White Hot (37 page)

She spun to the sound. Her jaw dropped as the man rose. He stood tall and proud and wore a full dress naval uniform with a chest full of colorful medals. His cover was tucked neatly under his arm.

“Clint?” She was stunned. And a little taken aback. Please, God, not
another
humiliation. By the
U.S. Navy
? “What are you…”

He cleared his throat. “I’ve been trying to get in touch with you by phone, but I, uh, seem to have the wrong number.”

And here, she’d thought he was calling for personal reasons. She hadn’t wanted to hear them, but it had given her some small comfort that he had tried so hard.

Wow.
How freaking wrong could one woman be?

“Yeah,” she said. “I had to change it. Phone stalker.”

The only indication that he’d fielded the barb was a slight flare of his perfect bronze nostrils.

Damn
, it was maddening how exquisitely handsome he looked in that uniform. How handsome he looked, period. To think she’d had him—

She cut off the thought before the suit matched more than the rims of her eyes.

“Anyway,” he said, and turned back to her father. He and the rest of the board were staring at Clint as though he had horns and a pitchfork. Or maybe a trident. The medals probably tipped the scales. “I’d like to hear your reasons for dismissing Captain Richardson.”

Her father bristled. “I am not dismissing her. Merely assigning
her a more appropriate job for her”—his words faltered for a millisecond—“experience.” He looked to the other board members for support. They nodded solemnly.

“I see.” Clint eyed them neutrally. “So you feel her performance as captain of
Île de Cœur
was…unsatisfactory?”

“Absolutely,” her father said jovially. “Her judgment is sadly lacking, and her on-time record is dismal. She has questionable people skills. Why she fired one of our best—”

“Okay, enough, already,” Sam gritted out. “I really don’t think you need to—”

“I’m here on official U.S. Navy business, Captain Richardson,” Clint cut her off in turn. “So I just want to be sure all the facts are presented.” He smiled down at the secretary, er, executive assistant. “For the record.”

“Are you a lawyer?” Sam asked in annoyance. She didn’t remember him saying anything to that effect, but he sure as hell sounded like—

“No, ma’am. I’m just a SEAL.”

“Former SEAL,” she muttered, thankful at least it wasn’t some kind of lawsuit.

His eyes narrowed ever-so-slightly. “Whatever.”

“And what business?” she demanded.

“Who, exactly, are you?” asked her father.

Clint darted a glance up at the inlaid marble wall clock, then said, “Forgive me. I’m Lieutenant Commander Clint Wolf Walker.” He handed the secretary a gold embossed business card. “I’m here on behalf of the Office of Naval Intelligence.” He bent to pick up a briefcase that had been sitting on the floor at his feet, walked with it to the seat right across from her, and laid it on the table.

Sam frowned.

Her father did, too. “What in tarnation would—”

“And of Admiral Zeluff of Pacific Command,” Clint added, snapping open the hinges.

Her lips parted.
Wait. What?
She was starting to get nervous.

“Pacific Com—” her father began on a laugh.

“And of Assistant Director DeAnne Lovejoy of the U.S. State Department,” he went on, ignoring the interruption.

DeAnne?
DeAnne would not be doing anything bad to her! Would she?

Clint lifted the lid of the briefcase, paused, and looked directly at her father. “Oh. And did I mention the President of the United States?”

She was pretty sure she and her father had never looked quite so much alike as they did at that moment. Their expressions, anyway. Pure incredulity.

Clint lifted a stack of parcels in Bubble Wrap from the case. Everyone sat dumbfounded as he unwrapped them. They were framed certificates. Five of them. He lifted them one by one and showed them first to her, then to the others.

What on earth
…

“This one is presented to Captain Samantha Richardson from PACCOM for Distinguished Service in Homeland Security.”

She gazed at it in astonishment.
Distinguished…
Wow. That was…

He picked up the next. “This is for Captain Samantha Richardson from the ONI for Outstanding Service in Naval Security.”

Her jaw dropped. Naval security? But—

She needed to sit down. She felt for her chair and dropped onto it with a thud.

He raised a finger with the third one. “For Captain Samantha Richardson from the U.S. State Department for Grace and Honor under Fire and Risking Her Life in the Rescue of Five Captive U.S. Citizens.”

Grace and honor? Her bottom lip trembled. She couldn’t believe this. She thought of her battered and bloodied crew, and her heart ached with love. No, she hadn’t saved them. They’d all saved each other.

Clint carefully lifted the smallest frame. “And this is from the White House. It’s a certificate of intent to grant Captain Samantha Richardson the Presidential Citizen’s Medal in the next nomination period.”

She stared across at it through a blur of tears. Then up at Clint. My God. This was all his doing. It had to have been him.

“But why?” she whispered. No one had ever…

“What’s the last one?” the executive assistant asked. They all turned to look at the prim, gray-haired woman with the old-fashioned steno pad on her knee. She pointed with her pen at the fifth frame, which sat a little apart from the others, and like a tennis match, they all turned to look at it.

“Ah,” Clint said, and for the first time he looked a shade uncertain. He picked up the frame and held it awkwardly in front of him. He looked up at the clock again, then down at the frame. He flipped it back and forth a few times between his fingers.

“Well?” one of the board members asked.

Sam wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

Clint cleared his throat. “It’s a, uh, marriage license.”

She blinked. Several times. “A…what?” He couldn’t possibly mean…Could he?

He’d
left
her.

“Marriage license.”

Alone.
In the
hospital
.

He handed her the frame.

Without even a
word
! Just a message through the freaking
nurse
. He couldn’t
possibly
want to…

But sure enough, it had
Marriage License
printed across the top and looked all official and legal. It even had their names filled in. No date though.

“Clint?” She gazed up at him, totally floored.

“You said you loved me,” he said, his voice softening. “In the helo, after they pulled us out of the water.”

“I did?” So many emotions were spilling through her that she didn’t know what to do. Or say. Or…

“Yeah.” He gave her a lopsided smile. “Three times.”

Her mouth opened and closed, then opened again. “Really? I don’t remember.”

His forehead creased a little. “So then, you didn’t mean it?”

She licked her lips and glanced around the room at the avid faces. There were a few scowls, too. On her father’s face, for instance. Except he was looking at the other frames. Not the one that meant by far the most.

“Clint, I’m not pregnant,” she said, her voice suddenly small and terrified. Terrified that
that
was why he was doing this.

There were murmurs around the table.

His face fell. Just a little. But she saw it, and her heart fell, too.

“Well,” he said. “I guess we’ll just have to try again.”

Some of the board members grinned.

Her cheeks turned the color of her suit. At least it felt like they did.

“So…?” he said, drawing out the syllable.

Her heart was suddenly beating so fast she thought it would fly away. “I, um…”

“Shall I read back the question, Captain Richardson?” the executive assistant asked helpfully. “Oh, wait.” She looked pointedly at Clint, not her steno pad. “There
was
no question.”

Sam put her trembling hand to her mouth. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “Oh, Clint, I—”

“Damn it, Samantha! I love you so much it’s making me insane. Literally. I quit my job and bought this huge boat, and I was hoping we could—”

“What?”

“A boat,” he said, and for just a moment he looked like a little boy at Christmas.

God
, she loved him.

“It’s a— Well, here, you can see it down in the marina.” He turned to the acres of window and pointed downward to the dozens of boats moored in the marina. “See? It’s the green one.” He looked back at her, his eyes softening. “Celery green. That’s kinda what sold me on it.”

She smiled, so full of love she thought she might burst with it. “No, I meant about your job. Did you really quit?”

“I really did.” He glanced up at the wall clock again.
“In…four minutes I’ll be a civilian, and I can take off this uniform.”

The executive assistant made a humming approval noise.

Sam’s smile spread wider. “Hopefully not here and now.”

Clint’s eyebrow flicked up. “The boat might be a bit more comfortable.”

She rose from her chair and tilted her head. “Is there a hammock?”

“Oh, yeah,” he said, his eyes warm and his smile wicked.

Someone cleared their throat. “I think this meeting’s adjourned,” he mumbled.

The executive assistant stood and started gathering the frames. “I’ll just take care of these for you, shall I, Captain Richardson?”

Sam nodded. “Thanks. And thank you, Clint, for arranging for them. That was truly the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me.”

“Oh, those weren’t my doing,” he said. “They are all the real deal. You earned every one of those awards.”

She didn’t know what to say, so naturally her eyes filled with tears. But they were tears of joy. Such joy.

Clint said, “So, Samantha Richardson, will you marry a man with no job and only a boat to his name, but so much love in his heart he doesn’t know what to do with himself?”

She didn’t think it was possible to be this happy. “Yes. Oh, yes. But will you marry a woman with no job and no boat, either, Clint Wolf Walker? But a woman who loves you more than she can say.”

In answer he slid across the wide table in an athletic move and scooped her up in his arms. “More than three times?”

“Many, many, more times.”

And then he kissed her.

Many, many, more times.

A REMOTE MOUNTAIN VILLAGE,
HAINAN ISLAND, CHINA
AUGUST

It
would
be a woman.

Hell. Could his day get any worse?

U.S. Marine Corps Intelligence Operative Major Kiptyn Llowell swallowed a growl of irritation as he regarded the trim figure descending from a white SUV that sported a familiar sky blue U.N. logo on its door. He’d much rather deal with a man in situations like this. You could talk to a man. Reason logically with a man. Women were just so damn…illogical. And unreasonable. Not to mention unpredictable.

He jetted out a breath. At least there was little doubt of the woman’s nationality. She had the look of a typical U.S. State Department geek. Gray suit skirt with white blouse. Leather shoulder bag. Sensible flats.

Whatever. She was his ticket out of this goatfuck of a day. Assuming he could talk his way into that SUV when it left this flyspeck of a village in the back of beyond.

Not that he’d give Ms. Sensible Shoes any choice in the matter. Women might be unpredictable, but he sure as hell
wasn’t. He’d do whatever it took to meet his transpo at the appointed time tomorrow.

No problem. She didn’t look that tough.

Kip leaned against the rough trunk of a tamarind tree near the SUV and watched the woman from under the obscuring shadow of his billed cap. She said something to the Chinese driver, then turned and walked toward the nearby open-air market, chatting amiably with her traveling companion, an aging hippie-type wearing loose, colorful clothing and gesturing expansively with her hands. Ms. Sensible was obviously there in some official capacity—a trade liaison, a translator, maybe a cultural advisor to the other woman, who was clearly the party interested in the marketplace offerings. This village specialized in the highly sought-after traditional textiles and weavings of Hainan’s native Li people. No doubt the artsy-fartsy woman was a gallery buyer or some such thing. Which would explain why they’d made the arduous drive to this remote mountain village rather than park themselves on one of the many idyllic beaches on this tropical South Seas island paradise.

The one bright spot in his day. If the women hadn’t shown up, he might have had to do something a lot more dangerous to get down to the coast. As it was, no sweat.

The two women disappeared amongst the tall, primitive stalls festooned with a rainbow of handwoven textiles. Despite the village being so out of the way, there was a decent crowd of people browsing the marketplace, all of them Asian.

Kip didn’t dare approach a single one. His Chinese language skills sucked. Besides, the last thing he wanted was to risk being turned over to the security police by some overeager Chinese national who’d seen his photo on the morning news—with the warning splashed across it in big red characters, “Beware! American Spy!” At least that’s what he figured it had said.

So, Ms. Sensible Shoes it was.

Hiking his rucksack over the shoulder of his dirty, oversized cotton peasant shirt, he started after her.

He decided to separate the two women and get Ms. Sensible on her own. Ms. Hippy-dippy might be one of those conscientious objector types who opposed espionage on principle. But if it was as he suspected, and Ms. Sensible was attached to the consulate in any kind of official capacity, she’d have an obligation to help a U.S. Marine in need of aid on foreign soil. Especially when he told her it was a matter of U.S. national security. Which it was. Aside from the whole threat of torture and being hanged as a spy thing. Which he’d just as soon skip today.