time.
“Hey, are you all right?” Jason asked. She noticed how his eyes kept straying from her face down to her chest and she crossed her arms self-consciously.
“Oh, fine. I don’t know how I fell off,” she said. “Was I that close to the edge?”
Jason shrugged. “I don’t know. I was shooting down at the water’s edge. I wasn’t going to break the rules, especially for a practice run. You know, if you break the rules, it’ll make it harder for everybody else as the Championship tournament goes on.”
Jason was an okay photographer, but he sometimes got a whiny, preachy sound to his voice that was very annoying.
“I wasn’t the only one up there,” she said. Something about him saying he hadn’t been up on the ledge bothered her, but his next words scattered the concern.
“Yeah, but you were the first,” he said. The pitch of his voice was approaching a fingernails-on-a-blackboard screech. “The officials at the games take security and safety seriously. If you aren’t careful, they’ll take away your access. Then what will you do?”
“I hardly think one little accident will cause that,” she said, moving away, now thinking only about getting rid of Jason. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go and check out my equipment.”
She left Hull still talking about revoked credentials and thought again about getting an exclusive with Buchanan for the WNO. If she could do that, no one would be revoking anything.
* * * * *
Robert half listened to the teasing from his teammates, most of his concentration on the shapely backside of the woman who’d landed in his lap and almost succeeded in drowning them both. There was something about her that had him rubbing the back of his neck. He dropped his hand and scowled first at it then at her.
He’d always had good intuition and it’d saved him and his unit’s butts in dangerous territory on more than one occasion. And he had a feeling about that woman. She was trouble, as sure as his name was Robert Buchanan. He didn’t want or need trouble. All he wanted was the time to do what he’d been training for, for years—compete in the Olympics and win a medal. He owed it to his buddies who were still at Walter Reed, trying to rebuild their bodies before they could make a new life. He owed it even more to his buddies who would never have a chance at a civilian life.
“Come on, L.T.—you gotta admit that was one for the record books,” said Scott O’Halloran, who was a Marine, a friend, one of the coaches of the US Olympic Team and Robert’s personal mentor. He was fiftysomething but still as trim and fit as he’d been when he’d humped his way across the Falkland Islands as part of a recon platoon responsible for mopping up that problem. His graying buzz cut and sun-wrinkled, always smiling face hid a mind that had a tactical genius about competitive rowing. Robert knew he’d have never have been even close to making the Olympic team if Scotty hadn’t been at his side.
“Easy for you to say. It wasn’t your ass getting wet,” Robert grumped. He kept one eye on the woman and couldn’t help but wince as she picked up her humongous camera pack, slung it over a shoulder and in the process nailed a nearby spectator right in the gonads before marching off. He frowned as he noticed the way the other photographer, who’d bounced up to her like a puppy looking for approval, watched her walk away. Her wet T-shirt revealed that her front was outstanding, but her truly fantastic butt, now shaped by wet nylon shorts, was jaw-dropping fine. “I think that broad is a menace. How the hell did she get so close to the event area?”
Scotty shrugged. “Press can go anywhere. Get used to it—it’ll be worse when we actually get to the Olympics.” His eyes followed the woman as well and he grinned. “Looks as if you were lucky you only got dunked. That fan there is probably going to have to put the family jewels on ice for the night after taking
“Hey, are you all right?” Jason asked. She noticed how his eyes kept straying from her face down to her chest and she crossed her arms self-consciously.
“Oh, fine. I don’t know how I fell off,” she said. “Was I that close to the edge?”
Jason shrugged. “I don’t know. I was shooting down at the water’s edge. I wasn’t going to break the rules, especially for a practice run. You know, if you break the rules, it’ll make it harder for everybody else as the Championship tournament goes on.”
Jason was an okay photographer, but he sometimes got a whiny, preachy sound to his voice that was very annoying.
“I wasn’t the only one up there,” she said. Something about him saying he hadn’t been up on the ledge bothered her, but his next words scattered the concern.
“Yeah, but you were the first,” he said. The pitch of his voice was approaching a fingernails-on-a-blackboard screech. “The officials at the games take security and safety seriously. If you aren’t careful, they’ll take away your access. Then what will you do?”
“I hardly think one little accident will cause that,” she said, moving away, now thinking only about getting rid of Jason. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go and check out my equipment.”
She left Hull still talking about revoked credentials and thought again about getting an exclusive with Buchanan for the WNO. If she could do that, no one would be revoking anything.
* * * * *
Robert half listened to the teasing from his teammates, most of his concentration on the shapely backside of the woman who’d landed in his lap and almost succeeded in drowning them both. There was something about her that had him rubbing the back of his neck. He dropped his hand and scowled first at it then at her.
He’d always had good intuition and it’d saved him and his unit’s butts in dangerous territory on more than one occasion. And he had a feeling about that woman. She was trouble, as sure as his name was Robert Buchanan. He didn’t want or need trouble. All he wanted was the time to do what he’d been training for, for years—compete in the Olympics and win a medal. He owed it to his buddies who were still at Walter Reed, trying to rebuild their bodies before they could make a new life. He owed it even more to his buddies who would never have a chance at a civilian life.
“Come on, L.T.—you gotta admit that was one for the record books,” said Scott O’Halloran, who was a Marine, a friend, one of the coaches of the US Olympic Team and Robert’s personal mentor. He was fiftysomething but still as trim and fit as he’d been when he’d humped his way across the Falkland Islands as part of a recon platoon responsible for mopping up that problem. His graying buzz cut and sun-wrinkled, always smiling face hid a mind that had a tactical genius about competitive rowing. Robert knew he’d have never have been even close to making the Olympic team if Scotty hadn’t been at his side.
“Easy for you to say. It wasn’t your ass getting wet,” Robert grumped. He kept one eye on the woman and couldn’t help but wince as she picked up her humongous camera pack, slung it over a shoulder and in the process nailed a nearby spectator right in the gonads before marching off. He frowned as he noticed the way the other photographer, who’d bounced up to her like a puppy looking for approval, watched her walk away. Her wet T-shirt revealed that her front was outstanding, but her truly fantastic butt, now shaped by wet nylon shorts, was jaw-dropping fine. “I think that broad is a menace. How the hell did she get so close to the event area?”
Scotty shrugged. “Press can go anywhere. Get used to it—it’ll be worse when we actually get to the Olympics.” His eyes followed the woman as well and he grinned. “Looks as if you were lucky you only got dunked. That fan there is probably going to have to put the family jewels on ice for the night after taking
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