Elle James - Navy SEAL Newlywed

“No, but I’ve been held hostage in a cave in Mexico and survived. I know what hard work, prior planning and enemy engagement is all about. Don’t let the dress fool you.” She raised her hand, holding the cell phone up. “But, if you’re still worried about working with a woman, I can contact Hank now and have him send another agent to replace me.”

He liked her spunk and the fact she wasn’t taking any crap from him. Rip sat back in his seat. “What I don’t understand is why Hank sent you. I thought he was all about cowboys.”

She shrugged, making that movement look entirely too sexy, her creamy white shoulders in stark contrast with the bright red dress. “As I already mentioned. I grew up on a ranch. Hank likes his cowboys—or girls—to have that ranch-life work ethic and sense of morals and values.”

“I don’t know Hank Derringer. All I have to go on is my buddy Jim Monahan’s word.”

Tracie’s lips quirked upward and she stared out the window. “Hank and his team saved my life. I have nothing but respect for the work they do.”

“Just what is it he does?” Rip asked.

“He champions the truth and justice when other organizations can’t seem to get it right or have corruption in their ranks.” As she spoke, her jaw hardened and her mouth pulled into a tight line.

“Why did you give up on the FBI?” Rip asked.

“You know that part about corruption in the ranks?” She snorted. “Well, let’s just say, I wouldn’t be alive if I had relied only on the organization I had sworn into.”

“Surely not all of the FBI is rotten.” Rip studied her.

Tracie glanced his way. “No, not all of the agents are. But Hank made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. After two of the agents I worked with went bad, I was ready for a fresh start.”

Rip turned away and stared out the window. He knew how she felt. As a member of the Navy SEALs, Rip had been trained to rely on his brothers in arms. When one went bad, as one had on the mission in Honduras, it shook his entire foundation of trust. Especially since the bad apple had been the leader of the mission, the now deceased Gunnery Sergeant Frank Petit. Rip’s friend, James Monahan, a man he’d put his complete faith in, had helped to expose Gunny for the traitor he was.

What worried him even more was that they still had no idea who had paid Gunny to leak the information about their mission. He suspected it was someone higher up. Someone in Washington.

For a long moment, he sat in silence, reliving the past few weeks. He was only just recovered from the assassin’s gunshot wound. If not for his best friend and a former SEAL teammate, he wouldn’t have made it. That fact alone gave him hope for humanity. There were good people out there. His glance shifted to Tracie. She might be one of them. Only time would tell.

After what seemed like only a handful of minutes, the jet began its descent into Atlanta.

The plane’s tires kissed the runway with barely a bounce and, after rolling it into an open hangar, the pilot brought the aircraft to a complete stop.

The flight attendant lowered the stairs and stood to the side.

Rip stepped down first into the dim interior of the hangar and held out his hand to Tracie.

For a moment, she refused his proffered hand, her brow puckering. Then she laid her fingers in his.

The last time he and Tracie touched, he’d felt an electric jolt. This time was no different and the fire raced all the way through Rip’s body. What was it about the woman that had his body on high sexual alert? To get his mind off her, he leaned close and asked, “If the DEA agent was terminated for what he knew, how has his boss managed to stay alive?”

Tracie nodded. “Perhaps he doesn’t know anything.”

Rip ground to a halt. “In that case, we’re wasting our time.”

“We won’t know that until we meet with him.” Without slowing, Tracie strode across the hangar lengthening the distance between them.

A man appeared at a doorway. “This way Mr. and Mrs. Gideon. Your car is waiting.”

Rather than be left in the hangar, Rip ran to catch up, falling in step beside Tracie.

A sleek black limousine waited at the curb, the chauffeur holding the door. He didn’t speak a word as he held the door open while Tracie and Rip slid inside.

Once the door was closed, Tracie turned to Rip. “Have you considered the fact that Morris Franks’s willingness to talk to us might be an indication he knew more than he let on to others in his own department?”

Rip’s eyes narrowed and he stared out the windshield as if trying to see into the future. “Or, he could be looking for more information himself.”

“I suppose we’ll know soon enough. The hotel isn’t far from the airport.”

Tracie sat across the limo from Rip, not any single part of her body or limbs so much as touching him. Rip found himself wanting to reach across the short distance and pull her into his arms. The scent of her hair was doing strange things to him. Funny that even with her incredible legs and the classy way the red dress fit her body, the smell of her shampoo was what got to him most. It set every one of his nerves on edge and his groin tightened.

As a SEAL assigned to Special Boat Team 22—conducting missions and training their own team for missions as well as other SEAL teams—he hadn’t had the time nor the inclination to pursue a lasting romantic relationship. Not that there were many women to go around when he was stuck in the backwater swamps of the Mississippi bayous at Stennis where SBT-22 was headquartered.

If he were to pursue a woman, Tracie wouldn’t be the one. She was some kind of special agent for Hank Derringer. She didn’t have any more time than he had to get involved. Not that they would even be compatible. She was too…

Rip struggled to find the right word.

The tightness of her jaw and the slightly narrowed, beautiful green eyes said it all. Intense.

He’d bet she was just as intense in bed. Again his groin strained against the denim of his jeans. Now was not the time to think about getting naked with a woman. He had a job to do.

As a dead man, he needed to resolve the case so that he could resurface alive before the Navy processed him out of a job.

“We’re here,” Tracie said as the limo slid up beside the curb in front of what appeared to be a three-star hotel only a few blocks from the airport. “The driver will remain nearby in case we need him on short notice.”

Rip nodded and glanced at the hotel. “Once inside, who do we ask for?”

“We don’t. We check in as newlyweds.” Tracie glanced his way. “You’ll need your driver’s license and credit card. Our guy is in room 627. We’ll make our way up to his room after we check in.”

Rip pulled out the wallet Hank had provided and familiarized himself with the contents and his new name. Chuck Gideon. “Who came up with the name?”

“Does it matter?”

“No.” Rip got out, rounded the vehicle and beat the chauffeur to opening Tracie’s door. “Mrs. Gideon, shall we get a room?” He winked and smiled.

Tracie’s eyes narrowed slightly and she placed her hand in his, allowing him to pull her to her feet on the pavement.

His fingers tingled where they touched hers, but Rip schooled his expression, determined to give no indication that Tracie had any effect on him.

As soon as she was on her feet, she let go of his hand.

Not to be deterred, and using their married status as an excuse, he rested his hand at the small of her back. A slight tremor shook her body. Inside the lobby of the hotel, Rip adopted his role. “We’d like a room for the night.”

“Just a moment, sir.” The hotel manager’s fingers flew across the keyboard. “We have one suite left on the seventh floor.”