Chapter 2

Jennifer stared at Kyle Parker’s back as he angled his impressive shoulders sideways to get through the crowd. Deep in her heart, she had always known sometime, somewhere, Kyle would cross her path again.

But why tonight when she’d been totally unprepared?

She’d emerged from the blinding lights, expecting to see Mike Dowd. For an instant, she’d thought the tall, powerfully built phantom with Mike was a result of the move from ultra-bright light to near darkness. It had been years since she’d lain awake at night, dreaming about Kyle, but now and then she would spot some man who reminded her of him.

Despite her best efforts, she always looked twice … to make sure.

Tonight there’d been no mistake. Kyle was older, his body filled out, having lost the youthful lankiness she remembered so well. He’d seemed taller, too, but perhaps that was because she had to stand on tiptoe to hit five four and he was almost a foot taller.

Some things never change—like Kyle Parker’s penetrating green eyes and cocky grin.

Just seeing him had brought back the heartache, the agonizing pain. And the unbearable darkness that had nearly eclipsed her soul.

What she’d said next came as a surprise—even to her. She’d been trying to curb her tongue, but knowing herself, she wasn’t counting on having much luck.

She realized Mike Dowd was speaking, and mentally gave herself a hard shake. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to realize she wasn’t welcome in the counterterrorism program. There were too many people waiting for her to fail. She needed to stay on Mike’s good side.

“I guess Kyle was wrong. You’re not crazy about him.”

“Is that what he said?” The conceited jerk would.

Mike shrugged as if to say he couldn’t quite recall. The good old boy club at work.

“I’d sure hate to make you wait six weeks until the other instructor arrives.” Mike pulled out Kyle’s chair for her, a slight frown creasing his forehead. She dropped into the seat, suddenly exhausted, and he sat down. “Kyle’s the best.”

Kyle was an instructor in the counterterrorist program? She couldn’t manage to string words together. After several long beats of silence, she formed a response. “I’m a pro. I can work with anyone, even Kyle Parker.”

Mike Dowd’s expression said he had serious doubts. He parted his lips to say something when a brute of a guy strode up to their table, leaned over, and began speaking in a low voice.

“Sir, Blackwatch has just kidnapped Kyle Parker.”

Kidnapped? Jennifer’s heartbeat kicked into high gear. You don’t care, she told herself. You’re engaged to a man you love. Still, she didn’t want something terrible to happen to Kyle.

“Congratulations, Brody.” Mike shook the man’s hand. “I was wondering if anyone could catch Parker.” He looked at Jennifer. “I guess being drenched with margaritas had him off guard.”

What was going on here? she wondered, but didn’t ask. Her mouth still tasted of shoe leather from telling off Kyle, then discovering she was going to have to work with him. Jennifer managed a weak smile, aware of Brody’s steady gaze. She didn’t need a mirror to tell her that being mauled by Marlene the Marvel was the epitome of bad hair days. Worse, she was sweaty and flushed from the heat.

“Brody Hawke meet Jennifer Whitmore,” Mike said. “She’s with the new antiterrorist task force headquartered in Miami. Brody’s a SEAL. He just finished advanced training with Kyle.”

Jennifer couldn’t stop herself from asking, “Who kidnapped Kyle?”

“I did.” The pride in Brody’s voice was unmistakable. He cast a quick glance at Mike, then added, “I mean, we did.” He grinned at Jennifer. “Our class, code named Blackwatch, captured Parker.”

“Just a prank,” Mike told her with a smile. “It’s tradition for a graduating class to test what they’ve learned by attempting to kidnap their instructor. Kyle’s a real challenge. This is the first time anyone’s gotten him.”

A small sigh of relief escaped her lips. Boy games. Sheesh!

“It was my idea to stake out Bahama Village.” Brody’s grin would have been an irritating gloat on anyone else, but the SEAL was adorable in a mischievous, little-boy way. “The guys said he’d never risk coming to the village.”

Mike motioned for Brody to join them. He snatched a chair from an adjacent table and sat down as Mike continued to speak to her. “I guess you know all about Kyle.”

“No. I haven’t seen him in fifteen years.” Fifteen years and three months to be exact.

“He’s a legend,” Brody informed her. “Four tours with the Seal 6.”

He was part of the Navy’s antiterrorist task force. Somehow, she wasn’t surprised. Like father, like son. The thought alone left a bitter taste in her mouth.

“Kyle’s an expert on field surveillance systems,” Mike said.

“State-of-the-art sh—stuff,” Brody added enthusiastically.

Just her luck. The man she hated was the man she needed.

“If Kyle is so good, why is he in the classroom, not the field?”

There must have been an edge to her voice she hadn’t detected. Brody’s smile suddenly vanished and he looked warily at Mike.

“Kyle had infiltrated a terrorist group in Libya. Someone in the CIA leaked the info to the Arabs and he was exposed,” Mike said quietly. “He was lucky to escape alive.”

“He took out eleven of them,” Brody added with unmistakable admiration, “but he was shot up pretty badly.”

Mike added, “He has a pin holding his right leg together. That disqualifies him from undercover operations. He left the service, but works for us as an independent contractor.”

A small part of her was filled with pride knowing what Kyle had accomplished. But she tamped down that ridiculous emotion. The past had taught her an important lesson. She knew better than to fall for Kyle Parker.

She was engaged to Chad Roberts—the love of her life.

Kyle ignored the hand-lettered sign hanging above the entrance to the training center.

K. PARKER CAPTURED AT 2300 HOURS BY BLACKWATCH.

There was one just like it at the entrance to the base. The damn signs should have been taken down. The ransom was supposed to be the humiliation of having the sign displayed for a full twenty-four hours while he sweated his brains out, hog-tied, in a musty thatched hut on No Name Key.

His wrists were chafed raw from the new rope the rookies had used to bind his wrists and ankles. His skin would heal, but the damage to his reputation fried him. Not that it meant anything in the greater scheme of things. He’d lived through hell.

This was nothing—except he’d gotten careless.

A woman had distracted him.

The price had been a small blow to his pride. Next time—if there was a next time—he could be killed. Taking a deep breath, he reminded himself that he’d left the service. He wasn’t at risk any longer.

He shouldered his way into the building, wincing slightly as he hit the door. He was covered with bruises. The rookies had kidnapped him—but not without one hell of a fight.

“Hey, Parker, did you have fun on No Name Key?”

Kyle blew off the guy’s attempt to tease him with some creative finger gestures he’d learned it Italy. There’d be no end to the crap he was going to take because Jenny—Jennifer—had distracted him.

He shoved the door open and walked into the classroom. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the new class had five men. And Jenny.

He dumped the manuals he was carrying onto the desk. He hitched his sore leg up on the desk and half stood, half sat, looking at the group.

“I don’t like to be formal,” he told them, “and I don’t like to spend time in a classroom. Let’s introduce ourselves, then head out to the firing range.”

“Firing range? I thought we were going to learn advanced surveillance techniques.”

Jennifer. Who else?

He ignored her question and looked at one of the men. He introduced himself, then the rest of the men followed his lead. The group was just what he anticipated. Former SWAT team members, one of them a sharpshooter, and a man from the Bomb Squad comprised the newly formed Miami-Dade County Antiterrorism Task Force.

They were exactly what Kyle would have expected in an urban antiterrorism unit. But how did Jennifer fit in? Other than being recommended by DEA agent, Spike Roberts?

It was Jennifer’s turn to introduce herself. She was dressed in a preppy white polo shirt and crisp navy Bermuda shorts with a navy belt that had little red fish woven into the fabric. She could have been a centerfold for L. L. Bean—except for her hair. It was piled on top of her head and held by a metallic clip. Wispy curls had escaped and were straggling down the sides of her face.

Her slim tanned legs were crossed and one foot swung back and forth quickly. Was she nervous? It seemed more likely that she was waiting to fire off another wisecrack.

What in hell had he ever done to Jenny to make her so angry at him?

“I’m Jennifer Whitmore. I’m an independent contractor with Miami-Dade County Search and Rescue. The K-9 unit.” She pointed to the floor beside her. “This is Sadie, my partner.”

Was he losing it? Kyle hadn’t noticed the bloodhound with the deeply wrinkled coat just behind her chair. That explained why she’d been assigned to the team. Dogs were essential in locating bombs and plastic explosives.

“Get up, Sadie,” Jennifer said.

The bloodhound heaved herself to her feet and gazed, droopy-eyed at him. Kyle seemed to be the only man in the room looking at the dog. Jennifer wasn’t beautiful, Kyle told himself, but she had … something, and every man knew it.

The bloodhound’s ears dragged on the floor as her soulful eyes looked at Kyle. The dog’s tail wagged back and forth, slapping the side of Jennifer’s chair with a thunk. She snapped her fingers and pointed to the ground. The dog sat down, but her eyes were still on Kyle.

“Is there any reason your dog is with you?” He couldn’t help himself. “Do you get lost often?”

The guys chuckled, but Jennifer shot him a look that could have melted an iceberg.

“I’m on call, so I have my cell phone with me. Sheriff Prichett may need us.”

“People get lost in Margaritaville all the time.”

That cracked up the guys. Jennifer waited until the laughter died down before speaking.

“The most common Search and Rescue call is to find someone with Alzheimer’s. Florida is full of retired people. Many of them have the disease.”

“Thank you, Miz Whitmore. That’s very enlightening. Earlier, you asked why we’re going to the firing range. You may have only one opportunity to take out a terrorist before he kills hundreds.”

Jennifer and Sadie followed the group of men that Kyle was leading along the path from the training center to the firing range. This was going to be more difficult than she’d anticipated. Seeing Kyle again after all this time was one thing; working with him all day for the next three weeks was another.

She had tried hard—and it had taken years—to get over what had happened. Blocking the past from her mind was the only way she could cope. Being around him would bring back memories that could destroy her.

Today Kyle was dressed in a black T-shirt two sizes too small and baggy camouflage pants that hung low on his narrow hips. His dark hair was cinched back at the nape of his neck into a ponytail the size of an eraser tip. He hadn’t bothered to shave, and what had been dark stubble when she had seen him at the club was now the beginnings of a beard.

There was an intensity about him that she hadn’t picked up when he’d shown up so unexpectedly. Not that she’d given him a chance. The way he’d stared at her in the classroom said he knew a lot about terrorism firsthand, and he intended to give her a crash course.

A sensible person would have quit and gone back to Search and Rescue, but no one had ever accused her of being sensible.

The men went into the firing range, but Kyle waited at the door until she walked up with Sadie. He’d put on shades that concealed his eyes, but from the grim set of his jaw, she knew he wasn’t a happy camper.

“You might want to leave the dog outside,” he said.

“Why?”

“It gets pretty noisy in there.”

“Sadie began going to the firing range when she was three months old.” She didn’t add that the “range” was the bales of hay and targets behind her stepfather’s barn. “A Search and Rescue dog can’t be gun shy.” She marched past him. “Come on, Sadie.”

The bloodhound showed no sign of budging. She was wagging her tail and gazing up at Kyle as if he’d hung the moon.

“Come, Sadie.”

The dog took her sweet time ambling through the door into the firing range where the rest of the group was at the counter checking out guns. She didn’t hear Kyle walking behind her, but she could feel him looking at her.

It put her at a disadvantage to know she was a walking bad hair day and overdressed to boot. Tomorrow she was wearing denim cut-offs and a T-shirt that was one washing from disintegrating, like the rest of the guys.

She checked out a gun and a pair of earphones to muffle the sound. Trailing behind the group, she wished she liked guns. If she did, she might have spent time target shooting. As it was, she could barely hit the side of a barn.

Kyle would probably laugh his tight butt off when he saw her shoot.

“Ladies first,” Kyle said.

He’d taken off his shades, and his green eyes seemed to be fired with an inner light. He was a dangerous man to cross, and dumb bunny that she was, she had not only crossed him but humiliated him.

It was his turn to have a laugh now.

She tried to put on the earphones, but her hairclip was in the way. She finally managed to get them in place, aware of everyone watching her. Especially Kyle, who was right beside her.

Standing feet slightly apart, she aimed. She’d been dimly aware that the targets were cardboard cutouts of men, which was standard. But the bull’s-eye wasn’t on the chest. It was on the head.

“We’re shooting them in the head?”

Kyle lifted the earphone off her left ear and said, “This isn’t a tea party. We’re dealing with terrorists. They’re smart enough to wear bulletproof vests.”

He let go of the earphone and it snapped into place. She fought the urge to come back with a cutting remark mainly because she couldn’t think of one. She aimed at the target and fired.

After each shot, the kick of the gun wrenched her shoulder, but she kept the pain off her face by biting down on her lower lip. She might hide the pain, but as each shot missed the target, she felt heat inch up her neck into her face. By some miracle, the last shot hit the cardboard man.

She bounced on the balls of her feet, thrilled to have at least hit the target. She couldn’t help crying out, “Yes!”

Then she realized the men were laughing. She pulled off her earphones and let them dangle around her neck, knocking off the hairclip. Her hair tumbled around her face.

Now she could hear them better. The men weren’t laughing; they were howling. Brushing the hair out of her eyes, she looked at the target again. The bullet had gone between his legs, ripping the cardboard to shreds in the groin area.

“If you could hit that spot every time, it would be more effective than the head,” Kyle told her with a hard-eyed smile that set her teeth on edge.

“Real funny.”

“I guess Search and Rescue doesn’t call for guns.”

“Of course it does. We have to be prepared for snakes or—”

“Snakes? Do you honestly think you could hit a snake?” He whacked his forehead with the heel of his palm.

“I’ll have you know, I shot a rattler.”

“How many rounds did it take?”

He wouldn’t want to know.

“Miz Whitmore, I have no intention of certifying you until you can blow the head off a rattlesnake with one shot. Plan on spending a lot of time at the firing range starting this afternoon after class.”

“Let’s see you shoot,” she said before she could stop herself.

“I don’t have to prove anything.” His tone was positively lethal. “But since you asked, let me show you the final firearms test.”