Swift Strike (SEAL Team 14 Book 2) (12 page)

Walvis Bay, Namibia

F
or the first
time in a long while, Jesse didn’t know what in the hell he was doing. Here he was, standing in front of the residence of Lena Westlake, a woman he hardly even knew. Hoping for what, he did not know exactly.

She would probably think that he was stalking her. After all, he had just met her a few weeks ago, and he’d only spoken to her for about ten minutes at most. But still, he couldn’t help but feel drawn to her. It was the type of connection formed through a shared harrowing experience.

Jesse had failed to contact her in advance to ensure that she would be home. He’d just showed up on her doorstep, rung her doorbell, and was now not so patiently waiting for her to open the door. And then what? He honestly did not know. He hadn’t thought it out that far ahead. That fact, in and of itself, should have been alarming because Jesse was always prepared. He was usually a stickler for details and made a habit of thinking through every consequence for a particular action.

Given his lack of preparation for this moment, the nervous fourteen-year-old boy inside of him wanted to bolt. To run away and forget this piss-poor idea that had somehow managed to overcome his typically superb reasoning skills. But he resisted the impulse. The grown-ass man in him kept him firmly rooted where he was, refusing to run away.

Jesse was officially on his annual leave, and instead of heading straight back home to his family’s cattle ranch in Louisville, Kentucky, he’d had the brilliant idea to board a plane to Namibia.
Just to check on her
, he reminded himself. Yeah, right. He could have contacted her through her email address or phone number. Either of those two methods would have been the easier thing to do, not to mention the less creepy thing to do.

But to be honest, he had just wanted to see her with his own eyes. To touch her and make sure that she was really all right. People lied all the time, so you couldn’t really be convinced that someone was really okay via e-mail.

The last image he had of her was still seared into his memory, and would probably always be. She’d looked so brittle, battered, and broken. Gone was the carefree woman who had been in the photograph he’d seen before his team’s rescue operation. With her coarsely chopped off hair, blood-drenched clothing, and indescribably sad eyes, Lena Westlake was a woman forever changed.

Even the singular smile she’d thrown his way when she’d bid him goodbye hadn’t quite reached her eyes. Although her captors did not rape her Jesse wasn’t dense enough to believe that she was left emotionally unscathed. No one emerged from the gates of hell in the same condition they were in at the moment they entered.

Just when the thought finally crossed his mind that he should have at least brought her some flowers or chocolate or
something
, the door cracked open and there she was standing right before him.

She looked even prettier than he had remembered. A few weeks ago, she had been too thin and exhausted. But now, the dark circles had vanished from underneath her eyes and she had gained back some of the weight that she’d lost. The newly added pounds looked good on her. Real good. Her beauty was subtle, but very much present. She had a “girl next door” thing going on, and it definitely worked for her.

His gaze quickly traveled down her body. He was glad to see that the deathly pallor she had right after she was rescued had been replaced with a burst of color to her cheeks. She had styled her short hair into the type of cut that he’d seen on runway models. She looked more feminine somehow, strong yet delicate.

The pair of denim shorts she’d donned made her slender legs look about a mile long. A simple white T-shirt hung loosely around her waist. She wasn’t wearing any shoes, and the neon pink polish that adorned her toenails stood out in stark contrast against her skin. The light sheen on her face indicated that she had either just finished exercising or he’d caught her coming out of the shower. The latter possibility made his breath catch in his throat.

She was not nearly as thrilled to see him as he was to see her though. A slight frown created wrinkles across her otherwise perfect forehead. “What are you doing here?”

Okay, he had expected that question, but he hadn’t quite anticipated that tone of voice. But really, he could understand her unease. If he were a woman and had just endured what she’d endured, he would also be giving sidelong glances at every man who crossed his path. No, it was his miscalculation.

When he’d bought the plane ticket, he hadn’t considered that he would be arriving at her house at eight o’clock on a Friday night. He hadn’t thought about how his late arrival might seem to her. At best, she thought he was here for a booty call. At worst, she probably thought he was a crazy stalker who was obsessed with her.

“Hi, it’s Jesse Denison. We met earlier—” he lamely sputtered out before she hastily cut him off mid-sentence.

“I remember who you are. It’d be very hard for me to forget you. But what are you doing here, at my home?”

“I just wanted to make sure that you were getting along all right,” he finished weakly. This wasn’t going as well as he had envisioned.
What he
had
envisioned had been a scenario where she jumped up into his arms, a huge smile plastered on her face, and maybe a hint of attraction in her eyes. Instead, she stood there glaring at him with those intense chocolate-brown eyes of hers, as emotionless and immovable as the Rock of Gibraltar.

Rubbing an exasperated hand through his hair, he said in a rush, “I know it’s kind of late. I apologize for not calling earlier to let you know that I was dropping by.”

“How did you find out where I lived?”

“I cashed in a favor. It’s not standard operating procedure, but I’m friends with someone at the FBI who pulled a few strings.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why would you do that?”

“I was worried about you.” She scrunched up her pert little nose like she was trying to make up her mind about whether or not he posed a threat to her. He didn’t. He would never intentionally do anything to hurt her, but it was impossible for her to know that. Clearing his throat, he continued. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

She hesitated for a moment, but something in his voice must have convinced her of his sincerity because a few seconds later she said, “Come in.” Once she’d opened the door up wide enough she stepped aside so that he could enter the foyer.

The modern concrete and glass home had to be at least five thousand square feet. To say it was a nice house was an understatement. Unlike his own apartment, which was almost spartan in its lack of creature comforts, Lena’s home had a lived in feeling about it with expensive looking trinkets and sculptures adding variety to the rooms. The grandiosity of the home seemed out of place among the understated adobe homes peppering many of the villages west of Windhoek.

“Your main security gate is broken,” he announced as he entered. Closing the door behind him, she took a few extra seconds to secure the double deadbolt. “You should get that fixed soon. Your house is way out in the sticks.”

“Yes, I know,” she responded, her eyes meeting his steady gaze. “It’s been broken for a couple of months now. I was going to get it fixed earlier, but…well, I never got around to it before everything happened. At any rate, I notified the company two days ago. They’re going to send a repairman out next week to fix it.” She stood there, monitoring him carefully, like a wounded animal would warily eye a stranger before she turned and strode past him down the hallway.

“Good.” The home was in pristine condition. Contemporary paintings decorated the walls and expensive furniture filled every room. The whole length of the wall on this side of the home was lined with floor-to-ceiling plate glass windows, which granted incredible views of the Atlantic Ocean. Jesse followed her through the foyer, past a den which was open to the kitchen. They travelled down the final few steps into the large, sunken kitchen.

In contrast to the modern décor of the home, an old-fashioned record player sat on full display a stone’s throw away in the adjoining den. It was belting out the deep, soulful crooning of Otis Redding’s “I’ve Got Dreams to Remember.” Impressive.

“You have great taste in music,” he told her.

“You sound surprised.”

“A little.”

Leaning her very cute posterior against the dark, Red Verona marble countertop, she eyeballed him. Her sleek blond eyebrow arched ever so slightly in an unuttered question. Which if uttered the answer would have likely pointed out the fact that she could listen to any type of music she wanted to.

“Hmm…”

“I didn’t mean that as an insult or anything,” he said in a hurry. “I just pictured you as more of a Southern Rock kind of girl. Being from Virginia and all.”

“How do you know I’m from Virginia?”

“It was in the dossier we received before the rescue operation.”

“Oh I see. Well, I do have a soft spot for the Black Crowes,” she admitted.

“Ah, nice. Which do you like the best? ‘Hard to Handle’ or ‘She Talks to Angels’?”

Surprise lit up her eyes and her cherry-stained lips slowly upturned into a soft smile that eventually stretched the width of her face. “Did you know that ‘Hard to Handle’ was first penned by Otis Redding?” she asked.

“Of course.”

“Even after forty years,” she continued. “It’s still a great song. The Black Crowes’ version of it is pretty great too. If I had to choose between the two songs, I’d say ‘She Talks to Angels’ would win. I don’t think you can get more heartbroken than those lyrics.”

“Is that what you like listening to, sad songs?” he asked.

“Not all the time. But you can’t deny that there’s something emotionally cathartic about listening to someone pour their heart out in a song. What about you? What do you like?”

“Lots of stuff. It depends on my mood. But mostly hard rock, country, and classic oldies.”

After a stark moment of silence between them, she quickly pushed away from the counter as if she’d just remembered something. “I was about to have dinner. Have you eaten anything?” As soon as the question left her luscious, infinitely kissable lips, his stomach started to rumble.

“I’ll take that as a ‘no,’” she said, her lips turning up into a small smirk. “I wasn’t expecting any company, so I didn’t make large portions. You’re more than welcome to join me. I hope that you like chicken.” He watched her quietly as she put on a pair of mittens and walked over to a stainless steel wall oven, pulling out two small, roasted Cornish game hens.

“That smells great.” Jesse didn’t know what to do with himself, so he stood there awkwardly, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans. “Do you need me to help with anything?”

“You can take the wine out of the refrigerator,” she said, not lifting her head up from where she was carefully slicing the chicken on a wooden cutting block situated on a white marble countertop. “The wine glasses are in the rack underneath the bar in the butler’s pantry in the next room.” The pantry wasn’t hard to find, it was nestled in between the kitchen and one of the living room areas.

By the time he’d returned back with the wine and glasses, Lena already had the food on the table. She sat in a chair at one corner of the high-end marble table, her back pointing to the wall.

“You have a great home here, by the way.”

“Thank you.”

“Do you stay here all by yourself?”

“Yes, on and off for the past year now. Whenever I had any significant vacation time from the plant, I’d leave my hotel in Mogadishu to make the trip here.”

“Is this where you grew up? Here in Africa, going on safaris and riding elephants?”

“Is that all you think that native Africans do? Ride elephants and other wild beasts?”

“Nah, I was just making conversation,” he started, instantly chagrined. He hadn’t meant it the way it came out. Of
course
he knew that there was more to Africa than just going on safaris. “I know you were born in the United States, but wasn’t sure where you grew up. I just thought that if you grew up here, you might have some cool experiences like that—” Jesse abruptly ended in mid-sentence when he finally recognized the glint of mischief in her eyes.

She grinned at him. “I knew what you meant. I was just having a bit of fun with you. I didn’t grow up here on the continent, though I did visit regularly throughout my childhood. My father always said that Africa was in his blood, and I guess somewhere along the line I managed to fall in love with this place too. I don’t know...there’s just nothing quite like the breathtaking beauty of the African savanna.”

“Yeah, it is nice.”

“To answer your question from before, I did go on safaris when I was a child. My first one was when I was nine.”

“How was that?”

“Great. It was the first time that I saw rhinos, lions, tigers, elephants, and cheetahs up close. I was completely enchanted with the experience.”

Surprisingly, he could imagine her as a freckled-faced, wobbly-kneed youth, and he had to smile.