LITMIR.BIZ

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for women.”

      P.J. gave him another one of those you’ve-lost-your-mind laughs. “It’s a good thing you weren’t on the FInCOM candidate selection committee, then, isn’t it?”

      “I have no problem at all with women holding jobs in both FInCOM and in the U.S. military,” he continued. “But I believe that they—that you—should have low-risk supporting roles, doing administrative work instead of taking part in combat.”

      “I see.” P.J. was nodding. “So what you’re telling me is that despite the fact that I’m the best shooter in nearly all of FInCOM, you think the best place for me is in the typing pool?”

      Her eyes were shooting flames.

      Harvard stood his ground. “You did prove yourself an expert shooter tonight. You’re very good, I’ll grant you that. But the fact is, you’re a woman. Having you on my team, out in the field, in a combat situation, would be a serious distraction.”

      “That’s your problem,” she said, blazing. “If you can’t keep your pants zipped—”

      “It has nothing to do with that, and you know it. It’s a protectiveness issue. How can my men and I do our jobs when we’re distracted by worrying about you?”

      P.J. couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “You’re telling me that because you’re working with a Stone Age mentality, because you’re the one with the problem, I should be the one to adapt? I don’t think so, Jack. You’re just going to have to stop thinking of me as a woman, and then we’ll get along just fine.”

      It was his turn to laugh in disbelief. “That’s not going to happen.”

      “Try counseling, Senior Chief, because I’m here to stay.”

      His smile was nowhere to be seen, and without it, he looked hard and uncompromising. “You know, it’s likely that the only reason you’re here is to fill a quota. To help someone with lots of gold on their sleeves be PC.”

      P.J. refused to react. “I could fire those exact same words right back at you—the only black man in Alpha Squad.”

      He didn’t blink. He just stood there, looking at her.

      Lord, he was big. He’d changed into a clean T-shirt, but he still wore the camouflage fatigue pants he’d been wearing earlier tonight. With his shirt pulled tight across his mile-wide shoulders and broad chest, with his shaved head gleaming in the dim barroom light, he looked impossibly dangerous. And incredibly handsome in a harshly masculine way.

      No, Harvard Becker was no pretty boy, that was for sure. But he was quite possibly the most handsome man P.J. had ever met. His face was angular, with high cheekbones and a strong jaw. His nose was big, but it was the right length and width for his face. Any smaller, and he would have looked odd. And he had just about the most perfect ears she’d ever seen—just the right size, perfectly rounded and streamlined. Before the war game, he’d taken off the diamond stud he always wore in his left ear, but he’d since put it back in, and it glistened colorfully, catching snatches of the neon light.

      But it was Harvard’s eyes that P.J. had been aware of right from the start. A rich, dark golden-brown, they were the focal point of his entire face, of his entire being. If it were true that the eyes were the window to the soul, this man had one powerfully intense soul.

      Yeah, he was the real thing.

      As a matter of fact, more than one or two of the other patrons in the bar, both men and women, were sneaking looks at the man. Some were wary, some were nervous, and some were flat-out chock-full of pheromones.

      Without even turning around, Harvard could have snapped his fingers and three or four women—both black and white—would’ve been pushing their way to his side.

      Well, maybe she was exaggerating a little bit. But only a little bit.

      This man could have any woman he wanted—and he knew it. And even though P.J. could still hear an echo of his rich voice saying yes, he thought she was hot, she knew the last thing he needed was any kind of involvement with her.

      Hell, he’d made it more than clear he didn’t even want to be friends.

      P.J. refused to feel regret, pushing the twinges of emotion far away from her, ignoring them as surely as she ignored the dull throb of her still-aching head. Because the last thing she needed was any kind of involvement with him—or with anyone, for that matter. She’d avoided it successfully for most of her twenty-five years. There was no reason to think she couldn’t continue to avoid it.

      He was studying her as intently as she was looking at him. And when he spoke, P.J. knew he hadn’t missed the fatigue and pain she was trying so hard to keep from showing in her face. His voice was surprisingly gentle. “You should call it a night—get some rest.”

      P.J. glanced toward the bar, toward Tim Farber and the other FInCOM agents. “I just thought I’d grab a nightcap before I headed upstairs.” Truth was, she’d wanted nothing more than to drag herself to her room and throw herself into a warm tub. But she felt she had to come into the bar, put in an appearance, prove to the other agents and to any of the SEALs who might be hanging around that she was as tough as they were. Tougher. She could go from a hospital X-ray table directly to the bar. See? She wasn’t really hurt.

      See? She could take damn near anything and come back ready for more.

      Harvard followed her as she slid onto a bar stool several seats away from the other agents. “It wasn’t even a concussion,” she said. She didn’t bother to raise her voice—she knew Farber was listening.

      Harvard glanced at the FInCOM agents. “I know,” he said, leaning against the stool next to her. “I stopped in at the hospital before heading over here. The doctor said you’d already been checked over and released.”

      “Like I said before, I’m fine.”

      “Whoops, I’m getting paged.” Harvard took his pager from his belt and glanced at the number. As the bartender approached, he greeted the man by name. “Hey, Tom. Get me my usual. And whatever the lady here wants.”

      “I’m paying for my own,” P.J. protested, checking her own pager out of habit. It was silent and still.

      “She’s paying for her own,” Harvard told Tom with a smile. “Mind if I use the phone to make a local call?”

      “Anytime, Senior Chief.” The bartender plopped a telephone in front of Harvard before looking at P.J. “What can I get you, ma’am?”

      Iced tea. She truly wanted nothing more than a tall, cool glass of iced tea. But big, tough men didn’t drink iced tea, so she couldn’t, either. “Give me a draft, please, Tom.”

      Beside her, Harvard was silent, listening intently to whoever was on the other end of that telephone. He’d pulled a small notebook from one of his pockets and was using the stub of a pencil to write something down. His smile was long gone—in fact, his mouth was a grim line, his face intensely serious.

      “Thanks, Joe,” he said, then he hung up the phone. Joe. He’d been talking to Joe Catalanotto, Alpha Squad’s CO. He stood up, took out his wallet and threw several dollar bills onto the bar. “I’m sorry, I can’t stay.”

      “Problem at the base?” P.J. asked, watching him in the mirror on the wall behind the bar. For some reason, it was easier than looking directly at him.

      He met her eyes in the mirror. “No, it’s personal,” he said, slipping his wallet into his pants.

      She instantly backed down. “I’m sorry—”

      “My father’s had a heart attack,” Harvard told her quietly. “He’s in the hospital. I’ve got to go to Boston right away.”

      “I’m sorry,” P.J. said again, turning to look directly at him. His father. Harvard actually had a father. Somehow she’d imagined him spawned—an instant six-and-a-half-foot-tall adult male.

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