The Poseidon team are hard-bodied, fiercely competitive Navy SEALs. But when a sensitive mission goes disastrously wrong, three of the teamâs finest will have to trust their hearts and instincts to uncover the truth...
Lieutenant Elijah Prescott should be spending his precious leave somewhere with sun, surf and scantily clad women. Instead, heâs heading home with two goals in mind. Figure out exactly how his last assignment went to hell and almost killed himâand reconnect with the woman who might offer salvation.
Ava Monroe has streamlined her life, eliminating every source of painâincluding a marriage touched by tragedy. One glimpse of her ex and those good intentions turn to bad-girl desires. Her strategy: get over Elijah by getting under him again, sating herself until she can finally let go. But as betrayal within the rank of the SEALs turns deadly, thereâs no denying that her heart and her life are on the line. Elijah is the only man who can protect both...
Praise for New York Times bestselling author Tawny Weber
âA sexy, hot SEAL undercover in more ways than one...Tawny Weber nails this steamy suspense.â
âNew York Times bestselling author Cristin Harber
âTawny Weber...has created the perfect hero for our time and a sizzling page-turner! What an awesome start to her Team Poseidon series.â
âNew York Times bestselling author Vicki Lewis Thompson
âI love a good SEAL romance and Tawny Weber knocked this one out of the park. Donât miss it!â
âUSA TODAY bestselling author Karen Fenech
âThis hot and sexy adventure takes readers on a thrilling ride of romance, secrets and SEALs.â
âRT Book Reviews
âReminiscent of Suzanne Brockmannâs Troubleshooters series, Weberâs latest will appeal to her fans as well as other military-romance readers. Diego personifies the honor and strength of a SEAL warrior in a good read with an engaging heroine and child.â
âBooklist
âCall to Honor is a tightly plotted story with a few startling turns of events, the characters are all credible and...the pace never falters.â
âFresh Fiction
CHAPTER ONE
THE SHADOWS WERE closing in. Dark and silent, they smothered the light. Sucked up every ounce of air, ripping it from the very atoms of his body.
Then there was the pain.
Vicious. Cutting. Fire deep in the bones, exploding outward. Tearing inward. Flesh shredding as flames engulfed his body.
Cries of terror rang out, circling his head. He tried to move, tried to force himself to ignore the agony. He had to rescue the caller. Had to. The screams continued. Sharp at first, calling for help. Then weaker. Then nothing. Just the crackling roar of fire, the hideous thunder of a heart struggling to keep its beat.
Just as the struggle became too much, a hand reached into the fire. Cool, liberating, extricating him from hell. Long, slender fingers soothed the misery, eased the terror.
Even as he grasped salvation, desperate for respite, a part of himâa remote particle of his brainârecognized the hand. He knew the scar that bisected the index finger had come from a broken bottle. The ring, a twist of gold and silver with tiny copper beads, had been bought at a county fair.
For a heartbeat he was free of the pain. But even as he escaped the fire, the hand disappeared. Leaving him in the aftermath.
The pain.
Soul-ripping pain.
The bitter taste of failure.
Trapped in the heavy silence, the reminder circled, spiraling tighter. Closing in.
The pained cries from his teammate. His brother. His friend.
Everything went black. Soulless and empty as reality clenched around him in a tight fist, forcing him to face the inescapable. That instead of rescuing his teammate, instead of doing the job heâd been trained to do, heâd let the man die in a miserable inferno.
He would pay for that forever.
If only here in the silence.
âYo, Rembrandt.â
Lieutenant Elijah Prescott woke drenched in sweat that felt like ice on his skin, his mindâhis heartâstill gripped by the sharp teeth of the dream. His breath came in guttural pants. His body flashed hot, then cold, then hot again as his pulse whipped furiously through his battered system.
Still spiraling through a hideous slide show of mental images, he pried his eyelids open and hoped like hell it really had been just a dream. No. Memories, he realized as he blinked in the dim light.
Half dreams, half memories. It didnât matter.
He pushed himself upright, rubbing both hands over his face to scrub away the sticky layer of dried sweat.
âRembrandt?â
âYeah?â Face still buried in his hands, Elijah turned his head toward the voice in the shadowy dark of his doorway.