Call To Honor

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Diego had just finished installing cameras and listening equipment around the exterior of her house when he’d seen her heading out the back door. He’d had his cover handy, jumping right into a tai chi workout. She’d been emotional, but she hadn’t acted suspicious. He’d have thought she’d act a little warier if she were dirty. But maybe she was cucumber cool. Maybe Ramsey hadn’t shared the extent of how bad his actions were.

Or maybe Ramsey was alive, and she knew just how deep in the ugly her ex swam.

As Diego headed inside his temporary quarters, he brought her image to mind.

Her eyes were a work of art under strongly arched dark brows. Lushly lashed, they were large in her delicate face. Probably because they’d been a little puffy and red.

What had she been crying about? Ramsey?

What little intel they had so far on her showed that she’d lived within her means until about six months ago when she’d moved into the fancy house next door, that her kid attended a pricey private school and that she had a pretty high credit card limit that she charged up and paid in full each month.

None of that, or his own limited observations, pegged her as the overly emotional type. So he doubted an evening of popcorn and chick flicks had leveled her like that.

Alive or dead, he’d figured she was crying over Ramsey. The guy had to be in her head right now. If he was alive and dirty, did she struggle with her part in treason? If he was dead and dirty, was she upset to be holding the bag?

And if he was innocent? Maybe she had simply loved the asshole.

Diego rubbed his hand over his hair, then shook his head.

God, what a thought.

Then again, maybe it wasn’t Ramsey who’d put that upset look on her face.

Maybe it had been Diego himself?

He’d kept it friendly, totally nonconfrontational, and the woman had left looking as if he’d punched her in the gut. No accusations, no grilling, not a hint that he was wondering if she was maybe harboring a supposed-to-be-dead, treasonous, backstabbing bastard.

Maybe he’d been too focused on doing all that to hide the fact that he thought she was hot, but he figured she was used to that. She had to be. The woman looked like a cross between a centerfold, a society princess and a sexy Betty Crocker. The kind of woman who’d wear diamonds and one of those cute white aprons while baking homemade cookies...naked.

A man would have to be a month dead and incredibly stupid to ignore a woman like that.

Diego was neither.

He just had to figure out which one Ramsey was.

An hour later, his skin cool from his shower and his stomach comfortably full thanks to a freezer full of take and bake, Diego glanced out the window at the house next door. The lights were off downstairs and faint enough upstairs to give the impression that she and the kid had both hit the sack. Turning away, he flipped through his notes, hoping to find something new that would spark an opening. They had to find Ramsey. Had to confirm dead or alive, then go from there.

And he had jack diddly toward that end. He’d had eyes on the blonde for fifty-six hours now, but he didn’t have much to add to his notes. At least, not much that was relevant.

Frustration dogging his mood, Diego tossed the file onto the little table next to the window. Papers slid across the dark wood, a mocking reminder that he had nothing.

Probably because there was nothing to have, dammit.

It was crazy to think Ramsey was alive.

If he was, it meant that the guy had betrayed his country, his vows, his team.

Diego dropped onto the bed, almost sinking into the cloud-soft mattress as he covered his eyes with his forearm. As if shading the light would dim the headache brewing behind them while he tried to shove through his tangled thoughts.

The facts were clear enough. The mission had been compromised, confidential information had been sold and someone was a traitor. Lansky was sure that was Ramsey. Diego still wasn’t sure if that belief was fueled by certainty or by Lansky’s hate for the guy.

But Savino must believe there was a chance that Lansky was right, or Diego wouldn’t be here.

And Savino was never wrong.

So Diego’s reluctance to believe they’d been fucked over by one of their own didn’t matter. He had his assignment. He might not be wearing his dog tags, but he was on duty. It didn’t matter if he was stationed in the baking heat of Afghanistan, diving to the icy depths of the Pacific or watching a sexy blonde from the window of a piece of prime US real estate. And like any other assignment, he wouldn’t walk away until his mission was complete.

He pushed himself to his feet. He skirted around the fancy furniture that had come with the sublet. He would be fine with a sleeping bag and a crate to sit on, but if he had to do recon sitting on a cushy chair, hey, he was a SEAL. Trained to handle any conditions.

Any conditions and any situation. The SEALs were trained to kick ass, to do the impossible and to cover one another’s butts, no matter what.

No matter what...

Fury, tangled and confused, pounded through his head. He’d spent his entire adult life in the service. He’d gotten off the streets and joined the Navy at eighteen with one goal. To survive. It’d been twelve years since boot camp, and he’d learned that there was more to life than just survival. Oh, survival was still tops on the list. Doing the impossible against all odds would be straight-up stupid otherwise. But he’d learned to excel. He’d grown out of his in-your-face, badass attitude and learned to take—and value—orders. And he’d embraced the concept of brotherhood. Of trusting in others, and knowing without a doubt that his team had his back.

He’d trusted that.

He’d believed in it.

He’d put his life on the line for it, without a moment’s hesitation.

And now he was supposed to believe that trust was for naught? That a SEAL would betray his own team?

Diego growled, his chest as tight as his fists. He wanted to beat something, smash it, pummel it to dust. Screw the security deposit. He grabbed the bedside lamp, his fingers gripping the thick metal base. Before he could swing, he heard a buzz. The red haze blurring his vision dimmed, and he heard it again. It took another second before he realized it was his cell phone.

A deep breath, then two, cleared the haze.

“Yeah,” he answered, still clutching the lamp.

“Miss me, Kitty Cat?”

Like a smack upside the head, the words knocked Diego right out of his crappy mood. Laughter trumped anger every time. Even if the laughter was coated in bitterness.

“That’s El Gato to you, MacGyver,” he shot back. “What’s your status?”

Let it be an opening. Anything that’d get him the hell out of suburbia and away from the temptation of the blonde.

“Still digging in the dark,” Lansky said, his tone a verbal shrug. “Make my job easier. Tell me you saw Ramsey. Tell me you’ve got something we can take to the NI team.”

“First off, you don’t know that Ramsey is alive. All of the intel points to him being ash. Second, don’t assume that he’s the traitor. Assumptions are half-assed work, unworthy of a SEAL.”

Diego let the silence roll over him. He didn’t need words to hear Lansky’s fury, his pain and frustration. Hell, all he had to do was check himself, since he was sporting all those feelings and more. But sloppy intel wasn’t going to get them off the hook with the Naval Criminal Investigation team.

“Have you got anything at all?” Lansky finally asked, his words tight. Diego heard the clink of glass against glass and grimaced. The guy wasn’t going to have a liver left if they didn’t get this put to bed soon.

“I’ve had eyes on Ramsey’s ex. So far, nothing suspicious.” A whole lot of interesting, sure. But nothing that played into their situation.

He remembered the kid’s offhand comment about the two guys who’d lived there. Andy and Matt? But since neither had been Ramsey, it didn’t play into the situation. But it did feed a few of Diego’s fantasies.

“Ramsey showing his face is a long shot. But Savino’s sure if he taps anyone, it’ll be her or his parents. Did you see my report about Ramsey’s old man being in prison? Just shows you what a liar the guy was, saying his family was rich and powerful.”

That report had been a kick in the face. Everything Ramsey had said about his fancy family had been true enough, but a lie.

Diego frowned.

“The guy is doing time for running a Ponzi scheme. Doesn’t negate that the family is rich and powerful. Especially since the feds tagged less than a tenth of what they thought he’d scammed.”

“Maybe.” Lansky hesitated. “Speaking of lies, fact or fiction? Is she as hot as Ramsey always said?”

“Ramsey’s mother?”

“His ex, dude. Was he lying about that, too? She’s a dog, right?”

“Truth be told, she’s even hotter than he said.”

Diego stepped over to the window, his brows rising when he saw Blondie through the window of what he’d determined was her bedroom. The light pooled around her for a moment before she pulled the curtains shut. But he could still see her shadow against the white fabric.

She made one hell of a silhouette thanks to a body that was freaking amazing. The kind of body that would take a man a week to show his appreciation for, then inspire him to start all over again.

He puffed out a breath. She was hot.

“And? Observation and opinion only. Is she dirty or not?”

Now that was a question worth exploring, and one that would likely keep him awake well into the night. But given that Lansky wasn’t scoping out the hot blonde, Diego knew the guy’s question referred to their mission and not her kink preferences.

“It’s hard to tell at this point,” Diego sidestepped. “She’s been in residence the entire time, with company and a kid for most of it.”

“So, what? You’re saying you’ve got nothing?”

Yes, dammit. His career, his team, his fucking brotherhood was in the crosshairs and he didn’t have a thing. And how was he supposed to find anything sitting here in suburban hell watching a hot blonde and her fancy house? He wasn’t built to wait, to watch. He wasn’t made for inaction. He clenched his fist. But orders were orders.

“I’m saying that I’m still doing recon, the target hasn’t been sighted and that I’ll notify you as soon as anything changes.” He didn’t add that his orders had been specific. He wasn’t there to haul the woman off and interrogate her.

The phone did nothing to disguise the sound of Lansky grinding his teeth.

“I’ll figure this out, man,” Diego said in the same tone he’d used when he’d promised Lansky that he wouldn’t leave him wounded behind enemy lines. Quiet assurance.

“I’ll keep working on the electronics,” Lansky said after a couple of seconds. His tone was much less assured, but Diego knew he’d come through. He had to.

Because, yeah...

Their careers were on the line.

Diego hit the off button and tossed his phone onto the bed, watching it sink in the mattress before turning his gaze back to the window.

The moonless sky was a pitch-black backdrop to the lighted window. The curtains hid her features, but couldn’t disguise the shape of the woman undressing in her bedroom. Diego could see the curve of her breasts as she stretched her arms over her head, the slenderness of her waist and the fullness of her ass as she bent down to touch her toes.

Diego shifted his weight from one foot to the other, proof of what he had stiff and hard between his legs. The tapping of his fist against the window frame grew harder with each beat. He was here to prove, one way or the other, Ramsey’s status. The man had been declared presumed dead by the Navy, but things weren’t adding up.

Lusting after Ramsey’s ex wasn’t a part of the mission. And while it might not be sanctioned by the Navy—yet—Diego was on a mission. He was going to settle the issue of Ramsey’s life or death. Once he did, he could clear his team and his own reputation. And expose a traitor.

So no matter how it shook out, Ramsey’s ex was trouble.

Diego glanced back at the darkened window and grimaced.

But there was trouble, and then there was trouble. When a man spent most of his life in danger, he became an expert on recognizing it. On knowing how to use it, how to diffuse it, how to make it explode. And how to simply make it go away.

And his current mission was to figure out which kind of trouble Harper Maclean was.

And deal with it.

* * *

“WE NEED TO FIND you someone sexy. Maybe intense, but not prison break intense. Not that prison break can’t be sexy,” Andi mused. “I’d imagine it could be given the right guy.”

“You have issues. You might consider talking with a professional.”

Harper made the halfhearted suggestion with most of her attention focused on finding just the right shade of blue to complement the yellow color scheme in the Andersons’ atrium.

She was working with a design board, three-by-four-feet in size, which was framed in the same wood that would cover the floors. Instead of paper, it was covered in a muscat-toned plaster she planned to use on the wall, and sketches of the furnishings and various swatches. She used digital software when necessary, but preferred a variety of boards. The colors were truer, the textures and contrasts more visibly appealing.

And she liked to touch.

“What sort of professional are we talking about?” Andi asked, her joking tone coming through the speakerphone as clearly as if she’d been sitting right there in Harper’s office with a smirk on her face.

“I was thinking a health care one, but given your obsession with sex, maybe other options would be more helpful.”

Harper draped a cobalt length of satin over the board and stepped back a couple of feet. Head tilted to the side, she considered the impact of that strong blue against the butter-yellow leather designated for the couches, the rich walnut of the floors and the creamy biscuit hue that would be the cement planters.

Mrs. Anderson wanted the space for friendly luncheons, cozy teas and the occasional intimate dinner party. Why she couldn’t use the dining room was beyond Harper, but who was she to question the rich and snobby? Mr. Anderson wanted a place where he could sit down for some peace and quiet and read a damned book, to paraphrase his only request.

She thought she’d achieved that balance with the comfortably stuffed couches, the feminine, curved lines of the chairs and the oval stained glass table for those intimate meals.

“Speaking of sex,” Andi said, bringing the conversation back in a direction Harper was trying to avoid. “Let’s find you a date.”

“I thought I’d made it clear that I’m not in the market for a guy,” she murmured under her breath as she switched the cobalt-blue swatch for cornflower and stepped back again.

Hmm, personally she preferred the bolder cobalt, but she was pretty sure the client would go for the softer shade. With that in mind, she began pulling various swatches in the same shade from the cedar box where she stored her fabrics. Cotton, linen, brocade, silk.

“Fine. If you don’t want a man, I’ll find you a woman. What type do you like?”

“Exotic brunettes who prefer tequila to champagne, sing off-key and sneak chocolate to my kid,” Harper reeled off, paying more attention to the play of shantung against the leather than to the conversation. Man or woman, doing either wasn’t on her agenda. If it had been, Brandon’s abrupt reentry into her life was enough of a reminder of just what stupid looked like. Since she’d already been there, she didn’t see any reason to go again.