Hard Landing (16 page)

"Until I finish my degree," he answered with a modest shrug.

"Or three," Brant retorted. "Did you even decide on your major yet?"

"Philosophy." Bullfrog gave a definitive nod. But then his hazel eyes glinted with zeal. "With a minor in British Lit and another in French," he tacked on.

Brant shook his head incredulously. "You are such a nerd, brother. But I admire your tenacity." He transferred his attention to the two men seated across the cargo bay. "Hey, guys." Haiku and Halliday broke off their conversation to regard him. "We're going out tonight, right?"

Halliday gave him a thumb's up and Haiku nodded.

Good,
Brant thought, relieved to feel the plane's descent. He would go out that night, get laid at least twice, and maybe then he could visit Rebecca the next day and not be tempted to take their friendship to the next level.

* * *

"What the hell?" Max grumbled, tugging mail out of the overstuffed mailbox at the head of his driveway.

By the looks of it, Rebecca hadn't emptied the box since his departure five days earlier. Another sign that something wasn't right.

Tossing the mail onto the seat next to him, he sped up the driveway toward his dark house. Lights shone in the back yard where they'd been turned on by a timer. He thumbed the remote control and held his breath as his automatic door went up. Just as he feared—aside from his kit car, the garage stood empty. Rebecca wasn't there.

Where could she be? Having called the hospital directly, he knew she'd shown up to work the previous day and the day before that, but she'd been too busy to take his call. At least he knew for sure that Tony had let her go. And yet she hadn't bothered to contact Max to assure him that she was okay—a deliberate snub on her part, right up there with ending the service on her cell phone.

Anger burbled in his gut. She knew his expectations. Whether he was gone on a long mission or a short one, he expected to be greeted with a warm meal followed by sex, if he was up to it. This had to be her way of defying him—punishing him for failing to protect her from the likes of Tony.

He cut his engine, scooped up the unwieldy pile of mail, and grabbed his duffel bag, disarming the security system to let himself into the house. As he dumped the mail on the kitchen table and his bag on the floor, the dark stillness inside raised the hairs on his forearms. Flicking on the lights, he made his way through each room, gaining the impression as he went that Rebecca hadn't been there in days. Where could she be?

Everything stood in its proper place, offering no answers, until he came to their bedroom and turned on the light. Her nightstand and matching dresser stood bereft of all personal items, her books, and her jewelry box. His heart drummed out a heavy beat.

Crossing to her dresser, he righted the only object still sitting on it, a framed photograph of the two of them on their wedding day. The fact that it had been left face down slapped him awake to reality.
My God, she's left me!

The empty dresser drawers confirmed his deduction.

He backed in shock toward the bed. The rumpled comforter recalled him to their last moments spent together and the words he'd snarled at her.
You're my wife!

Apparently, that wasn't enough to keep her around.

His thick hands curled into fists. How dare she draw attention to their marital difficulties by leaving him? Soon everyone would know. The SEALs under his command would conjecture under their breaths about why she'd walked out after just three short years. Even his superiors would look at him differently. If a commander couldn't keep his household in order, how was he supposed to lead a team?

This ridiculous little game had to end at once. He would confront her at the hospital and demand that she return to him. An officer's wife didn't behave like a child running from her obligations.

Muttering darkly, Max returned to the kitchen to forage in the refrigerator. She hadn't even stocked it the way she usually did!

With nothing but eggs to eat, he pulled them out to make an omelet. As he turned to fetch a bowl from the cabinet, his gaze fell upon a fat envelope that had slipped from the pile of mail on the table and landed on the floor next to his bag. Postponing his cooking, he went to pick it up.

A portentous feeling ambushed him as he noted the return address. It had been sent by the law offices of Kirby and Kirby. He slit it open, pulling out the packet inside, and slowly unfolded it. A high-pitched ringing filled his ears as he scanned the contents. She'd drawn up a contract for a separation agreement culminating in a no-fault divorce.

No fault? Hah. The fault was clearly hers for deserting him. He waded through the legalese once, twice, three times. With every reading, his resentment burned hotter. She wanted back the sum that she had put into the house two years ago, the first time he'd run into financial trouble. She wanted a thousand a month in spousal support. She wanted him to respect her privacy and to have no physical contact whatsoever outside of the courtroom.

The pages in his hands shook. What was she suggesting? That he was a danger to her? He was a Navy SEAL, by God—a hero! How dare she make him out to be the bad guy when she had been the one to desert him?

Hell if I will sign this shit!

Flinging the stapled pages onto the tabletop, he stomped back to the counter to prepare his omelet. She clearly hadn't taken him seriously when he'd informed her that she would rue the day that she tried to divorce him. She was
nothing
without him. Couldn't she see that?

He picked up an egg, pausing as he considered his next move. He would get her back, one way or another. But he had to do it soon, lest she mention his offshore account or her encounter with Tony to her lawyer. He crushed the egg with his fingers, letting the yolk drip all over the palm of his hand. What would her lawyer make of that?

My God, she had more ability to destroy him than he'd realized!

He had to fix this. Somehow, some way, he needed to maintain his foothold, but he could feel himself slipping, and he didn't like it one bit.

* * *

Rebecca shut her apartment door and leaned against it with a long exhalation. Was it her imagination, or was someone following her to and from work? She'd felt jumpy for days—probably a consequence of her scare at the hands of the mobsters. Or it could be the fact that Max was back.

Maddy, who knew that Rebecca had left her husband and gotten a new phone number, had forwarded the text message that all wives received just hours prior to the task unit's return. As grateful as Rebecca was to Maddy for thoughtfully warning her, she was equally grateful for the fact that her friend had asked no questions when she learned of Rebecca's decision to move out—merely offered her a shoulder to cry on should she need it.

Repressing a chill that made her scalp prickle, Rebecca flicked on the light switch. Her empty apartment might be devoid of furniture, but the cathedral ceiling and the high windows made the 994 square feet of space seem spacious and cheery, and her purchases tonight would contribute to a lived-in feeling.

I'm safe,
she assured herself.

But Max's return was fraying her already taut nerves. If Tony and his thugs weren't stalking her, she had a feeling Max soon would be. The possibility had unsettled her so much that, instead of going straight to her apartment after work, she'd indulged in some shopping therapy.

Pushing off the door, she went to close her blinds before carrying her purchases to the mantle over her gas fireplace and setting them down one by one. Three amber candleholders, each one taller than the last, supported the earth-toned pillar candles she had also bought. Their sandalwood scent had reminded her of Bronco—not that she had bought them for him. After all, he hadn't even replied to her text invitation, and he'd been stateside for several hours now. What was taking him so long? No doubt he was busy bedding his latest squeeze.

Stepping back to survey the effect of her impulsive purchase, she ignored the unexpected pinch of jealousy.

"Now all I need is a couch," she murmured, turning to regard the spot where it would go. She refused to envision her and Bronco curled up on it together.

She hadn't left Max in order to involve herself with the Team's resident playboy. Only a fool would do something as stupid as that. He might call himself a friend, might make her feel safe and cared about, but he wasn't remotely the type of stable man she needed.

So why was she waiting on pins and needles for him to text her back?

"Don't be stupid." She'd only invited him to drop by so she could tell him about her encounter with Tony. If and when he decided to pay her a visit, nothing more was going to happen.

* * *

Brant glanced at his Luminox tactical wristwatch and shook his head. He'd managed to put off visiting Rebecca for thirty-two endless hours.

Such willpower, Adams
.

But he had a good reason, he assured himself, for parking his truck in front of Unit 3, Windsor Garden Way. Since their return, Hack had made strides in sifting through the information stored in Max's old Dell, and what he'd found had confirmed all of Brant's darkest suspicions. He couldn't go a day longer without warning Becca of Max's activity on the black market, suggesting his involvement with the mob.

You could just tell her over the phone
, his conscience pointed out. After all, he'd promised himself he wouldn't venture near Rebecca until he'd gotten properly laid, and his attempts to do so the previous night had resulted in a big fat failure—though not for lack of trying.

He, Halliday, and Haiku had hit up a popular SEAL hang out called Chick's Oyster Bar, located at the north end of the beach. Finding a willing babe there was pretty much a guarantee. The weather had cooperated beautifully. They'd been seated on the outdoor deck, overlooking the ocean. Brant had ordered his usual shot of tequila and a beer. Within minutes, willing women dressed in scanty outfits had descended on their table. He'd smiled at them all, answered their questions, and waited for one of them to spark his interest.

But none of them had. First Halliday and then Haiku slipped away, each with a babe on his arm. They'd left Brant talking to a tenacious redhead committed to showing him all twenty-two of her tattoos. At midnight, Brant gave the redhead the slip and went home—still celibate, still hankering for something he couldn't put a name to.

Hey, I did my best
.

Standard duty rotation had given him the next day off. He'd slept in, done his laundry, and washed his car. Thoughts of Rebecca continued to ambush him. And then Hack had called, all concerned and flustered, with information that had twisted Brant's intestines into knots. He'd tossed down the rag he was using to polish his fenders and decided that Becca needed to know what she was up against.

He would tell her that evening what they'd stumbled upon and get her permission to approach NCIS with the evidence. But he would not—should not!—make a move on Rebecca. The fantasies that had taken up residence in his mind were going to have to stay there, unrealized.

* * *

Rebecca searched her rearview mirror with an anxious eye. The sun was sinking fast, sending brilliant rays skimming over the tops of the cars behind her, and blinding her to whomever might be following.

Her premonition that Max was going to hunt her down that very day and demand she return to him had prompted her to leave the hospital right after work, skipping yoga. There'd been no sign of his Tahoe in the hospital parking lot. Still, she couldn't shake the feeling that he was out there, tailing her at a distance. Just in case he was, she took the circuitous route home, performing a number of detours meant to shake him. The last thing she wanted was for Max to know where she lived.

But just as she doubled back, heading for her apartment, she glimpsed a dark SUV weaving through the traffic behind her. That couldn't be Max.

Without using her turn signal, she veered into the turn lane, hoping to catch the green arrow and put distance between herself and a possible tail. An automatic glance in her rearview mirror prompted a double take as a Tahoe proceeded into the left lane behind her.

Oh, my God, that is Max!

The shape of his head was unmistakable, as was the base sticker—no longer required to get into the gate—but still mounted on one corner of the windshield.

She shifted her attention forward. "Go, go, go!" she urged the cars in front of her as the arrow turned orange.

What did he want? Did he think he could make her change her mind about leaving? Would he even give her a choice? She had a vision of him dragging her by her wrist or worse, by her hair, right into his car and back into their house. She shuddered.

The cars before her sped up to beat the red.
I'm not going to make it
. But then she'd be stuck with Max only three cars behind her. He would follow her straight to her apartment. This was her best chance to shake him. The light blinked to red. Rebecca floored the accelerator and turned anyway.

A car blew its horn. She squealed in fright as she arced onto Bonnie Road. Arriving miraculously unharmed on the perpendicular street, she cast a wild glance over her shoulder, relieved to see Max glaring at her through the driver's side window.