Night Watch. Suzanne Brockmann

      His big mistake was wearing the uniform.

      Without it, in street clothes, he would be easy to overlook in a crowd, especially a crowd like this one. But with all those colorful ribbons adorning his chest, in that white jacket that had been tailored to fit his trim body, his eyes seemed an even darker shade of blue, and his jaw seemed more square.

      Everyone wanted to talk to him. And though Brittany couldn’t hear what Wes was saying, he was evidently telling a long story, filled with gestures and big facial expressions. When he was done, he pointed directly at Brittany. And they all turned to look at her, almost as one.

      And wasn’t that disconcerting? Wes gestured to her, and though she couldn’t hear him, she could read his lips. Come here, baby.

      Baby?

      What was it Han Solo always said to Chewbacca? I have a bad feeling about this.

      Night Watch

      Suzanne Brockmann

      

      

www.millsandboon.co.uk

      SUZANNE BROCKMANN

      lives just west of Boston in a house always filled with her friends—actors and musicians and storytellers and artists and teachers. When not writing award-winning romances about U.S. Navy SEALs, among others, she sings in an a capella group called SERIOUS FUN, manages the professional acting careers of her two children, volunteers at the Appalachian Benefit Coffeehouse and always answers letters from readers. Send her a SASE along with your letter to P.O. Box 5092, Wayland, MA 01778.

      For Ed and Eric,

       who understand what friendship means. I love you guys.

      My heartfelt thanks to the real teams of SEALs, and to all of the courageous men and women in the U.S. military who sacrifice so much to keep America the land of the free and the home of the brave. And an even bigger thanks (if possible) to the wives, husbands, mothers, fathers and children who are waiting for our military heroes and heroines to do their jobs and then come safely home. God bless—my thoughts and prayers are with you!

      Contents

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Chapter 8

      Chapter 9

      Chapter 10

      Chapter 11

      Chapter 12

      Chapter 13

      Chapter 14

      Chapter 15

      Chapter 16

      Epilogue

      Chapter 1

      Brittany Evans hated to be late. But parking had been a pain in the butt, and she’d spent way too much time trying to decide what to wear—as if it really mattered.

      She surveyed the scattering of people standing around the college baseball stadium’s hot dog stand as she came out the door that led from the locker rooms.

      And there he was.

      Standing under the overhang, out of the gently falling rain, watching the players on the ball field. Leaning against the wall with his back to her.

      At least she thought it was him. They’d never really met—at least not for more than two and a half seconds. Brittany, this is whatever-his-naval-rank-was Wes Skelly. Wes, this is Melody Jones’s sister, Britt.

      Hey, how are you, nice to meet you, gotta go.

      The man who might or might not be Wes Skelly glanced at his watch, glanced toward the main entrance of the stadium. His hair was longer and lighter than she remembered—of course, it was hard to remember much from only two and a half seconds of face time.

      She could see his face better as he turned slightly. It was…a face. Not stunningly handsome like Mel’s husband, Harlan “Cowboy” Jones. But not exactly Frankenstein’s monster, either.

      Wes wasn’t smiling. In fact, he looked a little tense, a little angry. Hopefully not at her for being late. No, probably just for being. She’d heard a lot about Wes Skelly over the past few years. That is, assuming this was really Wes Skelly.

      But he had to be. No one else in the place looked even remotely like a Navy SEAL.

      This guy wasn’t big, though—not like her brother-in-law or his good friend Senior Chief Harvard-the-Incredible-Hulk Becker—but there was something about him that seemed capable of anything and maybe a little dangerous.

      He was dressed in civilian clothes—khaki pants with a dark jacket over a button-down shirt and tie. Poor man. From what Mel had told her about Wes, he would rather swim in shark-infested waters than get dressed up.

      Of course, look at her. Wearing these stupid sandals with heels instead of her usual comfortable flats. She’d put on more than her usual amount of makeup, too.

      But the plan was to meet at the ball game, and then go out to dinner someplace nicer than the local pizza joint.

      Neither of them had counted on rain screwing up the first part of the plan.

      Wes looked at his watch again and sighed.

      And Brittany realized that his leaning against the wall was only feigned casualness. He was standing still, yet somehow he remained in motion—tapping his fingers or his foot, slightly shifting his weight, searching his pockets for something, checking his watch. He wasn’t letting himself pace, but he wanted to.

      Gee whiz, she wasn’t that late.

      Of course maybe her five-minute delay wasn’t the problem. Maybe this man just never stood still. And wasn’t that just what she needed—a date with a guy with Attention Deficit Disorder.

      Silently cursing her sister, Brittany approached him, arranging her face into a smile. “You have that same ‘Heavenly Father, save me from doing favors for friends and relatives’ look in your eyes that I’ve got,” she said. “Therefore you must be Wes Skelly.”

      He laughed, and it completely transformed his face, softening all the hard lines and making his blue eyes seem to twinkle.

      Irish. Darnit, he was definitely at least part Irish.

      “That makes you Brittany Evans,” he said, holding out his hand. It was warm, his handshake firm. “Nice to finally meet you.”

      Nice hands. Nice smile. Nice steady, direct gaze. Nice guy—good liar, too. She liked him instantly, despite the potential ADD.

      “Sorry I’m a few minutes late,” she said. “I had to drive almost all the way to Arizona to find a parking space.”

      “Yeah, I’ve noticed that traffic really sucks here,” he said as he studied her face, probably trying to figure out how she could possibly be related to gorgeous, delicately angelic-looking Melody Jones.

      “We don’t look very much alike,” she told him. “My sister and I.”

      She’d surprised him with her directness, but he recovered quickly. “What, are you nuts? Your eyes are a little different—a different shade of blue. But other than that, you’re a…a variation on the same lovely theme.”

      Oh, for crying out loud. What had her sister’s husband told this guy? That she was a sure thing? Just liberally sling the woo, Skelly, and she’ll be