Dangerous Territory: An Alpha Ops novella

An Alpha Ops Novella

Emmy Curtis

New York   Boston

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For the Chief, as always

I tried hard to get the salient points of this story correct, and I’m indebted to former pararescuer H.T., who shared some details with me about the incredible and largely unsung work they do in combat. Of course, any mistakes I made, or anything I changed to suit the story, that’s all on me.

I’d like to thank my family and extended family for their support and patience, and apologize for the lack of dinners and my semi-absentee brain. Writing is my excuse, and dammit, I’m sticking to it!

To my writing support group, thank you so much for your knowledge and encouragement (and coffee, cake, Tex-Mex, and alcohol)… I’m looking at you, Tahra Seplowin, Mary Smith, Heather Howland, Erin Fletcher, and Kristi Chestnutt.

A huge thanks to my editor, Leah Hultenschmidt, for finding me, making these books better, and allowing me to hiss. Also thanks to my literary agent, Laura Bradford, who metaphorically held my hand through this process.

And most importantly, I thank my husband, without whose love and complete support these books would not exist.

If you are inspired by Josh and the real pararescuers, who put their lives on the line every day to rescue both troops and civilians, please consider donating to their nonprofit fund, which helps look after those who are left behind when one of their brothers-in-arms is lost: thatothersmaylive.org.

Washington, D.C., Christmas Eve, three years ago

Grace stared through the glass of swirling amber liquid in the quiet bar of the Four Seasons hotel. Maybe a few more of these and she could forget. Forget the last year, forget the war, forget… She swallowed hard.

Yeah, that was never going to happen.

This was why she always kept her distance from her subjects. This was why she never got involved with them. She had broken her code, and now her heart was in a million pieces.

Glue. She needed more whiskey to glue it back together.

She swigged from her glass, ignoring the fact that the very expensive brand was supposed to be savored. In happier times she would have been chatting with the bartender and swishing the fiery yet smooth liquid around her mouth, wondering if she should give in to the temptation to try a cigar—the only barrier she hadn’t yet broken in her quest to be “one of the boys” in the reporters’ club.

Grace poked her face with the tip of her finger. Good. It was getting numb, a sure sign that her plan was working. With the next drink would come the warm honey in her knees, which would mean she would have to be very careful going back to her room. She hadn’t survived a year in Afghanistan just to be felled by the slippery marble staircase of the Four Seasons.

As she held up a finger to the barkeep for one more, her eye was caught by a tall man who had walked into the plush bar. He had thick, sandy-blond hair, cut short but not too short. Wearing jeans and a barely-tucked-in button-down shirt, he exuded an air of confidence usually associated with a sharp designer suit. Especially in this hotel.

He sat three seats away from her at the bar. And by the way he launched himself so heavily onto the barstool, she guessed she wasn’t the only one not celebrating Christmas.

“I’ll have what she’s having,” he said to the barman.

Grace looked away and rolled her eyes. Really? All that promise and a crappy pickup line. Shame.

She poked a little more at her face and tried out the varying focus by closing one eye and then the other. She could definitely see better with just one eye. And then her brain started the slow turn of an engine trying to combust. Maybe he was looking for someone in the same way that she was looking for someone—or something—to take away all the crap in his head. Why not?

Her reporter instincts kicked in as she swiveled in her chair to take him in. She studied him, his wide shoulders, well-fitting black jeans, the way his hair lay against the back of his neck… and then she realized that he was also looking at her. In five seconds she had clocked the sad look behind his eyes, the restless tapping of his fingers on the metal bar, and had decided that he was in fact looking for escape, just like she was. Maybe he’d had a big argument with his family and had checked into the hotel for the night.

What he needed was Sally, the alter ego she used for those times she needed to remain anonymous, or for when she didn’t want to talk about her job. He needed Sally the cheerful flight attendant.
She
needed Sally the cheerful flight attendant.

“Hi there.” She held her hand out to shake his.

In a second he was on his feet and pulling out the seat next to her while taking her hand in his. Oh yes, he really did need Sally.

“I’m Josh.” He motioned for the guy to bring them two more drinks, even though they hadn’t finished the ones they had in front of them. “Rack ’em and stack ’em, right? It’s been that kind of day. You?”

“About the same. I’m Sally.” Grace tried to assume her perky Sally face. “Back-to-back flights and I’m off again tomorrow!” Somehow she knew that she wasn’t pulling off her usually flawless performance. Probably the numb face.

Josh spun back to the bar and flashed a sexy half smile at her. “Really? Back-to-back flights, huh?”

“Where are you going on Christmas Day?” Grace asked, interested in spite of herself.

He laughed. “Well, sweetheart, if you’re not going to tell me anything real about you, why should I tell you anything about me?”

Busted. But how?

“How do you know I’m not a well-traveled flight attendant?”

“No airline in the world puts its crew up in the Four Seasons.”

“What if I were treating myself?” she countered.

“You want to know what really gave you away?”

She nodded, and his expression grew intense. “There’s something in your eyes. You don’t have that beaten-down look of a flight attendant. But there’s a sadness there.”

Grace suddenly felt incredibly exposed. “Wow. How many flight attendants have you
known
?” she said, trying to lighten the mood.

He laughed. “Fair point. So why don’t you tell me what you’re trying to forget?” He leaned in and brushed a thumb across her cheekbone. “I mean, we’re alone, at night, in a hotel bar. Anonymous. Whatever you say will stay with me.”

His voice was practically hypnotic. “My friend died last month,” she blurted. Just saying the words brought prickles of tears to her eyes.
Dammit.

“I’m sorry. That must have been hard. What happened?”

“It doesn’t matter. I don’t want to think about it. I want to forget it. But I don’t want to forget
her
.”

Josh got the bartender’s attention and asked for paper and a pen as she ducked her head to try to wipe her eyes without making a big deal about it.

Josh placed a sheet from an order pad and a pen in front of her. “Here. Write down everything you can remember about her. Everything. Every joke, every secret, every meal you shared. An essay… bullet points, it doesn’t matter. Write a list of things that remind you of her. I’m going to sit here and drink until you’re done.” He turned away from her and asked for a couple more drinks.

She wrote. She wrote until she had the whole sheet covered front and back with miniscule writing. Josh said nothing the whole time, just putting glasses of whiskey and ice water in front of her. Then she slammed the pen down and said, “I’m done. If you burn this fucker, or do something lame like that, I’m going to break your arm.” She may have slurred a little.

He laughed. “No. Now you put it in an envelope, seal it, and put it away. And forget everything. You will always be able to read this letter to yourself, so you can forget it all in here”—he tapped her forehead—“knowing it’s always in here.” He tapped the paper.

She breathed heavily. She was a writer and she never even considered the catharsis of writing about her friend. “Thank you…”

He interrupted as if he were trying to defuse an emotional moment. “Don’t thank me. I charge two hundred dollars an hour. Well, fifty minutes really. The other ten, I call my friends and laugh at your problems.”

“That’s what I
thought
they did. God, I hate shrinks,” Grace said, knowing full well that he was no psychiatrist. “I absolutely make it a point never to have any emotional problems for that very reason.”

“Good policy. Me too.” He clinked his glass to hers and said, “Death to shrinks.”

Grace snorted a small laugh into her glass as she downed the last of her drink. “So when are you leaving?”

“I have to be at Baltimore Airport at nine in the morning.”

“That’s…” She peered at her watch. “You’ll have to leave here in a few hours. Not much sleep for you, then?”

He spun in his chair and leaned in toward her, resting his arms on his thighs. “Do you want to sleep at all tonight?”

Grace held his stare, and a warmth seeped through her. What? Would she? Why not? “If we don’t sleep, Santa might not come,” she whispered.

*     *     *

He really shouldn’t do this. This kind of pickup only fed the monster of his no relationships credo. But she was crazy gorgeous. Her almost-black hair was cut against the side of her face like a straight razor. She looked like she’d stepped out of a 1920s movie, but with jeans and a leather jacket. He shouldn’t, but hell, did he want to.

Behave, Josh.

Besides which, she clearly wasn’t ready to go back to his room with him. That was fine. He really had all the time in the world. Well, the few hours until his flight left.

When he had come down for a quick drink before he turned in, the last thing in the world he’d expected to see was a beautiful woman nursing a straight-up whiskey. She pretty much had him right there. A straight-up whiskey meant a no-nonsense, low-maintenance woman. The more ice, garnishes, or umbrellas a drink had, the crazier the chick. At least in his experience. When she stared at him, he recognized the look in her eyes. It was the same sadness deep inside that he sometimes saw in the mirror. She was suffering over something, and he thought it the honorable thing to try to take her mind off whatever it was. A duty, even. And God knew, he was a man of duty.

He’d arrived looking for a nightcap, something to help him sleep. The last night stateside was always difficult. Sleep never seemed to come; he was too worried about missing his flight and letting the guys down. Afghanistan again. His sixth tour in four years. He didn’t mind the high-turnover rotation. It allowed the guys with families to take an extended break between deployments, and really, with no wife, kids, or even a dog, what else would he do?

He could seduce her with tales of unarmed combat, of daring rescues and saving lives. Or of firefights that had gone on for days. But he never did. There was no fun in sleeping with a woman who wrongly thought he was some kind of hero. It was too easy. Especially in D.C. And frankly, he liked a challenge.

“So what’s your name?” After a silent couple of seconds, he added, “Okay, what would you like me to call you tonight?”

For a split second her eyes lit up, and she flashed a smile that slayed him. “Sally. I told you already.”

“Sally? Okay. I can do that. So, Sally, what really brings you here on this snowy Christmas Eve night?”

“I just got back in town. I’m here for a few weeks before I have to leave again.”

“So… not back-to-back flights and another flight tomorrow?” He grinned.

She flashed her dimples again. Man, he loved making her smile. As she looked again for the barman, he checked her out to see if he could figure out what she was hiding. Dark blue jeans covering long legs, dusty biker boots, and a plain black T-shirt hugging a crazy-fit-looking body that just begged for a touch. Correction: That he was begging to touch. A short leather jacket hanging on the back of her chair. Private investigator? Jilted wife?

“Are you married?” he asked.

She looked shocked for a second and then amused. “No. No husband, no boyfriend, no puppy, although I’ve always wanted one. No…” Her voice trailed off, and he wondered what she was going to say. No nothing, perhaps?

“No time,” she finished, as if to draw a line under the subject.

Interesting.

“So you have a busy job, which brings you here, drinking alone, on the night before Christmas, with a terribly sad look in your eyes, like you’ve seen something you wish you could unsee. Were you there when your friend died?”

Nailed it. A resigned look and a sigh told him he’d assumed right. Time to turn that frown upside down.

“So, sweetheart, do you want to be sad and alone tonight? Or do you want to find a better way to forget than alcohol?”

Her hand stilled halfway to her mouth. She looked at her glass and placed it back on the bar. She stood, grabbed her jacket, and said, “Yes.”

Wait, yes to what? Yes to… Really?

Shit. He nearly choked on his drink. He liked it much better when he was in control of a seduction, but she seemed happy to skip some steps. This was not his normal routine. He stood, too, and held out his hand. “Your room or mine?”

Her slim fingers slid over his hand as she wove them between his, slowly, as if stroking him quite deliberately. His dick twitched in his jeans as she leaned forward and whispered, hot into his ear, “Yours.”

He threw a fifty-dollar bill on the bar and led her toward the elevators, not really understanding what just happened. He’d been settling in for the long sell and she had cut him off at the pass. Just who exactly was being played here? He didn’t want to think about the answer.

The elevator dinged. She got in and turned to face him. “What are you waiting for, Josh?” She quirked a smile as if she knew for sure she had the upper hand.

The doors clunked and started to draw back together. Shit. He slipped in as fast as he could as she laughed. Out loud.

“Really? You’re laughing at me?”

“You nearly didn’t make it.” Suddenly, making her smile was one thing; having her laugh at him wasn’t as much fun. “I nearly had to take care of things myself.”

Fuck me.

His dick went from interested to begging for action with that one comment.

His advantage was that he hadn’t had nearly as much to drink as she had. He wanted to see what was going on here. What was
really
going on. He put his hand on the back of her neck and gently drew her to him. He took a step toward her, but before he could make a move, she cocked her head, her eyes gazing at his lips as she moved in for the kill.

Her kiss was at once tentative and knowing. She nibbled at his lower lip, and once he opened his mouth to her, he was gone. Lost in her. What the hell? Almost light-headed, he fumbled for the fourth-floor button. He clasped his hands to the back of her head, so he could kiss her more, taste her more. One of his hands slipped from her neck to her shoulder and then to her waist, pulling her against him, so she could feel how hard she had made him.

She groaned and ground herself against him. Shit. He was about to lose his head, and worse, his control.

He wrenched away, breathing as hard as she was. Her eyes glistened. Her lips were swollen and red. She was irresistible. And so what he needed tonight.

*     *     *

The second his door closed behind them, she started unbuttoning his shirt, yanking it from his belted pants. Nothing mattered, nothing except his hands, and mouth, and her freedom from sorrow. This wasn’t her first rodeo.

It was her second. In five years. God, she hoped she remembered how to do this. And even if she didn’t, she’d never see him again, so it wouldn’t be too embarrassing. Hopefully.