waited, sure this time that she was not going to offer him coffee.
“I could …” She cleared her throat. “Come with you to your, um, hotel and … help you pack your suitcase?”
She actually blushed because they both knew damn well that neither of them would pack any kind of suitcase if they went back to his room. Not that he even had a suitcase. He always traveled with his seabag, a duffel that he could just throw everything into—clean clothes and dirty laundry mixed together, because who the hell cared?
But the thing in his chest was swelling even larger. It was way past his throat now. It pushed on the backs of his eyes, making him feel as if—sweet Jesus—as if he might actually start bawling like a baby. Because what she was telling him was …
“You’re that sure about me?” he asked, his voice coming out no louder than a whisper. She nodded. She was.
“Let me grab my sneakers,” she told him now, disappearing to do just that.
Sneakers. With sneakers on her feet, they’d both be able to run much farther and faster. They could get to the Sheraton in enough time to spend ten minutes …
“We should wait,” Frank heard himself saying. “I want to wait.”
She was back in a sneaker-clad flash, looking at him as if he were from Mars, so he tried to explain.
“I want to do this right,” he told her. “How about we meet for Christmas? Right back here, in New Orleans.” He could take her to dinner someplace elegant and romantic. Someplace with dancing and champagne. And only then would they go back to the hotel, where they’d make love—slowly, tenderly—all night long.
“I’d love to meet you for Christmas,” she told him. “And you’re right. We should wait.”
And there they stood, staring at each other.
Rosie held out her hand.
Frank took it.
And together, Rosie’s laughter wrapping around them both, they ran for the stairs.
THOUGHTS ON
WHEN FRANK MET ROSIE
It was originally my intention to write only lighthearted stories using popular characters in the Troubleshooters series—and in “When Frank Met Rosie,” I did neither. I mean, Frank O’Leary …?
Not exactly winning popularity contests among readers, probably because the man is dead, killed in a terrorist attack in a hotel lobby in Over the Edge.
That’s the book, remember, where SEAL Team Sixteen goes to dangerous Kazbekistan to participate in the takedown of a commercial airliner that has been hijacked by terrorists.
At the time I was writing OTE, I purposely chose to kill off Frank for a number of reasons—the first being that someone needed to die. I wanted to make sure that my readers understood how dangerous K-stan was. It’s a fact that SEALs put their lives on the line all the time, as do all of our servicemen and -women. And it’s also a fact that people die serving our country. This was the third book in the series. It was, I felt, time for casualties.
Okay, so I could’ve killed off anyone—it didn’t have to be Frank. But it did have to be one of SEAL Team Sixteen’s snipers. See, I wanted a reason for FBI agent (and former Navy sharpshooter extraordinaire) Alyssa Locke to actively take part in the takedown of the hijacked plane. As a point-of-view character, I wanted Alyssa to move from her role as observer to that of shooter.
Now, instead of killing Frank, I could’ve killed Duke Jefferson, who was also a sniper. But I’d only just introduced the Duke in Over the Edge. Killing a brand-new character wouldn’t have had the same impact on readers as killing an established one. And thus, I found myself eyeing Frank O’Leary. Frank was the perfect character to kill. (Remember, I made this choice long before I wrote the short story you just read!) I’d used his name in a number of books, but I hadn’t spent much time and page space letting readers truly know who he was. I’d revealed that he was a sniper, and he was laconic, and very little else. Killing Frank wouldn’t have been as devastating to readers as killing off a more established character such as WildCard Karmody would have been. And yet, killing Frank was guaranteed to be way more powerful than killing off a stranger such as the Duke.
So Frank got his pink slip. So to speak.
So there it was, and there I was.
Years later.
Summer, 2006.
And I’m wandering around my office, aware that I’d promised readers that my website countdown to Into the Storm, where this