2

A rush of icy February air blew in as Bobby Taggart arrived. He glanced around, spotted Coop, and did a comical double take. Coop grinned and prepared for the flack the square-jawed, tough-as-nails Bronx native was bound to give him. His brown hair was military-­cut, his eyes were always watchful, and if the ink on his right forearm paying tribute to his fallen brothers hadn’t pegged him as a warrior, his Ironman build left no question. One look from those hard green eyes sent grown men scattering and women wondering if they should be fascinated or fearful.

Yet Taggart could always make Coop laugh. Despite the fact that Coop was retired Marine and Taggart was retired Army Special Forces, they were best friends.

Taggart reached the table and pulled out a chair. “So who lit a fire under your ass?”

Coop gave his buddy the one-finger salute, grabbed one of the coffeepots the busboy had just brought, and poured them each a cup. “What? I can’t be the first one here for a change?

“You? Early? It goes against all the laws of nature.” Taggart shrugged out of his worn leather jacket, hung it on the back of the chair, and sat down across from him. “And it hurts my heart to think that a pretty boy like you might not’ve gotten all your beauty sleep.”

Taggart’s flack over Coop’s past as a model got seriously old. “I know something else that’ll make your head hurt,” Coop warned.

“Your fist in my face if I don’t mind my own business?”

Coop lifted his coffee cup in salute. “There ya go.”

Brewed Awakenings was one of several places the two teams gathered once a month on an irregular rotation. Original brick walls, stained pine floors, and a shabby-chic décor made the place comfortable—not to mention that the coffee was the best he’d found outside of his own kitchen. The general public had no idea who they were or that their two units were the first line of human defense for homeland and international terrorist threats. Even so, they still varied venues and arrival and departure times as precautionary measures. It was all about security, mixed in with a healthy dose of Spec Ops paranoia, but come hell or hurricane, they kept their monthly breakfast date.

Because even though they worked together day in and day out and all had lives outside of Uncle Sam’s domain, the deal was, they liked one another. To a man and a woman, all of them had ties to one another that only they could understand. And they needed these out-from-under-the-umbrella gatherings to stay connected.

“Man, she’s something, huh?” Taggart said.

Coop followed his gaze and saw Rhonda walking back toward the table.

Combat boot. Direct hit. Solar plexus.

Rhonda gave Taggart a big grin and an even bigger hug. “Aren’t you a fine sight on a cold Monday morning?” she drawled in a Georgia peach voice she reserved for people she liked—which explained why Coop heard it only in mixed company.

“New shirt.” Taggart shot Coop a needling wink over Rhonda’s shoulder.

“I noticed, and I like it.”

Taggart beat Coop to the carafe. “Let me pour you some coffee, darlin’.”

“Good to know I can count on someone.” The glance she shot Coop could have leveled a small building.

He gave her a mock salute.

Which she ignored, walking toward the door to greet more team members as they entered.

“God, I love how she busts your balls,” Taggart said as they both watched Rhonda walk toward the new arrivals. “How does it feel to finally meet a woman who doesn’t automatically worship at the altar of your bed?”

Coop cracked up. “Worship at the altar of my bed?”

“Can’t decide if it’s that ugly face of yours,” Taggart speculated, slinging an arm over the back of his chair, “the smooth talk, or the sock you stuff in the front of your pants that attracts the ladies like sharks to chum.”

So, okay. He didn’t exactly have a face that broke plates. He got a lot of long, lustful looks from the opposite sex. And yeah, sometimes he took them up on their offers.

But he wasn’t a dick about it. He didn’t make promises he didn’t intend to keep, and he sure as hell didn’t invite most of the attention he got. But as he opened his mouth to tell Taggart to shove it, Rhonda and the others joined them.

When she had settled back in and picked up her coffee, Taggart poured on the charm, making it clear how much it amused him that she was unaffected by Coop’s . . . sock.

“Careful, the coffee’s really hot,” Taggart warned her.

What was really hot was the woman who took pains to ignore him. And damn it, if she’d just flirt with him like she did with Taggart and the rest of the guys, he wouldn’t be in this fix now. But no. She had to give him all kinds of crap all the time.

Well, she could pretend indifference until there were solar flares on the moon, but he’d caught her looking at him more than once. Looking a little perplexed, a little peeved, and maybe even a little turned on. He’d love to mine those cracks in her personal firewall to see what was going on inside her head—or maybe not.

The truth was, she wound him up as tight as a recoil spring in a shotgun, which was a huge problem, because Mike had partnered them up next week to do security checks at a couple of Air Force bases.

A week with the Bombshell. Alone.

He glanced at her, all silken blond hair, big blue eyes, and tight sweater. He hadn’t told her yet about the field assignment; he’d do that back at the office. But he’d told himself plenty: she was hands off, and not merely because DOD wouldn’t approve. No, he’d keep his distance from the Bombshell because bombs exploded, and he didn’t want to get blown to hell.