Tall, Dark and Devastating. Suzanne Brockmann

got a lot of reading to do. I may not be able to stay for a next round. It might have to be some other time.” She sat as far from him as possible and took a sip of her beer.

      The temperature in that corner of the room had definitely dropped about twenty degrees.

      “Basketball,” Joe said to P.J. “I bet you like basketball.”

      She smiled, and the temperature went up a bit. “Good guess.”

      “Do you play?”

      “I’m a frustrated player,” she admitted. “I have certain…height issues. I never really spent enough time on the court to get any good.”

      “Have you had a chance to check out that new women’s professional basketball league?” Harvard asked, attempting to be part of the conversation.

      P.J. turned to him, her eyes reminiscent of the frozen tundra. “I’ve watched a few games.” She turned to Joe Cat. “I don’t spend much time watching sports—I prefer to be out there playing. Which reminds me, Tim Farber mentioned that you’re something of a wizard on the handball court. I was wondering if you play racquetball. There’s a court here in the hotel, and I’m looking for an opponent.”

      Harvard shifted in his seat, clenching his teeth to keep from speaking.

      “I’ve played some,” Joe told her.

      “Hmm. Now, in my experience, when people say they’ve played some, that really means they’re too humble to admit that if you venture onto the court with them, they’re going to thoroughly whip your butt.”

      Joe laughed. “I guess that probably depends on how long you’ve been playing.”

      P.J.’s smile returned. “I’ve played some.”

      She was flirting with Joe. P.J. was sitting right there, directly in front of him, flirting with the captain. What was this girl up to? What was she trying to pull?

      Joe’s pager went off. He looked at Harvard. “You getting anything?”

      Harvard’s pager was silent and still. “No, sir.”

      “That’s a good sign. I’ll be right back.”

      As Joe headed toward the bar and a telephone, P.J. pretended to be fascinated by the architectural structure of the building.

      Harvard knocked on the table. Startled, she looked at him.

      “I don’t know what your deal is,” he said bluntly. “I don’t know what you stand to gain by getting tight with the captain—whether it’s some career thing or just some personal power trip—but I’m here to tell you right now, missy, hands off. Didn’t your research on the man include the fact that he’s got a wife and kid? Or maybe you’re the kind that gets off on things like that.”

      As Harvard watched, the permafrost in P.J.’s eyes morphed into volcanic anger. “How dare you?” she whispered.

      The question was rhetorical, but Harvard answered it anyway. “I dare because Cat is my friend—and because you, little Miss Fink, are temptation incarnate. So back off.”

      She was looking at him as if he were something awful she’d stepped in, something disgusting that had stuck onto the bottom of her shoe. “You’re such a…man,” she said, as if that were the worst possible name she could call him. “The captain is the only person in this entire program who’s even bothered to sit down and talk to me. But if you’re telling me that all he’s doing is dogging me, despite having a wife and kid at home—”

      “He’s not dogging you, baby, you’re dogging him.”

      “I am not.”

      “You just happen to head over to the firing range while Cat’s scheduled to be there. He walks into this bar, and you all but launch yourself at him.”

      She flushed, unable to deny his accusations. “You really have no idea what it’s like, do you?”

      “Poor baby, all alone, far away from home. Is this where the violins start to play? Tell me, do you go for the married men because there’s less of a chance of actually becoming involved?”

      She was seething, her eyes all but shooting sparks. “I was only trying to be friends!”

      “Friends?”

      “You know, people who hang out together, share meals occasionally, sometimes get together for a game of cards or Scrabble?”

      “Friends.”

      Harvard let skepticism drip from his voice. “You want to be Cat’s friend.”

      P.J. stood. “I knew you wouldn’t understand. You’ve probably never had a friend who was a woman in your entire life.”

      “I’m ready to learn—a willing and able volunteer with the added bonus of being unattached. I’m wicked good at Scrabble. Among other things.”

      She snorted. “Sorry. From where I stand, you’re the enemy.”

      “I’m what?”

      “You heard me. You want me gone from this training op on pure principle. You think women have no place out in the field, in the line of fire. You’re judging me not as an individual, but based only on the fact that I don’t have a penis. What’s the deal with that? Do you use your penis to aim your rifle better? Does it help you dodge bullets or run faster?”

      This woman could really piss him off, but at the same time, she could really make him laugh. “Not that I know of.”

      “Not that I know of, either. You’re a bigot, Senior Chief, and I have no desire to spend even a minute more in your company.”

      Harvard stopped laughing. A bigot? “Hey,” he said.

      But P.J. was already walking away, her beer barely touched.

      Harvard had never been called a bigot before. A bigot was someone narrow-minded who believed unswervingly that he and his opinions were inarguably right. But the fact is, he was right. Women did not belong on combat missions, carrying—and firing—weapons and being shot at. It was not easy to stare down the sight of a rifle at a human being and pull the trigger. And countless psych reports stated that women, God bless ’em, had a higher choke factor. When the time came to pull that trigger, after all those tax dollars had been spent on thousands of hours of training, most women couldn’t get the job done.

      God knows that certainly was the truth when it came to women like his mother and sisters and Rachel. He couldn’t picture Rachel holding an MP5 automatic weapon. And his sisters… All four of them were card-carrying pacifists who spouted make-love-not-war-type clichés whenever he was around.

      Still, after his sister Kendra had gotten married and started a family, she’d attached an addendum to her non-violent beliefs. “Except if you threaten or hurt my kids.” Harvard could still see the light of murder in his sister’s eyes as the former president of Students Against Violence proclaimed that if anyone, anyone threatened her precious children, she would rip out their lungs with her bare hands.

      Put an MP5 in that girl’s hands and tell her her children were in danger, and she’d be using up her ammo faster than any man.

      But on the other hand, you’d never be able even to get a weapon into his father’s hands. The old man would gently push the barrel toward the floor and start lecturing on the theme of war in modern American literature.

      Harvard could imagine what P.J. would say about that. He could hear her husky voice as clearly as if she were standing right behind him. Just because your father and men like him don’t make good soldiers doesn’t mean that all men shouldn’t be soldiers. And in the same way, women like me shouldn’t be lumped together with softer women like Rachel or your mother.

      Damn, maybe he was a bigot.

      Joe returned to the table.