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Diego barely kept from offering his own sneer when he caught the looks on their faces. Disdain-covered horror with a barely concealed side helping of fear. Typical.
“Is your mother doing time, too?” Adams asked, his usual smirk sliding back in place.
“Dude,” Prescott protested.
Diego’s smile dimmed.
His momma had been shot dead three years back while sweeping the floor in the little bodega where she’d worked. No matter that he’d bought her a house, set her up so she didn’t have to slave day and night like she had most of her life, she’d insisted on keeping that job out of loyalty to Manny Cruz.
While Diego didn’t mind using his father to get a reaction out of others, he never shared his momma. That’d be disrespectful.
Besides, it was nobody’s business.
But Adams’s comment required a response. Instead of going with a smart-ass comment, or better yet the brutal slap down he’d prefer, Diego figured he’d channel Savino.
“See, here’s the thing.” Diego leaned forward, his elbows on his knees and his expression as serious as a howitzer. “I figure you had no say in your upbringing. And maybe it was awesome, or maybe it was pure hell. But whatever it was, whatever you brought with you from your past, it made you the man you are now. A solid officer, an outstanding IP tech and in your case, Ramsey, a damned good SEAL.”
Diego took a swallow of beer before continuing.
“Bottom line, we fight for the same thing. We have the same goal, and we serve the same team.” He had to dig deep for the rest, but, picturing Savino giving him that impatient, just-bullshit-if-you-have-to look, he managed. “I’m proud to serve with you, man.”
It was a toss-up who looked more shocked at Diego’s words. Adams, who appeared to have swallowed his tongue. Lansky, whose expression warned that he’d puke at any minute. Or Ramsey, who tried to hide his surprise with a frown but didn’t quite succeed.
Prescott simply grinned as he dashed his name over the bottom of the piece of paper before tearing it from the sketchbook. He handed it to Diego with a wink.
Diego snickered. His own face stared back at him, finger pointed like a gun, cocked and ready to rock. The caricature emphasized Diego’s dark eyes, his large head teetering on a slender body weighted down with fat muscles.
“You’re all right, Torres,” Ramsey said, his frown shifting into a grin. “I’m proud to serve with you, too.”
Figuring Lansky really would gag if this kept up, Diego stood.
“Congrats on your shot at DEVGRU,” he said, offering his hand. “Enjoy the beer. Lansky and I are heading out.”
He exchanged the team’s hand slap with Prescott. To Adams he gave only a nod. Just as well, seeing as Diego and Lansky didn’t get ten steps before they heard the asshole comment, “Bet he’s full of shit about his father. He just said that to make himself sound tough.”
“Let it go,” he muttered to Lansky, who’d started to turn back with his fists ready.
“But—”
“You might want to learn to watch your mouth,” they heard Prescott warn, his easy tone not disguising the threat beneath.
“Let it go,” Diego said again, shoving open the door and stepping into the sun’s heat. He’d come to terms with his history. When he’d first joined the Navy, he’d kept his past under lock and key. Not out of shame—out of concern that he’d be thrown in the brig for giving someone a serious ass kicking over their comments about it.
But after a while, he’d come to realize that his past was as much a part of him as his height or his skill with a knife. It made him who he was.
A success, dammit.
“We’ll hit Olive Oyl’s, and drinks are on me until ten-hundred hours when I head back to base.”
Lansky frowned. “You can’t be serious. Things will just be heating up then. The hottest women don’t hit the bar until after dark, my friend.”
“Yep, totally serious. You want to wait for women who look better in the dark, you’re gonna have to get yourself a ride back to base. Me, I’ve got a briefing in the morning, and I plan to be sharp.” Then, because Lansky was a good friend and deserved a little payback, he added, “This operation is going to shoot me to the top, buddy. A dozen of Daddy’s senators won’t help Ramsey get ahead of me after this.”
As his friend whooped and hollered, Diego accepted the fist bump with a laugh.
He was within kissing distance of the high point in his career. No way some blowhard like Adams, or even a rival like Ramsey, were going to mess it up for him.
No way in hell.
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_aadfce1c-8217-5eb5-8d1d-061eff369d75)
GOOD THINGS CAME to those who focused on what they wanted, then worked their butts off to get it.
That was Harper Maclean’s life motto, and she figured that she was living proof it was true. As she sautéed the mushrooms, onions and garlic with an expert hand, she looked around her kitchen with a smile of delight. From the glossy planks on the floor to the custom glass-fronted cabinets to the granite countertops, the kitchen—like the house—screamed luxury.
Holy crap, she was living in luxury. Harper added a giddy two-step as she added a dash of garlic salt to the vegetables. Six months ago, she’d been in an apartment so small, she’d had to put her desk in the coat closet. Now she was cozied up in a house five times as big and ten times as fancy.
It was all she could do to keep from doing a butt-wiggling happy dance as she pulled a golden piecrust from the oven. But butt wigging wasn’t ladylike, and Harper had spent the last seven years transforming herself into a lady. So she settled for a tiny shoulder shimmy.
“If I knew making me dinner would give you such a thrill, I’d have hit you up a week ago.” Andi Stamos strode into the kitchen in a wave of Black Opium, reaching around Harper to snag a mushroom out of the pan.
Used to greedy fingers trying to sneak food before it was ready, Harper tilted her head toward the center island. “If you’re hungry, eat an apple.”
“I’d rather have chocolate,” Andi muttered.
Who wouldn’t? “After dinner.”
“Fine, I’ll wait,” Andi agreed before snagging another mushroom.
“Hey,” Harper warned with a laugh, automatically shifting the springform pan out of reach.
Most people wouldn’t recognize the untidy waif with her black hair in a messy ponytail and her jeans ripped at the knees as Andrianna Stamos, thrice-divorced estranged daughter of Greek tycoon Maximillian Stamos, society darling and trust-fund baby. Andrianna wore leather and silk, spoke five languages and had a reputation for starting her day with a martini instead of coffee. Whereas Andi was happy wearing jeans to eat in a friend’s kitchen, handed out hundreds to the homeless and adored a small boy named Nathan.
They’d met three years before when Harper worked for Lalique & Lalique as an interior designer and had decorated the house for Andi and her new husband, Matt Wallace. Since Harper had had an easier time melding the Spanish architecture with Andi’s modern tastes and Matt’s preference for Louis XIV and rococo than the couple had in combining their lifestyles, she hadn’t been surprised when their marriage ended before she’d fluffed the last pillow.
By the time Harper had helped Andi get through the packing of Matt’s stuff, the redecorating and the heartbreak, their friendship was as solid as the gold-toned granite countertop Andi was currently leaning against doing her impression of a Vogue ad for wealthy bohemians.
In contrast to Andi, Harper’s gold-streaked blond hair swept straight and choppy to just above her shoulders. Her silk tank was the color of peonies and her linen Capris wrinkle-free. And she was pretty sure her entire outfit, right down to the diamond studs in her ears, hadn’t cost as much as the other woman’s threadbare denim.
“Drink?” Harper offered, moving to the refrigerator. “I’ve got a nice Pinot Grigio.”
“Water’s fine.”
Uh-oh. Harper gathered what she needed from the fridge, including a bottle of water. She set it, eggs and cream on the counter, then grabbed a lemon.
She sliced it and added a squeeze and a twist to a cobalt-blue glass before pouring in chilled water.
“I take it last night’s party wasn’t as much fun as you’d hoped,” she guessed as she handed her friend the drink.
“It was a deadly bore. Same people, same drama. I’m pretty sure it was even the same food as Monique’s last gala. The woman is tapping people for a thousand dollars a plate—you’d think she’d try a new recipe or two.”
While Harper shredded sharp cheddar over the golden crust for the quiche, Andi regaled her with wickedly disparaging tales of the rich and famous.
“So there he is, this big shot banking CEO, in the coat closet with his pants around his ankles and his hands down the front of this woman’s dress. His sister-in-law, it turns out. But does Monique care about the scandal? About a dozen guests seeing her closet used for an upright quickie? Of course not.” Andi paused to sip her water, then gave Harper an eye roll. “Monique’s only concern was whether they’d wrinkled the coats they were doing it against. To which the CEO responded in a dismissive tone, if her guests didn’t have enough class to wear quality, they deserved a few wrinkles.”
“He didn’t.” Harper laughed, entertained as always by the adventures of the rich and spoiled.
“He did,” Andi assured her as she helped herself to more water. “And even that couldn’t liven up that snoozefest of a party.”
“You sound so jaded.”
“Sweetie, I am jaded.”
“No. You’re bored. You need a project. Actually, you need a career. But since you won’t do that, you really should find a project.”
“Not won’t. Can’t,” Andi corrected meticulously, her fingers tapping a quick beat on the counter. “Any income I bring in will impact my divorce settlement. That weasel cheated on me enough while we were married. I refuse to allow him to cheat me out of anything else.”
Harper couldn’t blame her. Matt was a complete dog. The jerk had been caught with his pants down twice in less than a year of saying his vows. Harper wasn’t sure if that betrayal had damaged Andi’s heart, but she knew it’d done serious damage to her confidence. For that alone, Harper believed he should pay.
Something Andi was doing her best to ensure. But it’d already been eight months and was looking like it’d be at least a year more before they settled. Doing nothing for that long would drive Harper crazy.
Still, Harper couldn’t complain. Not when the divorce settlement was the reason she was living in this gorgeous house with a huge kitchen.
Since she’d gained control of the California properties three months ago, Andi had rented the place to Harper for a quarter of its worth. If not for that, there was no way Harper could have afforded a house in the exclusive Santa Barbara neighborhood.
Oh, sure, over the last three years, Harper had made a strong name for herself as a visionary interior designer. But last year she’d risked it all—her savings, her security and, sometimes she thought, her sanity—when she’d left Lalique to go it alone. But she was making it work. Homes by Harper had an exclusive client list, a sterling reputation and a solid portfolio.
Most people had no idea that beneath her sophisticated demeanor, Harper was obsessed with saving for her son’s college fund, worried about being a year behind on her career goals and often frantic trying to be a good mom, raise her son to be a better man than what he’d come from and still find time to polish her nails.
Whenever she thought about trying to juggle it all, she remembered living on welfare, wearing church-donated hand-me-downs because her mom couldn’t afford to both feed and clothe her only child, and finding the safest route home from school in a neighborhood where drive-by shootings were simply shrugged off.
And that, she decided as she sprinkled more cheese over the vegetable mixture, was the only use she had for her past. As a yardstick for how far she’d come.
“I’m pretty sure you’re the first person to actually cook in this kitchen,” Andi observed, her words muffled through a mouthful of the apple she’d finally given in to.
“Now, that’s a crime against kitchens.” Harper broke a dozen or so eggs into a thick pottery bowl, added cream, then with a careless shake of a few spices, whipped it together. “I can’t believe you lived in this house for two years and never cooked.”
“I’d lived in various other places twenty-six years before that and didn’t cook in any of them, either.” Andi looked around the rich, airy space with its touches of red pottery, midnight-blue fabrics and cozy eating nook. Three low-backed stools bellied up to the sleek island with its prep sink and marble top. When Andi had lived here, that island was often decorated with fresh flowers or, more often, caterers’ supplies. Now it held a blown glass bowl in bleeding greens that contrasted sharply with the bright red apples.
“You suit the kitchen, this house, much better than I ever did,” Andi said with an easy shrug. “Not only because you decorated it. For all your sophistication, you fit in suburbia. As much as I tried, I never could.”
“You’re definitely more comfortable downtown than you were here. And your penthouse is a better showcase for your personal style.”
“The penthouse is closer to the dating scene,” Andi corrected with another casual shrug at odds with the discontented look in her eyes. “Speaking of dating...”
“We were talking about decorating, not dating.”
“Then let’s change the subject.” Andi leaned her elbows on the counter and propped her chin in her hand, still munching the apple. “You need to start dating.”
“I’ve dated.”
“When was the last time?” Andi challenged.
Harper had to think about that.
“Sometime late last year, since I wore my black knee-length boots and that gorgeous three-quarter-length peacoat I got on sale at Nordstrom.”
That Andi didn’t question that Harper filed her memories according to outfits was just one of the reasons they were such good friends.
“Did that date end in sex?” Andi inquired.
“No. It ended in the stomach flu.”
“The guy gave you the flu on a date?”
Laughing at Andi’s confused expression, Harper shook her head.
“Not quite. The babysitter called while we were finishing the entrée to tell me that Nathan was throwing up. End of date.”
Nothing came before her son. Not men, not work, not even her own memories.
“Obviously it’s time to step up your dating life. I’ve got some ideas on that.”
“Why don’t we work on your dating life instead? Or better yet, what do you think about adding a fountain to your foyer? Something in metal. I saw a gorgeous piece last week at one of the art galleries.”
“Really? What form? Colored metal or brass? No, wait.” She threw up one hand and scowled. “Don’t do that. Don’t distract me with pretties.”
“But if we talk about decorating, we’re both happy and both get something we want,” Harper pointed out, getting cranberry and passion fruit juices and the seltzer out of the fridge. “If we talk about dating, you end up frustrated and I get a headache. Why should we do that to ourselves?”
“The real question is, why would you do this to yourself? At least I’m trying to get back out there. But you? You’re a gorgeous, vital, interesting woman. And you’re cutting yourself off from the opposite sex. You need to get out there, live it up.”
“I’ve hardly cut myself off from the opposite sex. I date when I feel like it. I have a member of the male species living with me. And I deal with male clients, designers and contractors all the time.”
“Your son doesn’t count, nor do business relationships. I’m talking about the possibility of sex, Harper. Something every woman needs in order to be healthy, energized and sane.”
Harper’s lips twitched. Poor thing sounded as frustrated as if it were she who was going on eight years without doing the deed. She probably shouldn’t have shared that sad little truth, but she’d been trying to comfort her friend over a bottle of wine while Andi lamented her eight sexless months. If nothing else, the revelation had shocked Andi out of her funk and into a frenzy to ensure she didn’t end up in the same dry spell.
“I’m doing okay without it.” Before Andi could argue that okay wasn’t enough—after all, they’d had this conversation so many times, Harper could recite it in her sleep—she gave her friend a sad shrug. “I really am. I’ve heard that some people simply aren’t very sexual. Maybe I’m one of them.”
Pretending her best friend wasn’t looking as if she’d just punched her in her perfectly toned belly, Harper set the ingredients aside and leaned her own elbows on the bar, resting her chin on her fists.
“I don’t miss it. The few times I have wondered if maybe I should, I think about everything that’d have to be done to actually have sex. And it’s just not worth it.”
“What’s to be done? Find a hot guy. Do the deed.”
Harper rolled her eyes.
“Sex requires knowing the guy, which requires more than three dates, which means being away from Nathan. That requires a babysitter, which until recently, was a luxury I couldn’t justify. Now that I can, I find I don’t really want to.” Harper straightened. “It’s just not worth the trouble. Or the risks.”
