you find out that information?"

He shrugged. "In my discussion with the security officer."

She cocked her head. "You've talked to the security officer? What for?"

"Only briefly. He wasn't very forthcoming," he admitted. "SEALs are big on safety," he added in answer to her question.

"I see." He had mentioned his profession out loud, perhaps because they had the track to themselves, and the sports court stood empty under a dazzling sun. Feeling the wind whip her hair into tangles, she reached up to restrain it. Jeremiah slowed his step. Through the dark lenses of his sunglasses, his gaze touched upon her upturned face, heightening her self-consciousness as she twisted the length of her hair into a knot.

He seemed intent upon telling her something—but perhaps the timing wasn't right.

"Do you like your job?" she asked, filling the lengthy silence.

He sent her a modest grin. "Yes. I tell myself I'm a modern-day Don Quixote, except that the giants I fight are real."

She could imagine how terrifyingly real they were. "Well, I'm proud of you, Don Quixote." Her throat constricted with unexpected pride. "You've done something so few men are capable of achieving."

His chest seemed to expand. "Thanks. It means a lot to hear you say that."

She added with forced levity, "So, do you have a Dulcinea, yet?"

He regarded her steadily. "There's never been another woman like you, Emma."

The compliment, uttered so frankly and unexpectedly, caused her to face the ocean and change the subject. "The water is lighter today than yesterday."

Tiny whitecaps foamed here and there, rising up and disappearing on the swells that rolled past them. The cooling breeze seemed to kiss her bare skin. Sea birds wheeled overhead serenading them. The setting couldn't get any more romantic.

His large hands resting on the rail next to hers made her think of the scene from
Titanic
when Jack held Rose while she stood at the prow, arms spread wide pretending to fly. Most likely hundreds of couples had reenacted that moment while on a cruise.

Dreamy nonsense, she scolded herself.

"That's because we've entered the Caribbean," he stated on a thoughtful note.

"Now the color is—what would you call it?—azure, maybe teal?" she asked him.

"I wouldn't know," he answered with a hint of humor. "Men have a pretty basic color palate—dark blue, light blue, navy blue."

"You're not like most men." She glanced over at him. "You've read
Pride and Prejudice
."

"It's a classic," he said with a dismissive shrug. "But this view does remind me of a poem by Wordsworth. Let me see if I remember it."

He had a gift for memorizing verse that had blown her away the first time she heard it—and every time subsequently. She turned slightly so she could study his arresting profile and waited for him to begin.

"
And I have felt a presence that disturbs me with the joy of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime of something far more deeply interfused, whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, and the round ocean and the living air, and the blue sky, and in the mind of man.
"

The words hung between them, too perfect to be sullied by mundane commentary. Her heart lifted on the breeze as if held aloft by something true and eternal.

"I wish I could do that," she stated wistfully. "My memory is awful."

He shrugged and looked at her. "I can't really take credit for it. That's just the way my brain works."

Feeling his gaze on her lips, her heart skipped a beat. Was he so focused because he meant to kiss her? If so, what was taking him so long?

"There is something else that I've worked hard to develop, though."

He removed his sunglasses as he turned to her, and she knew they'd gotten to the point of their stroll.

"What's that?" she asked dismissing her shallow disappointment over not being kissed again.

"My intuition. You know, we all have untapped mental powers." His hazel eyes searched for her reaction to his words. "With concentration and training, intuition can be enhanced and strengthened, just like the muscles in our body. Intuition resides right here—" he said and lightly touched a spot on her forehead between and above her eyebrows. "Between the left and right hemispheres."

Her skin seemed to burn after he pulled his hand away. She frowned, wondering where this was leading and also wishing his lips would go where his fingers had just touched her or lower, capturing her mouth once more.

"You've probably heard it referred to as the third eye."

His words distracted her from craving the feel of his lips on hers. "Are you saying you've developed extrasensory powers?"

"Anyone can," he answered. "Haven't you thought about someone when the phone rings, and it turns out to be the person you were thinking of?"

"I always know when my sister is calling," she admitted.

"Well, there you go. That's called
prescience
. Your intuition picks up on the energy of their intent and gives you advanced warning. American Indians used to be able to see the road ahead of them before they walked it. I've learned to do that, too."

She regarded him in amazement. "You can see what's lying around the bend before you take the turn?"

"Yes, and more. I can see puddles, ditches, and enemies lying in wait behind a wall."

"Oh, my gosh." A thought entered her mind. "Did you know that our paths would cross again?"

"No." He shook his head. "Unless I'm actively remote-viewing—that's what it's called—then I don't see anything. But sometimes I get intuitive hits, like when I boarded the ship yesterday." He broke eye contact to study the pilot house on the fourteenth level, immediately above and behind them.

She could sense the tension building in him. "What did you see?"

He looked back at her and immediately away again. "I'm not sure yet."

For some reason, his vague answer disturbed her.

"Just..." His gaze sought hers again. "Keep vigilant," he pleaded. "And if you see anything suspicious, please tell me right away."

Gooseflesh rose on the surface of her skin, and her thoughts flew immediately to her daughter. "What should I be looking for?"

His warm hand settled on her bare shoulder. "Look, I'm not trying to scare you. I'm not saying something's going to happen for certain. It's just that, in my experience, there are no real coincidences. I think there's a reason why I'm here on this ship with you. Maybe it's to keep you safe. I don't know." He gazed into her eyes, making sure she heard him.

She wet her lips with the tip of her tongue. "You've got me feeling nervous."

"Don't be. Thinking positive thoughts leads to positive outcomes, and vice versa," he admitted.

His gaze had dropped, locked now on her lips. As he began to incline his head toward hers, her lungs expanded. How terrifying that, in ten minutes' time, he had captivated her all over again. Even as a young man, a mere tadpole to the Bullfrog he would become, he had inspired her infatuation. Imagine the influence he could wield over her heart as the self-realized warrior he'd become... if she let him.

In the next instant, his supple lips brushed hers with the same intensity as the night before but far more gently. Beguiled by the sweet pressure of his mouth, she parted her lips. With a languorous stroke of his tongue, he turned her world on its axis.

Her thoughts flashed back to the moment in her office that had tipped the scales of their relationship. She'd come so close to giving him all of herself, only to push him away for the sake of her marriage. Yet her marriage was over—and there was nothing standing in the way of letting their natural inclinations take over.

Belated panic ricocheted through her, pinging from the tips of her toes to the ends of her fingers. Pulling free of his light embrace, she faced the sea again, gasping for air.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him grip the railing with a white-knuckled hand. Silence fell between them.

"I shouldn't have told you all that," he said at last. "Do you think I'm crazy?"

"Not at all," Emma insisted.

Against her better judgment, she covered his hand with hers. She told herself to let go at once, but the smooth swells of his knuckles tempted her to stroke them with her thumb. "Do you still play guitar?" she asked.

He had played for her once in her office, his knuckles rippling as his dexterous fingers plucked the strings.

"Don't get much chance to practice," he answered on a rueful note, staring down at their touching hands. "There are always windmills to attack, and more online classes to take."

"Are you working on a master's? A doctorate?"

"Neither. Still finishing up my bachelor's degree."

Reluctantly removing her hand from his, she swiveled to face him. "You didn't graduate?" No wonder she hadn't heard his name at commencement.

"No, I left that semester and never went back."

"Oh, Jeremiah!" Dismay had her clapping a hand to her heart. "I'm so sorry."

"You already apologized," he reminded her. "
I'm
not sorry. You were the best thing that ever happened to me."

Panic jolted her a second time. "Don't say that," she pleaded. "What we feel right now—what we felt then—it isn't real."

His eyebrows shot up. "It isn't real?"

"No, I've read all about this. What we're feeling is a biochemical reaction involving hormones and endorphins. It renders the victims completely blind to the other person's faults and unable to think logically. Psychologists have even given it a name—limerence."

"Limerence," he repeated, dubiously.

"Yes, it lasts between six months and up to two years, sometimes longer if the relationship is illicit, but it's only temporary. And once limerence fades, reality returns, and suddenly you see the other person for who they really are."

He rubbed his forehead and briefly closed his eyes. "Let me get this straight. You're saying love isn't real?" he asked.

The L-word gave her a start. "
Falling
in love isn't real," she corrected him. "It's actually just a temporary madness."

He cocked a disbelieving eyebrow. "Then Tennyson was wrong to say
'Tis better
to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all'
?"

"Absolutely." She spoke with confidence—after all, she could have avoided the pain and the disillusionment of Eddie's betrayal if she'd never fallen in love with him. But her heart gave a pang of remorse at the idea of not getting to explore the feelings she felt for this particular man standing next to her.

Jeremiah folded his arms across his broad chest. "If no one had ever fallen in love, imagine the detriment to art and literature. Every masterpiece ever created was probably a product of—limerence, is that the term? And for the record, I've always seen you for exactly who you are," he added with a glint in his eyes.