Sharon Sala - Mission: Irresistible; A Year of Loving Dangerously (Silhouette Intimate Moments No. 1016)

Mission Irresistible

Book Jacket

Prologue

Washington, D.C.-July 4th, 2000

The American flags above the tall man's head popped smartly as the hot July breeze whipped them into a frenzy; colorful reminders of a nation's gratitude for the dedication and sacrifices of countless soldiers over the centuries who had kept the country free.

But gratitude was the last thing on the man's mind as he stood before the black, polished surface of the Vietnam War Memorial. The petals of the rose that he carried were beginning to droop, but it hardly mattered. The man for whom it was meant had long ceased to care for anything of this earth.

It wasn't the first time he'd been here on the nation's birthday, so the unusual number of visitors did not surprise him. Yet as he moved through the people, he was struck by the silence of so large a crowd.

The memorial in itself was an emotionally moving sight. A seemingly endless stretch of gleaming black marble with nothing but names etched upon its surface. Names of fathers and of sons, of brothers and of uncles, of friends and neighbors who'd given their lives because their country had asked it of

them.

His heart swelled painfully as he began to scan the surface. It was heresomewhere near the center and about a third of the way down. He stepped around a small, stoop-shouldered woman, then in front of a young couple with two small children, his gaze centering on the names. The farther he walked, the harder his heart began to pound. And then suddenly he stiffened.

There it was: Frank Wilson.

He traced the letters of the name with his forefinger. By the time he got to the last letter he was looking at the world through a blur and all he could think was, Damn you.

His jaw clenched and a muscle jerked at the side of his temple as he dropped the rose at the base of the wall and turned to walk away. As he did, the wind gusted, causing the flags to flutter, and ruffling the streaks of gray at the temples of his short, dark hair. He squinted against the sunlight and dropped a pair of sunglasses in place as he moved toward the grassy area beyond. But the sound of the blowing flag became mixed with the memories in his mind, turning from wind and heat to the rapid fire of machine guns, the unforgettable thunder of landing helicopters and the nightmare that was Vietnam.

Saigon 1974

It had been raining off and on all day and the clothes the girl on the street corner wore were plastered to her skin until it looked as if she was wearing nothing at all. She put her hands under her breasts and lifted them toward the trio of American soldiers coming down the street.

"Hey G.I., wanna party? Good sex ... hot sex ... five dolla'."

Private Joseph Barone of Brooklyn, New York whistled beneath his breath and elbowed his buddy.

"Oowee, Davie boy, would you look at her. You want to get yourself a little of that?"

The thought of a physical release within the warmth of a woman's arms was strong, but David Wilson had seen past her painted face and skimpy clothes to the child beneath and cringed. He wasn't the only one out of his element. She was doing all she knew, trying to survive in a world gone mad and adding to her hell seemed impossible to consider. Instead of telling the truth, that having sex with a fourteen-year-old whore turned his stomach, he used sarcasm instead.

"Do I want a little of what? The clap?" David drawled.

Joe Barone laughed and slapped his buddy on the back. "It might be worth it, kid."

David gave her one last glance and then shook his head. "You and Pete go on, though. I'll meet you back at the barracks."

They laughed at his reticence and pivoted sharply, heading back to the woman before another one of their compatriots beat them to the offer.

David shoved his hands in his pockets and hunched his shoulders as he moved along the crowded sidewalk. An old man sat cross-legged on the ground, hawking his wares in a sing-song litany while dangling a plucked fowl above his head in an effort to catch a buyer's eye. David's nose wrinkled in protest to the smell as he passed and wondered how long the man had been trying to sell that particular bird.

He turned the corner, fully intent upon heading for the barracks, when he heard a familiar laugh. He turned, a look of expectancy on his face. He'd know that laugh anywhere. It was his brother, Frank.

He pivoted sharply, searching the constantly moving masses for sight of his brother's face. If he could hook up with Frank, it would be a good way to pass

the afternoon. His eyes were alight as he began to scan the crowd.

Frank was his elder by four years and the single reason David was in Vietnam. Lying about his age to sign up had been simple. It was the fact that he and his brother had wound up in the same company that was amazing. But David was glad. Frank had always been more than just a big brother. He'd been a substitute father-a playmate-and when he wasn't thumping on David's head himself, a bodyguard in the rough neighborhood in which they'd grown up.

The crowd in front of David parted suddenly to let a man with a pushcart pass by and as it did, he saw his brother in the distance. At that same moment, he realized Frank wasn't alone. He paused, staring curiously at the pair with whom Frank was conversing. Their heads were close together, as if they didn't want to be overheard. And when one of them straightened and turned, staring directly toward David, he found himself ducking into a doorway instead of hailing them as he'd intended. There was something about the men that he didn't trust. He watched a bit longer, trying to remember where he'd seen them, and as he did, it suddenly hit him. A few months back, one of his buddies had pointed them out in a nightclub as being Dutch. When David had asked why two men from Holland would be here in the middle of such hell, his buddy had laughed and said, commerce, Davie-boy, commerce. It had taken a while before David realized they were suspected gunrunners.

Now, as he watched, Frank grinned and slapped one of the men on the back, then shook his hand. When he did, David's gut began to knot. Why would Frank be talking to men like that? Like everyone else, he knew it was men like that who were responsible for selling American-made weapons to the Vietcong. Men from other countries who were in this strictly for the money, who had no allegiance to a nation, not even their own. Immediately he thought

of the money Frank had been flashing during the past two months. Money he claimed he had won playing cards. But Frank was a lousy card player. Always had been. When the men began to move, David followed at a distance, desperate to assure himself that what he was thinking couldn't be true.

It started to rain again, and as it did, the streets began to clear as people took shelter inside the shops or made their way home. In an effort to remain unobserved, David had to stay far behind and twice he thought he'd lost them, only to turn a corner and see the back of Frank's head in the distance.

By the time they reached the outskirts of the city, David's gut was in knots. He'd long ago given up on this being an innocent meeting, and when they slipped into an isolated hut, David groaned inwardly. By the time he reached the hut, the rain had turned to a downpour, smothering all sound save that of the hammer of his own heartbeat and the sound of rain on the wet thatched roof.

He moved closer to the door, then shifted so that he could see inside. The interior was small and gloomy, yet light enough for David to see an envelope pass between Frank and the men.

No, David thought, and held his breath, watching as Frank counted the money then slipped it inside his shirt before handing over a small slip of paper. Without thinking of the consequences, he stalked into the hut.