Everyday, Average Jones. Suzanne Brockmann

very different, very private party for the parents of the birthday boy, to be held after all the guests had gone home and little Frankie Catalanotto was tucked into his crib.

      The rest of the guys were sitting around the “office,” trying to come up with ways to truly torment the poor Finks.

      “We start the whole thing off with a twenty-five-mile run,” Wesley was suggesting.

      One desk over, Lucky O’Donlon was playing some kind of computer game complete with aliens and exploding starships and roaring sound effects.

      “No, I read the rule book,” Bobby countered loudly to be heard over the sound of the alien horde. “These guys—and gals—are going to be put up at the Marriott while they’re here. I don’t think they’re going to let us run ’em for five miles, let alone twenty-five.”

      That got Lucky’s attention. “FinCOM’s sending women out here?”

      “That’s what I heard,” Bobby said. “Just one or two out of the bunch of them.”

      Lucky smiled. “One or two is all we need. One for me and one for Cowboy. Oh, but wait. I almost forgot. Cowboy’s sworn off women. He’s decided to become a priest—or at least live like one. But then again, maybe a little one-on-one with a pretty young FinCOM agent is all he needs to get him back in the game.”

      Cowboy couldn’t let that go. Lucky had been teasing him mercilessly about his current celibacy for months. “I don’t criticize the way you live, O’Donlon,” he said tightly. “I’d appreciate it if you’d show me the same courtesy.”

      “I’m just curious, Cowboy, that’s all. What’s going on? Did you honestly find God or something?” Lucky’s eyes were dancing with mischief. He didn’t realize that he’d pushed Cowboy to his limit. “I seem to remember a certain Middle Eastern country and a certain pretty little former hostage you seemed intent upon setting some kind of world record with. I mean, come on. It was kind of obvious what you were up to when you went to meet her for dinner and then didn’t come back for six days.” Lucky laughed. “She sure must’ve been one hell of a good—”

      Cowboy stood up, his chair screeching across the concrete floor. “That’s enough,” he said hotly. “You say one more word about that girl and you’re going to find the very next word you say is going to be said without any teeth.”

      Lucky stared at him. “God, Jones, you’re serious! What the hell did this girl do to you?” But then he grinned, quick to turn anything and everything into a joke. “Do you think if I asked real nice, I could get her to do it to me, too?”

      Cowboy was moments from launching himself at the blond-haired SEAL when Harvard stepped between them, holding up one hand, silently telling Cowboy to freeze.

      The big man fixed Lucky with a steady, dangerous gaze. “You’re nicknamed Lucky because with all the truly asinine things that come out of your mouth, you’re lucky to still be alive, is that right, O’Donlon?”

      Lucky wisely returned his attention to his computer game, glancing up at Cowboy with disbelief still glimmering in his eyes. “Sorry, Jones. Jeez.”

      Cowboy slowly sat back down, and as Joe Cat hung up the phone, a complete silence fell, broken only by the sounds of Lucky’s computer game.

      What the hell did this girl do to you?

      Cowboy honestly didn’t know.

      Surely it was some kind of witchcraft. Some kind of enchantment or spell. It had been seven months, seven months, and he couldn’t so much as glance at another woman without comparing her, unfavorably, to Melody Evans.

      Melody. Shoot, she’d had his head spinning from the moment she’d opened her hotel-room door for him.

      Her hair was so light, he’d nearly laughed aloud. He knew she was a blonde from her picture, but until he saw her, he really hadn’t been able to imagine it. Cut short the way it was, it accentuated the delicate shape of her face and drew attention to her long, graceful neck.

      She was gorgeous. She’d gotten hold of some makeup and wore just a trace of it on her eyes and a touch of lipstick on her sweet lips. It highlighted her natural beauty. And it told him without a doubt that she had anticipated and prepared for this dinner as much as he had.

      She was wearing some kind of boxy, shapeless, too large dress that she must’ve had sent up from one of the hotel shops. On any other woman, it would’ve looked as if she was playing dress-up in her mother’s clothes. But on Mel, it looked sexy. The neckline revealed her delicate collarbone, and the silky material managed to cling to her slender body, revealing every soft curve, every heart-stopping detail. Her legs were bare, and she wore the sandals he’d made for her on her feet.

      Nail polish. She had pink nail polish on her toes. Probably hadn’t been able to get any green.

      He’d stood there in the doorway, just looking at her, knowing that despite all he’d silently told himself about the basis for the emotion behind hostage-and-rescuer relationships, he was lost. He was truly and desperately lost.

      He’d wanted this woman more than he’d ever wanted anyone….

      Wes’s voice broke the silence. “You think they’re gonna put us up in the Marriott, too?” the shortest member of Alpha Squad wondered aloud.

      Bobby, Wes’s swim buddy, built like a restaurant refrigerator, shook his head. “I didn’t see anything about that in the FinCOM rule book.”

      “What FinCOM rule book?” Joe Cat’s husky New York accent cut through the noise of exploding spacecraft. “Blue, you know anything about a rule book?”

      “No, sir.”

      “This morning, FinCOM sent over something they’re calling a rule book,” Bobby told their commanding officer.

      “Let me see it,” Cat ordered. “O’Donlon, kill the volume on that damn thing.”

      The computer sounds disappeared as Bobby sifted through the piles of paper on his desk. He uncovered the carefully stapled booklet FinCOM had sent via courier and tossed the entire express envelope across the room to Cat. Cat caught it with one hand.

      The phone rang and Wesley picked it up. “Alpha Squad Pizza. We deliver.”

      Catalanotto pulled out the booklet and the cover letter. He quickly skimmed the letter, then opened the booklet to the first page and did the same. Then he laughed—a snort of derision—and ripped both the book and the letter in half. He stuffed it back into the envelope and tossed it back to Bob.

      “Send this back to Maryland with a letter that tells the good people of FinCOM no rule books. No rules. Sign my name and send it express.”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “Hey, Cowboy.”

      Cowboy looked up to see Wes holding up the telephone receiver, hand securely over the mouthpiece. “For you,” Wesley said. “A lady. Someone named Melody Evans.”

      Suddenly, the room was quiet.

      But then Harvard clapped his hands together. “Okay, coffee break,” he announced loudly. “Everyone but Junior outside. Let’s go. On the double.”

      Cowboy held the phone that Wes had handed him until the echo from the slamming door had faded away. Taking a deep breath, he put the receiver to his ear.

      “Melody?”

      He heard her laugh. It was a thin, shaky laugh, but he didn’t care. Laughter was good, wasn’t it? “Yeah, it’s me,” she said. “Congratulations on making lieutenant, Jones.”

      “Its really just junior grade, but thanks,” he said. “And thanks for calling me back. You sound…great. How are you?” He closed his eyes tightly. Damn, he sounded like some kind of fool.

      “Busy,” she said without hesitation, as if it was something she’d planned to say if