Butch said, “I wonder if she’s unattached?”
Making a sound of displeasure, Cav shook his head. “Your balls are your brains, Bro.”
“Like yours aren’t?” Butch returned mildly, needling his scowling friend.
“Women are nothing but trouble.” Cav declared as he shoved the paper back into Butch’s hand. “She’s probably single, but attached. How many women her age are out there doing full-time charity work?”
“Yeah, and who knows? She might have some guy that she’s already hooked up with? Maybe married.”
“Doubtful,” Cav muttered, brushing his teeth.
“Well, this PSD is pretty sweet, if you ask me. A good-looking woman thrown into the deal doesn’t hurt.”
“I’m not interested,” Cav growled, spitting out the toothpaste and then rinsing his mouth out. “As far as I’m concerned, it’s ten grand a month on two legs, that’s all.”
“Yeah, you and women seem to be at odds with one another.”
“They’re good for one night, and that’s it.”
Butch studied the photo. “She looks kind of sad.” He turned it so Cav could stare at it. “Doesn’t she?”
“What? Is that your SEAL intuition at work?” Cav wiped his mouth with the towel and dropped it onto the counter. Esmeralda was always on his ass to hang it up where he’d originally found it.
“Yeah. She’s got really beautiful eyes,” Butch sighed. “A man could lose his soul in ’em, if you asked me.”
“I didn’t,” Cav snapped, yanking the paper from him and walking out of the bathroom. He headed down the hall to the kitchen.
“So,” Butch crowed, following him. “You do like her!”
Cav wasn’t going to give his friend satisfaction one way or another. He dropped the photo on his unmade bed and hauled out a small suitcase from beneath it. Butch was a damned good-looking dude and never had trouble inviting the señoritas over to their table, no matter which bar they frequented.
Latin women like Americans because they considered them rich, especially compared to the Latino patrons in the bar. It was probably true, although neither of them ever flashed cash. That would be stupid. It could get them rolled in some cobblestone back-alley some night.
The buddies always dressed down, never wore watches or jewelry, and sported a three or four-day growth of beard. And there was Cav’s shaggy hair. They could pass for working class bastards or Americans strung out on drugs looking for a fix.
That was fine with Cav. As a SEAL, he had been taught how to blend in, not stand out. But for some reason, that picture of Lia Cassidy was beginning to bother him. She was incredibly beautiful, but Butch was right, there was real sadness in those huge gray eyes of hers. It needled the hell out of him. How could someone so young, bright and innocent looking be that sad. Hell, he himself carried that kind of sadness deep inside himself. And honestly, it was ball-aching grief that he had still not worked through over the loss of his team.
Cav had been the only survivor, barely clinging to life, and for what? So he could remember his other seven-team members? Those guys had all been brothers to him—the only family that had ever loved him, cared for him, supported him, and was, yes, even kind to him. His sea daddy, Master Chief Gordon Parker, had molded him well, and he’d taken to the transformation, dropping his angry, rebellious attitude and forging it into becoming a damn good SEAL.
Later, after packing his meager belongings, Cav sat down and picked up the picture of Lia Cassidy. It was a professional photo, taken with the lights at the right angles to bring out the best features of her face: her eyes and those beautifully shaped lips of hers. Her brows were softly winged above her soulful gray eyes and, he had to admit it, they tugged at his heart.
The color of her eyes was arresting, not quite silver but not pewter, either. They were the kind of eyes a man could stare into and lose himself. Her face was heart-shaped, her chin sporting a small dimple. Her high, starched white collar was lost in the curls of her hair, bringing out the slender length of her neck.
Eyes narrowing, Cav wondered if the photo had been retouched. He thought he detected a thin scar curving around the left side of her throat toward the center. But maybe it was his imagination—or their lousy printer acting up again. Still, it disturbed him because it was a familiar place a bad guy would choose to slice into a person’s neck to open up their carotid artery. Once opened, the person would bleed out in a matter of two to three minutes.
Rubbing his forehead, he studied the picture again, wondering. Just…wondering.