Against All Odds by Irene Hannon

that.”
    Coop responded to Mark’s comment with a shrug. He’d never told anyone about his stepmother’s kindness. He didn’t talk about personal history. Or he hadn’t until the past twenty-four hours. “It wasn’t a big deal.”
    “Hey, brownies and cookies are always a big deal.” Mark winked at Monica, eliciting a soft chuckle.
    Although Coop wasn’t thrilled with Mark’s flirty attitude toward the woman sitting between them, he supposed it could be a diversionary tactic. Mark was as attuned to nuances as Coop was, and Monica’s stress was obvious. Often in tense situations they used lighthearted banter to put someone at ease. That was probably what Mark was doing.
    He hoped.
    Coop’s BlackBerry began to vibrate, and he pulled it from its holder. Monica’s smile faded as she watched him, and the tense atmosphere their casual dinner had managed to lighten grew heavy again.
    “Are the reinforcements here?” Mark laid his napkin on the table as Coop ended the brief call.
    “They will be in two minutes.” Coop downed the other half of his biscuit in one large bite and wiped his mouth with his napkin. “We’ll help you clean up before we head out,” he told Monica. Rising, he reached for one of the bowls and her plate, noting that despite all she’d cooked, she’d eaten very little herself.
    “No, that’s okay. It will give me something to do.” She stood and gestured toward the cookies. “Do you have time for dessert?”
    “We always have time for dessert.” Mark grinned and answered for both of them. “And my guess is our replacements wouldn’t mind having some, either, while we brief them.”
    The doorbell rang, and Coop moved toward the hall, Mark behind him. “Stay here,” he told Monica.
    Mark dropped back once they entered the foyer while Coop checked the peephole. A pair of tall, formidable-looking men in suits stood on the other side, one with black hair and a rugged, intense face, the other with dark auburn hair and penetrating eyes. Two of the HRT’s top operators. Les wasn’t taking any chances with this gig, Coop reflected as he swung the door open.
    The men stepped inside quickly, and as Mark holstered his Glock they exchanged greetings.
    “Have you guys been fully briefed?” Coop tossed the question over his shoulder, leading the way to the kitchen.
    “We reviewed the intel on the drive down,” the auburn-haired man replied.
    “Good. We’ll bring you up to speed in a minute.” Coop ushered them into the kitchen. “Monica, let me introduce you to the night shift.”
    As Coop spoke, she turned and braced herself against the counter, gripping the edge.
    “Rick Hooper”—Coop tipped his head toward the dark-haired man—“and Shaun MacDonald . . . or Mac, as we call him.”
    Though her smile seemed forced, she moved forward and held out her hand.
    “I already told them they’re just in time for KP duty.” Mark grinned and gave her a wink as she greeted the newcomers.
    “He’s kidding, of course,” Monica assured them. “But you are in time for chocolate chip cookies and coffee, if that interests you.”
    “Sounds good. Thanks.” Mac flashed her a smile.
    The men helped themselves, disappearing into the living room one by one until only Coop was left.
    “We need a few minutes to sort through things,” he told her.
    She swallowed and gave a jerky nod. “I’ll stay out of your way.” Angling toward the sink, she busied herself with cleanup duties.
    Coop traced the rigid line of her shoulders, her tense posture mute testimony to her stress. As was the way she fumbled a bowl. It dropped into the sink, splashing her with soapy water.
    Snagging a dish towel, he moved forward and handed it to her in silence. As she dabbed at her face, he couldn’t tell whether the moisture around her eyes was water—or tears.
    “Monica.” He spoke softly, waiting until she looked up before continuing. “It will be okay.”
    She searched his eyes, as if seeking the truth. His