"Shut up! Just do it!"

"Whatever you say." He laughed. A man had to appreciate a woman who knew what she wanted.

In many ways, sex in this total darkness was more enticing than in a lighted room. It heightened all the senses to a screaming pitch.

Her body was stiffening, her legs around his waist gripping him tighter, a sure sign that her body was racing toward a peaking. He began to pound her lower half in the game of near-sex he had perfected long ago. A dry run, some called it. Half-arsed satisfaction, he called it. But beggars couldn't be choosers, and right now he was at the begging stage.

His ballocks were hard and high. A violent shiver passed over him as he tried to forestall his own peaking. The urgent need to bite her neck prompted him to bite his own bottom lip in restraint. Another reason to be thankful for the darkness; she couldn't see his fangs that had a mind of their own at times like this, just like another body part.

Her long, unending stream of soft moans was his ultimate undoing. She showed her liking for each new thing he did to her by murmuring unintelligible words that he understood nonetheless, by sweet sighs that he shared, and then the type of breathy moan females make when they are ready for a man's penetration.

Penetration! The word zapped his dulled brain like a laser gun. No, no, no! He couldn't be doing this. "Wait," he said, or tried to say. "Wait, wait, wait!"

But it was too late.

"Nooot a chaaannnce!" she asserted. Her lower body was thrusting against him with short, hard strokes that hit him exactly where he wanted to be hit. And she bit his neck, probably to keep herself from screaming, but it resembled too much the way he would like her to feed on him. If she had fangs. Which she didn't. Not that he would want her to. Or would he? Aaarrgh!

Chest heaving, he surrendered then to the throes that whipped him into a frenzy of swirling, bone-melting ecstasy. She had already reached her peak, but he was by no means done with the tempting witch. He put his hands on her hips and held her just so, pelvis uptilted, and let loose with his own pounding rhythm, which caused her to begin another climb to orgasm.

He wanted to roar like a lion and charge like a bull. He wanted to penetrate her so deep and stretch her so far. He wanted to sink his teeth into her neck and drink her blood, just a taste. He wanted her to beg him to bring her to completion . . . again and again. He wanted so many things.

They came together then with his final thrust that pinned her to the wall. To smother his own triumphant yell or her cry of bliss, he kissed her deep, very deep, and stayed buried in her mouth until his racing heartbeat slowed to a mere gallop, and her finger grips on the back of his neck lessened. Finally, he withdrew his tongue, paused, then leaned in again and swept his lips across hers in a gesture of thanks.

When he reached for the light cord this time, they both blinked against the sudden glare, their eyes having become attuned to the darkness.

Her honey-colored eyes were hazy with arousal. A sex-flush pinkened her cheeks and neck. Even her breasts were a beautiful shade of rose. Her lips were wet and kiss-swollen.

His enthusiasm was rising again, just gazing at her.

As he let her lower her feet to the floor, he had a second peaking just from her body brushing against him. If he were a cursing man, as he had once been, now would be the time for him to say something in Old Norse, like "God Almighty, what have you done to me?" But instead he said in American English, "What have you done to me?"

"Me?" she shrieked, obviously coming to her senses, way too fast. Her undergarment and T-shirt went back on as fast as her shaking hands could manage. When he tried to help her, she slapped his hands away. "What have you done to me, that is the question here."

He wasn't going to argue with her. Even without real sex, he was feeling mighty good.

His brother Cnut had a theory that every once in a while a man needed to drain off some of his man-sap to relieve the pressure, rather like pulling the bung on a barrel of fermenting beer. His cousin Olga, the most opinionated Norsewoman to ever walk the earth, on overhearing Cnut's remark one time, told him where she thought he ought to put his bung and it wasn't in a barrel.

The light was starting to fade and Nicole yanked on the cord, hard, before it could go dark again. "I do not do this kind of thing."

"And you think I do?"

That question seemed to give her pause, and he soon realized why. She shoved him in the chest with both hands. "You are so not gay!"

He had to think quickly, now that the fever of the moment was passing fast. "Do not be offended, dearling," he said with as much consideration as he could muster, which wasn't much, "I was thinking of Karl the whole time. It was the only way I could . . . you know . . . get it up."

She unlocked the door and stepped out into the hallway before turning to glare at him where he still stood propped against the wall. Propped being the key word. He was so sated he might melt down to the floor like a Popsicle in the hot sun.

"This is war," she declared then.

Having your hand slapped Navy SEAL style . . .

"Lieutenant Tasso! You have crossed the line."

Nicole was standing at attention before Commander MacLean's desk. Having gone to his office immediately following her encounter with Trond, she was beginning to think she might have acted prematurely. In fact, she knew that she had by the stern expression on the commander's face. She should have gathered more information before filing another complaint. "But I believe I have legitimate concerns about Sigurdsson . . . concerns that might affect the security of our operation, Commander, sir."

"Because you think the man is gay?" he scoffed.

"No. Because I think he's not gay, Commander, sir." She was still standing stiffly at attention.

The commander rolled his eyes. "Did it ever occur to you that the man used that as an excuse because he has no interest in you?"

"Sir!" Now she was indignant. The commander must think she'd been putting the moves on Trond. Well, she had, but with a purpose. Not because she had the hots for him. Well, not totally.

"Do you honestly believe that the Navy SEALs allow anyone onto our base without complete security clearance?"

"No, but-"

"Jaegers are as elite a group in Norway as SEALs are in the U.S. Do not for one minute think they're lax in their requirements."

"It's not that, Commander, sir. There is just some secret that I know he is hiding. He's a ghost. Honestly, I had an old police contact check him out, and he's not in any database. He doesn't exist."

"Good Lord! Every man here has secrets. Don't you?"

She was fighting a losing battle, Nicole realized.

The frustration on her face must have shown because the commander said, with less sternness, "I commend your motivation in wanting to ensure the security of our unit, but in this case, your concerns are misplaced. Now, let me tell you what I'm concerned about. Team unity. One of the things we emphasize from the very beginning in BUD/S as they do in WEALS training is the importance of teamwork. If you can't work together with every single person on the OctoTiger Squad, perhaps you need to step back."

"Oh no, sir! I assure you I'm a team player."

"Including Captain Sigurdsson?"

She gulped several times before agreeing, "Including Captain Sigurdsson, sir."

As she left the office, duly chastised, Nicole had to wonder, Was I wrong? Are my instincts so rusty? Am I letting my hormones affect my judgment?

One thing was clear, though. She would have to adjust her behavior toward he-who-was-driving-her-crazy.

Eleven.

Angel flying too close to the ground, or something . . .

If Nicole was already confused by Trond, she was stunned speechless the next morning when she finished her morning run and was walking toward the chow hall where she intended to have a big breakfast. She'd earned it.

As she approached the small, nondenominational chapel that served all Navy personnel, including the SEALs, she saw a small crowd outside, just standing about with the oddest expressions on their faces.

"What's going on?" she asked.

"Listen," one young sailor said.

The most glorious male voice was singing "Amazing Grace" inside the chapel. No, it was two male voices.

"Amazing Grace" was a wonderful hymn, and had been sung by some of the best singers in the world. Aretha Franklin's rendition on Oprah's last show had brought the audience to tears.

This was different.

She stood, transfixed, as did the others, when the choir moved from one song to another, including some in Latin, like "Sanctus, Sanctus, Sanctus," that Nicole remembered from her childhood in a neighborhood Greek Catholic church.

Finally, she couldn't resist and stepped through the open doors, even though she wasn't appropriately dressed for church. She shouldn't have been shocked at what she found, but she was. Trond stood in the front row with his friend Karl and they were singing their hearts out like . . . like angels. Jeesh! With voices like those, they could get music contracts, especially singing Christian music.

Just then, she noticed a man sitting at the opposite end of the last pew where she'd plopped down. He was staring intently at Trond and Karl, giving her an opportunity to study him.

Beautiful, that's the only word that fit. He wore a plain white T-shirt and denims with white athletic shoes. Nothing unusual there. And although he was tall and well-built, that was the norm here on the base. His face was sculpted out of pure, cream-tinted marble, or so it seemed. A strong nose. Full lips. Thick, dark eyelashes. His black hair hung smoothly to his shoulders. The sunshine filtering through the stained glass window cast a light that seemed to hover above his head like a halo.

Inexplicably, Nicole's heart was racing, and her hands trembled in her lap.

Then, as if sensing her perusal, the man's head turned, and he stared directly at her through eyes of an ethereal silvery blue color. Mesmerized, she couldn't have looked away if she tried.

The most incredible sense of peace came over her, and in her head flashed vignettes of her entire life up to this point. And then it was as if an eraser wiped the slate clean of all the bad things in her past. All this happened in the blip of a moment.

The man nodded at her and smiled.

She blinked.

And between one blink and the next, he was gone.

Nicole found that tears welled in her eyes, but they weren't tears of pain or hurt. They were tears of joy.

That's how Trond found her when the service ended and he was exiting the church.

"Are you following me?" he accused. "More stalking? There aren't any closets here as far as I know."

Now, there was a mood killer if she ever heard one. Not that she'd been expecting sweet words after their bout of near-sex. Oh wait. Could it be that he was aware that she'd complained about him to the commander again? Still- "No, I was out running when-"

"You were running? On a Sunday when you could have slept till noon, or lazed about doing nothing?" He sighed as if those were activities to be desired. Or nonactivities.

"Trond, Trond, Trond! You really do need some of my motivational books. Peak Performance comes to mind." The commander had warned her about pursuing Trond's "secrets," but that didn't mean she had to accept his lazy attitude.

His lips twitched with humor. "You really want to know how I perform when peaking? Methinks you already know that."

At first, she was confused. "Oh you! That's not what I meant." She felt her face heat with embarrassment. "How about this other tape, Life Is Passing You By? It's been a huge best-seller for years."

"Believe you me, I do not need a book to teach me that."

"Maybe you just need to be more organized." Okay, if she was going to be more cooperative with the guy, per the commander's edict, she could try being helpful. "I have some extra daily planners if you're interested. If you write down what you want or need to do for every hour of the day, you'd be surprised how much more productive you can be. I could show you how."

"You're serious, aren't you?" He shook his head with incredulity. "Do you write down times for visiting the latrine or doing laundry?"

Actually, sometimes she did.

"Amazing!" he said when she didn't respond, her nonresponse screaming, Guilty as charged, and he didn't mean it as a compliment. "Anyhow, if you weren't stalking . . . uh, following me, why are you here?"

She ignored his implication that she wasn't a churchgoing person, which she wasn't. Not anymore. But he had no way of knowing that.

"I was out running," she repeated, "when I heard the singing. Remarkable singing. So, I came in. You're very talented. Both of you." She nodded to Karl, who gave her a little salute as he approached and then walked on, following the rest of the congregation, leaving her and Trond alone.

Each of the men wore golf-type shirts with wing icons instead of little alligators or polo ponies on their left chests, tucked into neatly pleated khaki pants, with sockless loafers. Church clothes.

How could she reconcile the lackadaisical, seemingly lazy special forces guy who could kiss like sin on the hoof with a man who attended church and sang hymns? Well, her ex-husband used to attend Mass, too. For show. "Are you religious?" she blurted out.

"You could say that," he surprised her by saying. "Is that why you're misty-eyed? Because I sing so well? Or might be religious?" He smiled at her.

She hated when he smiled at her. Rather, she hated how his smiles made her feel. "If I'm misty-eyed, whatever the hell that is, it's because I just had the most remarkable experience."

"Oh?"

"I think I just met an angel."

Trond studied her for a moment, glanced over to the end of the pew where there was, incongruously, a small white feather, and said, "Uh-oh!"

Up close and way too personal . . .

Trond was taking a shower that evening, a cold shower, in the one of the private stalls in the bachelor officers' quarters . . . probably something set aside for visiting dignitaries wanting to brag that they'd jogged with the SEALs, ate with them, even slept in their barracks, in essence participated in the total SEAL experience. Hah! The real experience involved total lack of privacy and communal showers where everyone got to view each other's goodies. He'd like to see some white-haired politicians put their drooping gonads out on display.

When he raised his face toward the showerhead to rinse off the shampoo, Trond noticed a bare leg hanging over the top of the stall. A hairy leg. He jerked back, slipped on the soapy tiles, and fell on his ass, cracking his skull on the tiled wall.

When his vision began to clear, he saw that the man was climbing into the shower stall with him. First, he got an up close and personal view of a man's butt . . . a nice butt, if he did say so, not that he usually noticed that kind of thing on men. Good grief! Had word of his gayness spread already? Who else had that witch blabbed to?

The man, a tall man equal to Trond's height, was standing now, his long hair plastered to his head by the watery spray . . . the shower head having a wide spray span.

Trond wished he had his sword with him. As it was, he would have to use his hands, or maybe that washcloth could serve as a garrote.

But then the man turned.

"Oh my God!" Trond said, before he could bite his tongue.

Two things occurred to Trond then.

He was sharing a shower with St. Michael the Archangel.

He had seen St. Michael's bare ass.