Everyday, Average Jones. Suzanne Brockmann

you talk about passionate relief, sweetie, I just don’t see you as the type to lock yourself in a hotel room with any man for six solid days unless he means something special to you.”

      Melody sank back against her pillows. “Yeah, well, you haven’t met Harlan Jones.”

      “I’d like to meet Harlan Jones. Everything you’ve told me about him makes him sound like some kind of superman.”

      “There you go,” Melody said triumphantly, sitting back up again. “That’s my point exactly. He’s some kind of superhero. And I’m just a mere mortal. What I felt for him wasn’t love. It was hero worship. Jones saved my life. I’ve never met anyone like him before—I probably never will again. He was amazing. He could do anything. Pilot a plane. Bandage my feet. Cut his sandals down to fit me yet make them look like new. He spoke four different languages, four! He knew how to scuba dive and skydive and move through the center of an enemy compound without being seen. He was smarter and braver and—God!—sexier than any man I’ve ever known, Britt. You’re right, he is a superman, and I couldn’t resist him—not for one day, not for six days. If he hadn’t been called back to the States, I would’ve stayed with him for sixty days. But that has nothing to do with real love. That was hero worship. I couldn’t resist Harlan Jones any more than Lois Lane could resist Superman—and that’s one relationship that could never be called healthy, or normal, either.”

      Brittany was silent.

      “I still think it’s wrong not to tell him about the baby,” she finally said, setting the paper with Jones’s phone number on Melody’s bedside table. She stood up and crossed the room, pausing with her hand on the doorknob. “Call him and tell him the truth. He deserves to know.”

      Brittany left the room, closing the door behind her.

      Melody closed her eyes. Call Jones.

      The sound of his voice on her answering machine had sparked all sorts of memories.

      Like finding the bandage he wore under his shirt on the back of his arm. They had been in her hotel room and she had been in the process of ridding him of that crisp white dress uniform, trailing her lips across every piece of skin she exposed. She’d pushed his jacket and then his shirt over his shoulders and down his arms, and there it was—big and white and gauze and covering a “little” gash he’d had stitched up at the hospital that morning.

      When she pressed, he told her he’d been slashed with a knife, fighting off the men he’d surprised in the hangar at the air base.

      He’d been stabbed, and he hadn’t bothered to mention it to either Harvard or Melody. He’d simply bandaged the wound himself, right then and there, and forgotten about it.

      When she asked to see it, he’d lifted the gauze and shown her the stitches with a shrug and a smile. It was no big deal.

      Except the “little” gash was four inches long. It was angry and inflamed—which also was no big deal to Jones, since the doctor had given him antibiotics. He’d be fine in a matter of days. Hours.

      He’d pulled her back on top of him, claiming her mouth with a gentleness astonishing for a man so strong, intertwining their legs as he took a turn ridding her of more of her clothes.

      And it was then Melody knew for dead certain their love affair was not going to be long-term.

      Because there was no way this incredible man—for whom rescuing strangers deep inside a terrorist stronghold and getting sliced open in a knife fight was all in a casual day’s work—would ever remain interested in someone like drab little Melody Evans for long.

      He would be far better off with a woman reminiscent of Mata Hari. Someone who would scuba dive and parasail with him. Someone strong and mysterious and daring.

      And Melody would be better off with an everyday, average guy. Someone who would never forget to mention it when he was slashed by a knife. Someone whose idea of excitement was mowing the lawn and watching the Sunday afternoon football game on TV.

      She curled up on her side on her bed, staring at the piece of paper that Brittany had left on her bedside table.

      Still, she had to call him back.

      If she didn’t call him, he’d call here again, she was sure of it. And God help her if he spoke to Brittany and she let slip Melody’s secret.

      Taking a deep breath, Melody reached for the paper and the phone.

      * * *

      Cowboy was in Alpha Squad’s makeshift office, trying to get some work done.

      Seven desks—one for each member of the squad—had been set up haphazardly down at one end of a metal Quonset hut. This hut was a temporary home base to work out the details of a training mission. Except this time, the members of Alpha Squad were the trainers, not the trainees. Within a few months, a group of elite Federal Intelligence Commission or FinCOM agents were being sent down from D.C. to learn as much as they could of SEAL Team Ten’s successful counterterrorist operations.

      They needed the desks, and the computers and equipment set up on top of them, to plan out their own little version of BUD/S training for these Finks.

      Joe Catalanotto had pulled strings with his admiral pal, Mac Forrest, to make arrangements for Lt. Alan Francisco, one of the top BUD/S training instructors, to meet them out here in Virginia. Joe Cat was hoping Frisco would be able to organize the jumble of notes and training ideas the squad had come up with to date.

      Frisco was a former member of Alpha Squad who had been pulled off the active duty list with a knee injury more than five years ago. Cowboy had been filling in for a missing member of the squad when Frisco had been injured. That had been Cowboy’s first time in the field, his first time in a real war zone—and he’d been sure that it was going to be his last. Cowboy was certain that Joe Cat, the squad’s commander, had seen his hands shaking as they set a bomb to blow a hole in the side of an embassy.

      It had been another embassy rescue….

      Melody Evans’s wide blue eyes flashed into his head, but Cowboy gently pushed the image away. He’d been thinking about Mel too much lately, and right now he was writing up a summary of the information he was intending to share with the FinCOM agents. At Cat’s request, he was in charge of presenting the psychological profile of a terrorist to the Finks. The key to success when dealing with terrorists lay in understanding their reasoning and motivation—how their minds worked. And with all of the cultural, environmental and religious differences, their minds worked very differently from the average white-bread American FinCOM agent.

      Frisco was going to arrive Monday morning, and although it was only Friday, Cowboy was pushing to get his report finished today. After working nearly nonstop over the past seven months, he was hoping to take a few days of leave this weekend.

      Mel’s face popped into his thoughts again. He’d left a message on an answering machine he’d hoped was hers. Please, dear Lord, let her call him back.

      Again he took a deep breath and focused his thoughts on his report. It was important to him that this summary be as complete as possible. Alan “Frisco” Francisco was going to be the man to read it, and Cowboy wanted to make the best impression he could.

      Because when it was determined that Frisco’s injury was permanent, Cowboy had been assigned to Alpha Squad at Joe Cat’s request, as the man’s replacement.

      Cowboy still felt a little uncomfortable when Frisco was around. He knew the man missed being in the action, and here he was, his official replacement. And if Frisco hadn’t been hurt, Cowboy probably wouldn’t be working with the elite seven-member Alpha Squad. Cowboy had benefited from Frisco’s tragedy, and both men damn well knew it. As a result, when they were together, they tippytoed around each other, acting especially polite. Cowboy was hoping that would change as the two men worked closely together over the next few months.

      Right now, he appeared to be the only man in the room who was actually working. Blue McCoy and Harvard were checking out the Web site for Heckler and