Everyday, Average Jones. Suzanne Brockmann

have been someone’s little sister, she sure as hell wasn’t his.

      With the exception of the silly mustache, she possessed damn near everything he liked most in a woman. She was willowy, with a body that he knew firsthand was trim in some places, soft in others. Her face was pretty despite her lack of makeup and the smudges of shoe polish that decorated her forehead and cheeks and hid the shining gold of her hair. She had a small nose, a mouth that looked incredibly soft and crystal blue eyes surrounded by thick, dark lashes. Clear intelligence shone in those eyes. Tears had shown there, too, moments after he’d introduced himself to her. But despite that, she hadn’t let herself cry, much to Cowboy’s relief.

      As he watched, she rubbed her left shoulder, and he knew whatever pain she was experiencing was his fault. That shoulder was where she’d landed when he’d first come in and thrown her onto the floor.

      “I’m sorry we had to treat you so roughly, ma’am,” he said. “But in our line of work, it doesn’t pay to be polite and ask questions first.”

      “Of course,” she murmured, glancing almost shyly at him. “I understand—”

      Matthews drowned her out. “Well, I don’t understand, and you can be damned sure your superiors are going to hear about this little incident. Holding the ambassador’s staff at gunpoint and subjecting us to a body search!”

      Cowboy didn’t get a chance to defend Alpha Squad’s actions because Melody Evans stood up and defended them for him. “These men came into this embassy looking for us,” she said hotly. “They’re risking their lives to be here right now—the same way they risked their lives when they opened that locked door and came into this room. They had no idea who or what was on the other side of that door!”

      “Surely they could’ve seen just from looking that we were Americans,” Matthews countered.

      “Surely there’s never been a terrorist who dresses up as a hostage and hides with his captives, waiting to blow away any rescuers,” she lit into him. “And of course there’s never been an American who’s been brainwashed or coerced or bribed into defecting to the other side!”

      For the first time since they’d let the hostages up off the floor, Kurt Matthews was silent.

      Cowboy had to smile. He liked smart women—women who didn’t suffer fools. And this one was more than smart. She was strong and clearly courageous, too—able to stand up and defend that which she believed in. He admired the swift action she took to disguise herself in the face of sheer disaster. Surely a woman with that much fight in her could be made to see how important it was that she leave here—and leave soon.

      “Melody,” he said, then corrected himself. “Miss Evans, it’s now or never, ma’am. These tangos aren’t gonna let you go, and you know that as well as I do. If you let these gee—gentlemen talk you into staying here, you’re all as good as dead. Forgive me for being so blunt, ma’am, but that’s the God’s truth. It would make our job a whole hell of a lot easier if you would simply trust us to get you safely home.”

      “But Chris is right. There’s only a few of you and so many of them.”

      Count on a woman to play devil’s advocate and switch sides just when he was convinced he had a solid ally. Still, when she fixed those baby blues on him, his exasperation dissolved into sheer admiration. It was true, the odds didn’t appear to be in their favor. She had every right to be concerned, and it was up to him to convince her otherwise.

      “We’re Navy SEALs, ma’am,” he said quietly, hoping she’d heard of the Special Operations teams, hoping word of SEAL Team Ten’s counterterrorist training had somehow made its way to whatever small town she’d grown up in.

      But his words didn’t spark any recognition in her eyes.

      The taller man, Chris Sterling, shook his head. “You say that as if it’s some kind of answer, but I don’t know what that means.”

      “It means they think they’re supermen,” Matthews said scornfully.

      “Will you please let Ensign Jones talk?” Melody said sharply, and Matthews fell silent.

      “It means that even with only seven of us and fifty of them, the odds are still on our side,” Cowboy told them, once again capturing Melody’s gaze and holding it tightly. She was the one who was going to talk these other idiots into seeing reason. “It also means that the U.S. government has totally given up all hope of getting you out through negotiation or settlement. They don’t send us in, Melody,” he said, talking directly to her, “unless they’re desperate.”

      She was scared. He could see that in her eyes. He didn’t blame her. There was a part of him that was scared, too. Over the past few years, he’d learned to use that fear to hone his senses, to keep him alert and giving a full hundred and fifty percent or more. He’d also learned to hide his fear. Confidence bred confidence, and he tried to give her a solid dose of that feeling as he smiled reassuringly into Melody’s ocean blue eyes.

      “Trust us,” he said again. “Trust me.”

      She turned back to the other hostages. “I believe him,” she said bluntly. “I’m going.”

      Matthews stood up, indignant, menacing. “You stupid bitch. Don’t you get it? If you try to escape, they’ll kill us!”

      “Then you better come, too,” Melody said coolly.

      “No!” His voice got louder. “No, we’re staying here, right, Sterling? All of us. These steroid-pumped sea lions or whatever they call themselves can go ahead and get themselves killed, but we’re staying right here.” His voice got even louder. “In fact, since Mr. Jones seems to want so badly to die, I can give him a hand and shout for the guards to come and turn him into hamburger meat with their machine guns right now!”

      * * *

      Melody didn’t see the broad-shouldered SEAL move, let alone raise his hand, but before she could blink, he was rather gently lowering Kurt Matthews to the floor.

      “By the way, unless you outrank me, I’d prefer to be called Ensign Jones,” he said to the now unconscious man. He flexed the fingers of the hand he’d used to put Matthews into that state and flashed an apologetic smile in Melody’s direction before he looked up at Chris Sterling. “How about you?” he asked the other man as he straightened up to his full height. “You want to walk out of this embassy, or do you want to get carried out like your buddy here?”

      “Walk,” Sterling managed to say, staring down at Matthews. “I’ll walk, thanks.”

      The door swung silently open, and a big black man—broader even than Ensign Harlan Jones—stepped into the room. Harvard. He was the one Ensign Jones had called Harvard. “You ready, Junior?”

      “Zeppo, Harpo and Groucho here need robes,” Jones told the other man, sending a quick wink in her direction. “And sandals.”

      Groucho. She fingered her false mustache. He’d gestured toward Matthews when he’d said Harpo. Harpo. The silent Marx brother. Melody laughed aloud. Chris Sterling looked at her as if she was crazy to laugh when at any moment they could be killed, but Jones gave her another wink and a smile.

      Kevin Costner. That’s who Jones looked like. He looked like a bigger, beefier, much younger version of the Hollywood heartthrob. And she had no doubt he knew it, too. That smile could melt hearts as well as bolster failing courage.

      “Melody, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to take off those kicks, hon.”

      Hon. Honey. Well, she’d certainly gone from being called Miss Evans and ma’am to hon awfully fast. And as far as taking off her shoes…“These are new,” she told him. “And warm. I’d rather wear them, if you don’t mind.”

      “I do mind,” Jones told her apologetically. “Check out the bottoms of my sandals, then look at the bottoms of those things you’re wearing.”

      She did.