Tall, Dark and Devastating: Harvard's Education

You’d think the man didn’t have anything better to do with his time.

When he wasn’t watching her, he was nearby, always ready to offer a hand up or a boost out of the water. It was driving her insane. He didn’t offer Greg Greene a boost. Or Charlie Schneider.

Obviously, he didn’t think Greg or Charlie needed one.

P.J. was more than tempted to carry her tray over to Harvard, to sit herself down at his table and to ask him how well she was doing.

Except right now, she knew exactly how well she was doing.

The focus of this morning’s classroom session had been on working as a team. And she and Tim Farber and Charlie and Greg had totally flunked Teamwork 101. P.J. had read the personnel files of the other three agents, so when asked, she’d at least been able to come up with such basic facts as where they were from. But she hadn’t been able to answer other, more personal questions about her team members. She didn’t know such things as what they perceived to be their own strengths and weaknesses. And in return, none of them knew the first little teeny thing about her. None of them were even aware that she hailed from Washington, D.C.—which, apparently, was as much her fault as it was theirs.

And it was true. She hadn’t made any attempts to get to know Tim or Charlie or Greg. She’d stopped hanging out in the hotel bar after hours, choosing instead to read over her notes and try to prepare for the coming day’s assignments. It had seemed a more efficient use of her time, especially since it included avoiding Harvard’s watching eyes, but now she knew she’d been wrong.

P.J. headed for the other FInCOM agents, forcing her mouth into what she hoped was a friendly smile. “Hey, guys. Mind if I join you?”

Farber blinked up at her. “Sorry, we were just leaving. I’ve got some paperwork to do before the next classroom session.”

“I’m due at the range.” Charlie gave her an insincere smile as he stood.

Greg didn’t say anything. He just gathered his trash and left with Charlie.

Just like that, they were gone, leaving P.J. standing there, holding her tray like an idiot. It wasn’t personal. She knew it wasn’t personal. She’d arrived late, they had already eaten, and they all had things that needed to get done.

Still, something about it felt like a seventh-grade shunning all over again. She glanced around the room, and this time Harvard wasn’t the only one watching her. Alpha Squad’s captain, Joe Catalanotto, was watching her, too.

She sat and unwrapped her sandwich, praying that both men would leave her be. She took a bite, hoping her body language successfully broadcast, “I want to be alone.”

“How you doing, Richards?” Joe pulled out the chair next to hers, straddled it and leaned his elbows on the backrest.

So much for body language. Her mouth was full, so she nodded a greeting.

“You know, one of my biggest beefs with FInCOM has to do with their refusing to acknowledge that teams just can’t be thrown together,” he said in his husky New York accent. “You can’t just count down a line, picking, say, every fourth guy—or woman—and automatically make an effective team.”

P.J. swallowed. “How do the SEALs do it?”

“I handpicked Alpha Squad,” Joe told her, his smile making his dark brown eyes sparkle. It was funny. With his long, shaggy, dark hair, ruggedly handsome face and muscle-man body, this man could pull off sitting in a chair in that ridiculously macho way. He made it look both comfortable and natural. “I’ve been with Blue McCoy, my XO, for close to forever. Since BUD/S—basic training, you know?”

She nodded, her mouth full again.

“And I’ve known Harvard just as long, too. The rest of the guys, well, they’d developed reputations, and when I was looking for men with certain skills… It was really just a matter of meeting and making sure personalities meshed before I tapped ’em to join the squad.” He paused. “Something tells me that FInCOM wasn’t as careful about compatible personalities when they made the selections for this program.”

P.J. snorted. “That’s the understatement of the year.”

Joe absentmindedly twisted the thick gold wedding band he wore on his left hand. P.J. tried to imagine the kind of woman who’d managed to squeeze vows of fidelity from this charismatic, larger-than-life man. Someone unique. Someone very, very special. Probably someone with the brains of a computer and the body of a super model. “What FInCOM should have done,” he told her, “if they wanted a four-man team, was select a leader, have that leader choose team members they’ve worked with before—people they trust.”

“But if they’d done that, there’s no way I would be on this team,” she pointed out.

“What makes you so sure about that?”

P.J. laughed.

Joe laughed along with her. He had gorgeous teeth. “No, I’m serious,” he said.

P.J. put down her sandwich. “Captain, excuse me for calling you crazy, but you’re crazy. Do you really think Tim Farber would have handpicked me for his team?”

“Call me Joe,” he said. “And no, of course Farber wouldn’t have picked you. He’s not smart enough. From what I’ve seen, out of the four of you, he’s not the natural leader, either. He’s fooled a lot of people, but he doesn’t have what it takes. And the other two…” He shrugged. “I’m not particularly impressed. No, out of the four of you, this assignment should’ve been yours.”

P.J. couldn’t believe what she’d just heard. She wasn’t sure what to say, what to do, but she did know that knocking over her iced tea was not the correct response. She held tightly onto the glass. “Thank you…Joe,” she somehow managed to murmur. “I appreciate your confidence.”

“You’re doing all right, P.J.,” he said, standing in one graceful movement. “Keep it up.”

As he walked away, P.J. closed her eyes. God, it had been so long since she’d been given any words of encouragement, she’d almost forgotten how important it was to hear praise. Someone else—in this case, the commanding officer of Alpha Squad—recognized that she was doing her job well. He thought she was the one who should lead the team.

Out of the four FInCOM agents…

P.J. opened her eyes, realizing with a flash of clarity that the captain’s compliment hadn’t been quite as flattering as she’d first believed. She was the best candidate for team leader—compared to Farber, Schneider and Greene.

Still, it was better than being told that women had no place on a team like this one.

She wrapped her half-eaten sandwich and threw it in the trash on her way out of the mess hall, aware of Harvard glancing up to watch her go.

CHAPTER FOUR

“BLUE CALLED TO SAY HE’S RUNNING LATE. He’ll be here in about a half hour.” Joe Catalanotto closed the door behind Harvard, leading him through the little rented house.

“He went home first, didn’t he?” Harvard shook his head in amused disgust. “I told the fool not to stop at home.” Blue McCoy’s wife, Lucy, had come into town two days ago. After spending a month and a half apart, Harvard had no doubt exactly what was causing Blue’s current lateness.

And now Blue was going to show up for this meeting at Joe Cat’s house grinning like the Cheshire cat, looking relaxed and happy, looking exactly like what he was—a man who just got some.

Damn, it seemed everyone in Alpha Squad had that little extra swing in their steps these days. Everyone but Harvard.

Joe’s wife was with him in Virginia, too. Lucky O’Donlon was living up to his nickname, romancing Miss East Coast Virginia. Even Bobby and Wes had hooked up with a pair of local women who were serving up more than home-cooked meals.

Harvard tried to remember the last time he’d gone one on one with a member of the opposite sex. June, May, April, March… Damn, it had been February. He’d been seeing a woman named Ellen off and on for a few months. It was nothing serious—she’d call him, they’d go out and wind up at her place. But he hadn’t noticed when she’d stopped phoning. He couldn’t call up a clear picture of her face.

Every time he tried, he kept seeing P. J. Richards’s big brown eyes.

“Hello, Harvard.” Joe’s wife, Veronica, was in the kitchen. As usual, she was doing three different things at once. A pile of vegetables was next to a cutting board, and a pot of something unidentifiable was bubbling on the stove. She had paperwork from her latest consulting assignment spread out across the kitchen table and one-and-a-half-year-old Frankie in his high chair, where he was attempting rather clumsily to feed himself his dinner.

“Hey, Ron,” Harvard said as Joe stopped to pull several bottles of beer from the refrigerator. “What’s up?”

“I’m teaching myself to cook,” she told him in her crisp British accent. Her red hair was loose around her shoulders, and she was casually dressed in shorts and a halter top. But she was the kind of super classy woman who, no matter what she wore, always looked ready to attend some kind of state function. Just throw on a string of pearls, and she’d be ready to go. “How’s your father?”

“Much better, thanks. Almost back to one hundred percent.”

“I’m so glad.”

“Moving day’s coming. My mother keeps threatening to pack him in a box if he doesn’t quit trying to lift things she perceives as being too heavy for him.”