GUARDIAN

CHAPTER ONE

Nellis Air Force Base, Nevada:

Major Sophie Campbell had wanted to be a J.A.G. since she lost her father in elementary school. That didn’t mean she always enjoyed her job.

Today, she downright hated it.

But come hell or high water, she would get some useful nuggets of information out of the witness for the defense – cocky aviator David “Ice” Berg.

“Major Berg, you are aware that the Fire Control Officer on your test team, a man under your command, made a serious error firing from an AC-130 gunship into a private citizen’s home?”

“Ma’am, I was there,” Berg drawled, his South Carolina roots coating each word. “It was tough to miss the flames. But Captain Tate didn’t screw up.”

Of all the test directors to be in charge of this particular mission, why did it have to be Berg? Sexy as hell with a sense of humor and unflappable calm, he managed to charm his way through life.

Not today.

“Let me rephrase the question.” Sophie flipped through the pages of her legal pad.

Stalling.

She didn’t actually need further information. She needed to decide the best tact for extracting crucial evidence from the rock-headed aviator occupying the witness stand for the past two hours. Based on prior encounters with stubborn Major David Berg, Sophie prepared herself for a protracted battle.

“Major Berg,” she pressed, dropping her paper on the walnut table in the military courtroom, “in the month leading up to the incident, your team was under incredible pressure to complete testing on the gun mount system. You were being pushed to finish ahead of schedule so it could be used in combat.”

“Objection!” Counsel for the Defense leapt to his feet. “Is there a question?”

“Su-stained,” the judge, Colonel Christensen, monotoned. “Get to the point, please, Major Campbell.”

“Yes, sir.” She nodded.

Berg didn’t so much as blink. He’d earned his call sign “Ice” honestly. The man truly was an iceberg under pressure, and today’s stakes were high. Damn high. In order for a child to get justice, a young captain with a spotless record would have his life and career ruined with a court martial conviction.

This case sucked on a lot of levels.

“I’ll rephrase.” A simple twist in wording would get the question before the witness, cast some doubt in the jurors’ minds. “Are you certain Captain Tate didn’t cut corners on crew rest before the mission in question?”

Berg quirked a dark, lazy brow. “Asked and answered in my initial deposition. I am certain.”

Sure, she was pushing the edge of the envelope with badgering a witness, but her options had dwindled in the past couple of hours. She needed to win this case. Too many people counted on her, the child injured in the military testing accident. She also had a child of her own dependant solely on her.

She refused to consider that Berg might be right. Not that she doubted his honesty. His pristine reputation at Nellis Air Force Base carried whispered “awe” aura. As much reputation as anyone could garner working in the top secret field of dark ops testing. He was known as by the book aviator with nerves of steel. No, she didn’t question his ethics, but he must have missed something or been misled by those who worked for him. Maybe he had to cut a corner in the testing process that led to Captain Tate making this tragic – and too damn high profile – military accident.

“Major Berg, do you acknowledge that there was immense pressure in the month leading up to the incident in question?”

“Stress is standard ops in the test world.”

“And why might the pressure be higher during wartime?”

“Troops in the field need the technology we develop.”

“And in times of stress, you agree that sleep can be difficult?”

Sophie neared the raised wooden stand. Berg radiated such raw strength she doubted any amount of months on the job would lay him low.

A long-banked heat within her fanned to life.

Her steps faltered.

Heat?

The slumbering numbness that had invaded her emotions for the past year eased awake with a burning tingle. An almost painful warmth spread through her, begging to be fed by–

Major David Berg? David? “Ice”? No way!

What could have snagged her attention now, after she’d known him for at least a year and a half? Something about him today seemed different somehow.

His mustache. He’d shaved his mustache, unveiling a full, sensuous–

Sophie blinked once, twice. Had he noticed her lapse? A honking big unprofessional lapse.

She cleared her throat along with her thoughts. “Did Captain Tate receive the full eight hours of crew rest?”

“Twelve hours, ma’am,” Berg answered smoothly. “Regulations state crew rest is twelve hours long, something I know, my crews know and I’m sure you know.”

“Of course, twelve hours.” Well, it had been worth a try to trip him up, create a reasonable doubt. Moving on to plan B.

Sophie closed the last two feet between them, stopping just in front of Berg. Air conditioning gusted from the vents above, working overtime to combat the Nevada summer heat. Her uniform clung to her back, the blue service jacket about as thick and stifling as a flak jacket right now.

Her nerves must be frazzled from the insane year of restructuring her life as a single mother. She needed to concentrate on her job, not … him. Since Lowell’s death, she didn’t have the time or energy for anything other than caring for her son and paying off the mountain of bills her husband had left behind.

She pressed ahead, placing an evidence bag with a scheduling log inside on the witness stand. “If it’s twelve hours, then I’m confused how you fit in the missions and required rest without a single minute being off.”

He picked up the schedule, scanned it, and placed it back on the stand. “The numbers are tight, but they work. Yes, we were on a deadline. A tight one with no wriggle room, not even a minute. That’s what we do, year in and year out. When has the military not been over worked and under manned?” Berg’s drawl snapped with the first twinges of impatience. “So in essence, the crazy ass schedule we work is actually standard.”

Trained to watch for the least sign of weakening in her witness, Sophie rejoiced over the almost imperceptible clench of his jaw. Berg’s pulse throbbed faster above his uniform collar, the reaction so subtle she felt certain only she noticed. She ignored her own quickening heart.

Time to press the advantage, if she dared.

A quick glance at the judge’s bench reassured her. The jowly presider looked in need of some crew rest himself. She needed to move fast.

“Major, you can’t be with your testers twenty-four/seven. So it’s actually impossible for you to say with complete certainty that Captain Tate received the required amount of rest prior to his mission? I mean really, did you walk with him every step of the way?” Her words fell free with a soft intensity that curled through their pocket of space. “Eat with him? Follow him to the bathroom?”

If she could just piss off Berg enough, she sensed he would snap and slip, say one little thing wrong that would enable her to secure a conviction. It wasn’t like he would go to jail – although somehow she knew he would rather go take the punishment on himself than see anyone in his command suffer that shame of a court martial.

“Ma’am, I’m not required to watch my testers sleep. However I did see Captain Tate drive away, in the direction of his home after dinner – which I did watch him eat.” His steely eyes glinted like the flecks of silver dusting his coal black hair. “However, I didn’t follow him into the bathroom since we’re not a couple of junior high girls.”

Sophie snapped back a step.

Chuckles drifted from the jury. Damn it. Of course he played well to a crowd. In a military proceeding, the accused could choose whether judge or jury trial and just her luck, they’d gotten a jury.

“Order!” The judge’s cheeks shook like a basset hound’s. His gavel resounded through the military courtroom.

Part of being a successful attorney involved knowing when to retreat with grace, recouping for the next advance. Having foolishly depended on her husband for so many years, she now struggled with the concept of relinquishing control, of not delivering the last shot.

“Thank you, Major, for that … enlightening … information about the personal hygiene habits of your unit. I only wish you could be so forthcoming with the rest of your testimony.” Sophie turned to the bench. “Withdrawn.”

The judge darted a censorious glare her way. The jury laughed again, but this time she didn’t mind.

Berg canted forward, his shoulders and chest seeming to enlarge, filling the witness stand with his muscular chest full of military ribbons – a Distinguished Flying Cross, a Bronze Star, and almost too many air medals to count. Each oak leaf cluster signified ten more combat missions. He didn’t just put his ass on the line testing the newest equipment in the inventory. Berg served overseas, sometime the first to use those new systems outside the test world.

Rumor had it, he’d received that Distinguished Flying Cross in Afghanistan. As the fire control officer in an AC-130 gunship he held off hundreds of Taliban fighters attempting to capture a pinned down SEAL team. Berg had stayed in the fight well past daylight, dangerous for the aircraft. He’d shot so precisely, so effectively his ammo had lasted until a helicopter could arrive with pararescuemen to scoop up and out the injured SEALs.

She accepted the inevitable. Any shot she could deliver here today wasn’t going to rattle a man who’d spent hours flying over hundreds of Taliban fighters lobbing potshot and aiming rocket launchers his way.

“Nothing further.” Sophie affected her most efficient walk, heels tapping back to the table. She pivoted on the toes of her low pumps. “We reserve the option of recalling this witness.”

After two hours of cross-examination, she’d scored more than a few points.

At what cost?

She and Berg had run into each other during early depositions. And even before that, they’d first met in a past investigation, but she’d still been married then. He’d been in the middle of a messy divorce. She hadn’t looked at him – hadn’t really seen him – the way she did today.

Regardless, stakes were too high for her to worry about David Berg. If she won the court martial proceeding, that cleared the way for the young boy injured in the accident to move forward with a civil suit.

The judge rested his cheek on his fist, the jowl shifting to seal one eye. “You may step down, Major Berg.”

Sophie averted her gaze from the witness, pretending to jot notes. With an hour left until court recessed, she didn’t want to risk jack. No doubt when she saw Berg next the unexpected attraction would have left as abruptly as it had arrived.

Annnnnd, she looked at him anyway. Damn.

Her nerves tingled.

Tucking his wheel cap under his arm, the major circled to the front of the stand. His uniform fit his lanky body perfectly, accentuating each athletic stride.

She studied him from a more personal perspective. Sexy with jet black hair, but not handsome, she decided. Not in the conventional sense. His angular features defied so mundane a label.

Deep creases fanned from the corners of his quicksilver eyes, attesting to a combination of years in the sun and ready laughter. His skin was a hint lighter where his mustache had been, drawing her attention back to his mouth. He wasn’t smiling now.

Berg exuded the confidence of a man comfortable in his skin, his appeal making her distinctly uncomfortable in her own.

Sophie resisted the urge to tuck her thumb in the waistband of her skirt. Already snug, her uniform tightened as he narrowed the distance between them. She resolved, yet again, to eliminate midnight ice cream sprees until she could afford to buy a larger size. He probably didn’t even know how to count fat grams.

The hungry heat returned … and she didn’t crave a pint of rocky road.

The last thing she wanted was some obstinate aviator cluttering her mind. She finally had her life on track, and she didn’t intend to risk her hard won independence simply because of a fleeting bout of hormonal insanity.

Level with her, Berg hesitated. His six-feet-four-inches dwarfed her five-feet-three. Five-four if she added the minimal lift of her shoes.

Even when not in uniform, she’d always disdained high heels, maintaining they gave her the look of a child playing dress-up. At that moment, she would have plea-bargained two gallons of rocky road for a pair of Tina Turner spikes.

Steel gray eyes pinned her for one slow blink before Berg shoved through the swinging wooden rail and out of the courtroom.
***

Major David “Ice” Berg cared about two things above all else: His daughter and his job.

Steamed by more than the Nevada sun, Dave leaned against the exterior wall by the front entrance of the courthouse. At least Haley Rose was settled with his sister for the afternoon.

Five minutes alone with Major Sophie Campbell to straighten the facts and his world would be in order. With one of his tester’s career in the balance, he couldn’t just walk away.

He glanced at his watch, impatient from waiting in the heat, dryer than his South Carolina home state’s humidity, but still a scorcher of a day. He had to pick up Haley Rose from his sister’s before driving back to the condo. Single parenthood left him with little time to waste.

What was taking the lady J.A.G. so long?

Jumbled voices swelled through the opening doors. Masses poured out and divided, easing down the courthouse stairs like the gush from an emptying aqueduct. Bluebirds feeding on the patchy lawn scattered, clearing a path. No sign of her.

Dave pushed away from the warm wall and jogged down the steps, exhaling his frustration. He would have to take a long lunch tomorrow and track her down, which would make him late picking up his daughter twice in a week. Crap.

He cut a path across the scraggly lawn. A fluttering bluebird snagged his attention. He glanced back just as Sophie stepped through the door. She paused for a moment to put on her hat. He braced for the inevitable whammy – that wallop to his libido that came every time he looked at her.

Long ago, he’d learned to harness his reaction around her. From the first time he’d come across her eighteen months ago during a deposition on another case, he had wanted her. The glint of her wedding band had sparked regret. Not to mention he’d been in the middle of a hellacious divorce.

After discovering Sophie’s ritzy address, he’d thanked heaven for the near miss. His single brush with a materialistic woman was one too many. His single brush with marriage was a mistake not to be repeated as well.

Her marital status may have changed, but her posh neighborhood remained the same. He didn’t need any further incentive than that to resist her. Encounters focused solely on work offered security from temptation.

Sophie hurried down the steps, her pencil straight uniform skirt hitching higher up her leg. Her legs had driven him close to crazy during his stint in the witness stand. And when his eyes travel upward to the best set of curved hips in the free world?

A man could lose himself in her softness.

Her sun-streaked blonde hair was swept back into some kind of twist. Not for the first time, Dave imagined pulling out the pins and testing the silky texture sliding between his fingers. Her light hair contrasted with her golden glow, deep brown eyes, lightly tanned skin.

Tan lines.

Shit.

He knew the minute she saw him. Her gaze went from open to distant in a snap.

“Major Berg,” she acknowledged before charging past.

Ego stinging, he watched her hips twitch in her brisk, twitchy walk as she left him in the dust. His whole body throbbed from viewing only two inches of skin above her knee, and she barely noticed him. He couldn’t decide why her dismissal bothered him more than usual since he didn’t plan to do anything about the attraction.

A good swift reality kick reminded him of his reason for seeking her out, and he resolved to take comfort from the chill of her greeting.

“Major,” David called, catching her in three strides. “Wait a minute.”

“I haven’t got a minute.” Sophie tossed the words over her shoulder without meeting his gaze.

“Make time.”

She took two shorter, quick steps for his every long stride. “Call my secretary for an appointment.”

“Hold on!” He gripped her arm and tugged her to a halt. “If I’d wanted an appointment, I wouldn’t have spent the last hour waiting.”

The combined force of her sudden stop and spin to face him brought them a whisper apart. The simple act of touching her for the first time sent blood surging well below the belt.

Down, boy.

Dave unclenched his hand, allowing himself a brief trail down Sophie’s sleeve as he released her. A bubble of privacy wrapped around him as it had during the moment in the witness stand when she’d leaned a bit too close for a second past his comfort level.

A hint of uncertainty crossed her face before she stepped back. “This better be important.”

“It is.”

“You have exactly two minutes.” She checked her watch, late day sun glinting off the face plate. “I’m late picking up my son.”

He gestured toward the corner of the building, away from the crowd. “Let’s step over here in the shade.”

Following her, he almost cupped his hand to the middle of her back. Sophie stopped to face him just in time to prevent him from making that colossal mistake. Sophie Campbell was a J.A.G., an officer in the same Air Force he served. The Bronze Star on her uniform proved she was more than just someone sporting a bunch of “I Was There” ribbons. Right now, he wanted to know how she’d gotten that Bronze Star as much as he wanted to know the taste of her.

“One minute left, Major Berg.”

Right. “We need to talk about your line of questioning upstairs.”

“Do you have something to add to your testimony?”

“No.”

“Then we have nothing to discuss.” She moved to dart around him.

Dave braced a hand against a sprawling eucalyptus tree, blocking her escape. “I feel bad for that injured kid – Ricky – and for his family, too. Aside from how damn tragic the whole thing is, Professor Vasquez has got to be swamped with his son’s medical bills. I’d like to help the kid win a hefty settlement, but I can’t. You’re on the wrong track.”

“Major Berg–”

“Cut it out, Sophie. We’re not in the courtroom.” So much for keeping matters impersonal.

“This isn’t accomplishing anything. If you have something concrete to discuss, come to my office and we can meet in a more … professional setting.” Her gaze skittered away from his. “David, I really can’t do this today.”

He concurred on that point at least. “Am I supposed to wait around until you can fit me into your schedule?”

“I’ll be in touch.”

“No good. I don’t feel much like playing tag-team with your voice mail.”

Sophie watched undisguised frustration wrinkle David Berg’s brow as he barricaded her exit. She needed to leave. Now. Rather than diminishing, the tingling she’d felt earlier had increased to something resembling a third-degree sunburn.

Much longer with him and she might launch herself at him like a sex-starved woman. Which, of course, she was, even if she hadn’t realized it until an hour ago.

Sex. That’s all it is, just a natural, physical reaction. After a nap and some ice cream, she would be fine. The reasonable explanation calmed her. As a normal, healthy woman, of course her body would inevitably react to enforced abstinence. She could push aside the unwanted attraction long enough to talk with him, for the good of her case.

“All right, I would like to go over a couple of points in the incident report. But, I honestly don’t have time this afternoon.”

David’s hand pressed to the tree trunk brushed mere inches beside her cheek. His heat reached to her like a furnace blasting on an already hundred-plus degree day.

He shifted, his knee bent, his shoulders angling closer. “What if I meet you tomorrow for lunch?”

The offer tempted her. Hell, the man tempted her. She tried to focus on his tie instead of the flecks of steel in his blue eyes.

The rows and rows of tiny rectangular ribbons on his uniform jacket drew her eyes. An icy chill in her veins burned worse than the heat. How long before he too ended up cold and lifeless, like her husband, like her father?

She had no intention of waiting around to find out. “Your two minutes are up. Stop by my office after court tomorrow.”

Sophie ducked under his arm in an attempt to escape his appeal.

Two cracks sounded.

David slammed into her, tackling her. Her briefcase flew from her grip.

Another pop. A gunshot? No time to question. Her head smacked the rocky earth, David Berg’s body blanketing hers…

From Guardian, Berkley Sensation
Copyright Catherine Mann 2012

Chapter One

Tech Sergeant Brody Ward unlatched the gate to the white picket fence, more than ready to see his girl. After a twelve- month deployment to Kuwait, he’d been away from Penny for far too long.

But he knew without question she would be waiting for him.

The Florida sun hammered down on his head, his flight suit sticking to his back. A loadmaster on an AC-130, he hadn’t even bothered to change out of his uniform after they’d landed at Hurlburt Field. He’d sped through in-processing and driven his old truck straight across Fort Walton Beach until he’d arrived at the waterside duplex.

And then he saw her. Sitting on the front porch of the yellow stucco cottage. Waiting for him.

“Penny,” he called out, his heart already squeezing tight.

In a flash, she raced down the stone walkway. Long hair streaked behind her.

Kneeling, he held out his arms.

His Border collie loped faster, barking, and barking some more. Penny. Named for the copper streaks in her white fur that rippled as she ran to him.

Finally, a sense of coming home hit him as hard as his fifty-pound dog slamming full-on against his chest.

“How’s my girl?” He buried his face in the soft fur along her neck. “Did you miss me? Because I sure missed you like crazy.”

Penny’s barking shifted to more of a whimper talk that seemed to say, I missed you like crazy, too. Where have you been? Skype sucks because I can’t sniff you or lick your face.

Although she was more than making up for that now.

Laughing, Brody wiped the dog slobber off his chin onto her fur. Thank God she was okay and healthy. Most important, she was back with him. This deployment had almost cost him Penny forever. He swallowed hard and scratched her ears.

When he’d flown out a year ago, he’d thought Penny was safe and cared for with his dad and his stepmom. He’d left plenty of money in an account to pay for dog food and any possible vet visits. He’d been sad to leave his pet, but his stepmom had assured him they would look after Penny.

He should have known better than to trust his old man.

A month into the deployment, an emergency message had come through from county animal control. Penny had been picked up as a stray, thin and matted, her coat full of sandspurs. His dog’s microchip had enabled the shelter to contact Brody.

Straightening out the mess from across the globe via sketchy cell phone calls and email had been tough as hell, but he’d refused to give up. His dad had insisted Penny was too much trouble and refused to spring her from the shelter. Animal control made it clear his father had been doing a crappy job caring for Penny anyway, and they were considering cruelty charges for neglect. His dad had never been the most dependable, but his father’s new wife had seemed trustworthy.

Fury had been futile. In his limited time for calls, he had to focus on securing a safe place for his dog to stay for the remaining eleven months of the deployment. There wasn’t any other family to call, since his mother lived in a no-pets apartment across the country. He’d broken up with his girlfriend two months before flying out. All his friends were deployed to Kuwait with him.

He’d been at his wits’ end, calling dog-sitting businesses, willing to hock his truck if he’d needed to, since his dad had already spent all the cash.

Then the shelter had mentioned a possibility.

They had a handful of volunteers willing to foster long term for deployed service members. The list filled up fast. But they’d given him a name to try—Leah Russell.

His own personal godsend.

She’d come highly recommended, ran her own gourmet dog food bakery. She’d agreed and had taken in his dog for eleven months. He owed Leah Russell a debt he could never repay. She’d cared for Penny, sending him photos and video updates. She’d even set up Skype sessions so Penny could see his face and hear his voice.

Then he’d heard Leah’s husky voice. Seen her beautiful face. And wow. Just wow.

Today, he would meet her in the flesh for the first time.

Brody looked up from Penny to the duplex, searching for Leah. Was she somewhere across the simply manicured lawn? Standing in a window? Hanging out on the porch?

The creak of a chain caught his attention and he realized she sat on the porch swing. At least he thought it was her. Late-afternoon shadows grew longer, which accounted for why he hadn’t seen her right away.

Standing, he took a step toward her. “Leah?”
“Welcome back, Brody. You’re early.” She sounded like Marilyn Monroe with a southern accent, even sultrier without the filter of computer technology. “I didn’t expect you for another half hour.”

“Is it okay that I’m here now?” He hadn’t been able to wait to see Penny.

To see Leah. In person, rather than in computer HD.

Intellectually, he knew he was just some cause to her. Support our troops. A part of the patriotic wave to lift a warrior’s spirits. So he’d tried not to make too much of her emails and care packages. Still, he’d found himself anticipating those Skype sessions more and more.

Could the connection he’d felt have been his hyped-up imagination, spurred by battle fatigue and the need to connect with home? His feet grew roots on the flagstone walkway. Leah stayed in the shadows, the swing creaking.

“Of course it’s okay that you’re here now.” Her voice carried on the salty breeze rustling the palm trees. “Penny has been watching for you every day.”

Moving forward, Brody walked the last few feet to the house, his hand still resting on Penny’s head. His eyes adjusted to the shaded dimness of the porch, to the sunset and shadows. Leah’s caramel-blond hair shone as she swung into and out of the light.

At the top of the four steps, he finally saw her clearly. And more than wow. The reality of having her close took his breath away.

She wore jeans and layered tank tops that hugged her curves. Her long, lean legs were tucked to the side. She had the sort of soft, pale beauty that made a man go all protective, especially when he already had twelve months of battle mind-set testosterone pumping through his veins.

He locked in on the deep blue of her eyes, noticing the flecks of green that hadn’t been evident online. “I can’t thank you enough for taking such great care of Penny.”

She waved away his words with a slim hand. “Brody, anything I did is minor in comparison to your sacrifice this past year. I’m just happy to help in my own small way.”

“You made my time away less stressful, and as far as I’m concerned, that’s no small thing.”

“Penny’s such a good girl, it was easy. I even took her with me to work.”

Leah’s tank top bore the logo for the Three Pups and a Pony pet-food shop stamped across it—across her breasts. His mouth damn near watered.

What was she saying just now?

Oh, right. Something about his dog, who was currently plastered against his leg.

“You’re joking about taking her to work with you, right?” Brody dropped into the wicker chair near the swing, stroking Penny’s neck. “I know she’s a great dog—the best—but ‘easy to handle’ isn’t a phrase I would use.”

Although his dog was sure behaving right now.

“She just needs to be worn out and kept busy.” Long feather earrings played peekaboo in Leah’s shoulder-length hair. “She’s a working breed.”

“You understand dogs.”

Her plump lips curved into a smile. “Penny’s not my first foster for the shelter. And I gain insights from clients at the shop.” She smiled, her cheekbones as high as any model’s. “Then too, I have my own dog.”

“Monty. Your golden retriever.” Monty had made his fair share of appearances in the photos and on Skype. “Where is he?”

“In the house.” As if on cue, paws thudded on the window behind her. A long, golden nose pressed against the pane. “I was just spending a little alone time with Penny before I have to say goodbye to her.”

Goodbye? Whoa. Wait.

“Who says this has to be goodbye?…”

HONORABLE INTENTIONS
Chapter One

New Orleans, Louisiana: Mardi Gras

“Laissez les bons temps rouler!” Let the good times roll!

The cheer bounced around inside Hank Renshaw, Jr.’s, head as he pushed through the crowd lining the road to watch the Mardi Gras parade. His mood was anything but party-worthy.

He needed to deliver a message on behalf of his friend who’d been killed in action ten months ago. Tracking down his best bud’s girlfriend added twenty-ton weights to Hank’s already heavy soul.

Determination powered him forward, one step at a time, through the throng of partiers decked out in jester hats, masks and beads. Lampposts blazed through the dark. The parade inched past, a jazz band blasting a Louis Armstrong number while necklaces, doubloons and even lacy panties rained over the mini-mob.

Not surprising to see underwear fly. In years past, he’d driven down from Bossier City to New Orleans for Mardi Gras festivities. This town partied through the weekend leading all the way into Fat Tuesday. If former experiences were anything to judge by, the night would only get rowdier as the alcohol flowed. Before long, folks would start asking for beads the traditional way.

By hiking up their shirts.

A grandma waved her hands in the air, keeping her blouse in place for now as she shouted at a float with a krewe king riding a mechanical alligator, “Throw me something, mister!”

“Laissez les bons temps rouler!” the king shouted back in thickly accented Cajun French.

Hank sidestepped around a glowing lamppost. He spoke French and Spanish fluently, passable German and a hint of Chamorro from the time his dad had been stationed in Guam. He’d always sworn he wouldn’t follow in the old man’s aviator footsteps. While his dad was a pilot, Hank was a navigator. But in the end, he’d even chosen the same aircraft his dad had—the B-52. He couldn’t dodge the family legacy any more than his two sisters had. Renshaws joined the air force. Period. They’d served for generations, even though their cumulative investment portfolio now popped into the billions.

And he would give away every damn cent if he could bring back his friend.

Chest tight with grief, Hank looked up at the wrought-iron street number on the restaurant in front of him. Less than a block to go until he reached Gabrielle Ballard’s garret apartment, which was located above an antiques shop. He plunged back into the kaleidoscope of Mardi Gras purple, gold and green.

And then, in the smallest shift of the crowd, he saw her in the hazy glow of a store’s porch lights. Or rather, he saw her back as she made her way to her apartment. She didn’t appear to be here for the parade. Just on her way home, walking ahead of him with a floral sling full of groceries and a canvas sack.

Hurrying to catch her, he didn’t question how he’d identified her. He knew Gabrielle without even seeing her face. What a freaking sappy reality, but hell, the truth hurt. He recognized the elegant curve of her neck, the swish of her blond hair along her shoulders.

Even with a loose sweater hiding her body, there was no mistaking the glide of her long legs. The woman made denim look highend. She had a Euro-chic style that hinted at her dual citizenship. Her U.S. Army father had married a German woman, then finished out his career at American bases overseas. Gabrielle had come to New Orleans for her graduate studies.

Yeah, he knew everything about Gabrielle Ballard, from her history to the curve of her hips. He’d wanted her every day for a torturous year before he and Kevin had shipped out. The only relief? Since she lived in South Louisiana, while he and his friend were stationed in Northern Louisiana, Gabrielle had only crossed his path a couple of times a month.

Regardless, the brotherhood code put a wall between him and Gabrielle that Hank couldn’t scale. She was his best friend’s fiancée, Kevin’s girl. At least, she had been. Until Kevin died ten months ago. Two gunshots from a sniper at a checkpoint, and his friend was gone. That didn’t make Gabrielle available, but it did make her Hank’s obligation.

Gabrielle angled sideways, adjusting the sling holding her groceries and the canvas sack, to wedge through a cluster of college-aged students in front of the iron gate closing off the outdoor stairs to her apartment. A plastic cup in one guy’s hand sloshed foamy beer down her arm. She jumped back sharply, slamming into another drunken reveler. Gabrielle stepped forward, only to have the guy with the cup block her path again. She held her floral sack closer, fear stamped on her face.

Instincts still honed from battle shifted into high gear, telling Hank things were escalating in a damn dangerous way. He scowled, shoving forward faster without taking his eyes off her for even a second. The street lamp spotlighted her, her golden hair a shining beacon in the chaos. She pressed herself into a garden nook, but the sidewalk was packed; the noise of the floats so intense that calls for help wouldn’t be heard.

Hank closed the last two steps between him and the mess unfolding in front of him. He clamped his hand down firmly on the beer-swilling bastard’s shoulder.

“Let the lady pass.”

“What the hell?” The drunken jerk stumbled backward, bloodshot eyes unfocused.

Gabrielle’s gaze zipped to Hank. She gasped. Her emerald-green eyes went wide with recognition as she stared at him. And yeah, he felt an all too familiar snap of awareness inside him every time she crossed his path, the same draw that had tugged him the first time he saw her at a squadron formal.

One look at her then, in the ice-blue dress, and every cell in his body had shouted, “Mine!” Seconds later, Kevin had joined them, introducing her as the love of his life. Still, those cells in Hank kept on staking their claim on her.

The guy shrugged off Hank’s hand, alcohol all but oozing from his pores into the night air. “Mind your own business, pal.”

“Afraid I can’t do that.” Hank slid his arm around Ga-brielle’s waist, steeling himself for the soft feel of her against his side. “She’s with me, and it’s time for you to find another spot to watch the parade.”

The guy’s eyes focused long enough to skim over Hank’s leather flight jacket and apparently decide taking on a trained military guy might not be a wise move. He raised his hands, a glowing neon necklace peeking from the collar of his long-sleeved college tee. “Didn’t know you had prior claim, Major. Sorry.”

Major? God, it seemed as if yesterday he was a lieutenant, just joining a crew. Okay. He sure felt ancient these days even though he was only thirty-three. “No harm, no foul, as long as you walk away now.”

“Can do.” The guy nodded, turning back to his pals. “Let’s bounce, dudes.”

Hank watched until the crowd swallowed the drunken trio, his guard still high as he scanned the hyped-up masses.

“Hank?” Gabrielle called to him. “How did you find me?”

The sound of her voice speaking his name wrapped around him like a silken bond. Nothing had changed. He was still totally hooked on her. Bad enough before when she and Kevin had been engaged. But now, one glance at her made memories of his dying friend roil in his gut again.

He needed to check on Gabrielle as he’d promised Kevin he would, pass along his friend’s final words, then punch out of her life for good.

“You still live at the same address. Finding you wasn’t detective work,” he said, guiding her toward the iron gateway blocking her outside stairway. His eyes roved over the familiar little garden and wrought-iron table he’d seen for the first time when he’d driven down with Kevin two years ago. Determined to gain control of his feelings, he’d accompanied his bud on a weekend trip to the Big Easy. Pure torture from start to finish. “Let’s go to your place so we can talk.”

“What are you doing here? I didn’t know you’d returned to the States.” Her light German accent gave her an exotic appeal.

As if she needed anything else to knock him off balance. Good God, he was a thirty-three-year-old combat veteran, and she had him feeling like a high schooler who’d just seen the new hot chick in class.

He took in her glinting green eyes, her high cheekbones and delicate chin that gave her face a heartlike appearance. A green canvas purse hung from one shoulder, her floral shopping sack slung over her head, resting on her other hip. The strap stretched across her chest, between her breasts.

Breasts that were fuller than he remembered.

Better haul his eyes back upward, pronto. “I’m here for you.”

The rest could wait until they got inside. He pulled her closer, her grocery sling shifting between them heavily. What the hell did she have in there?

He slipped a finger under the strap. “Let me carry that for you.”

“No, thank you.” She covered the sack protectively with both hands, curving around the smooth bulge. Smooth? Maybe not groceries, after all. But what? Her sack wriggled.

He looked at the bag again, realization blasting through him. Holy crap. Not a satchel at all. He’d seen his sister Darcy wear one almost exactly like it when her son and daughter were newborns. No question, Gabrielle wore an infant sling.

And given the little foot kicking free, she had a baby on board.

UNDER FIRE by Catherine Mann
“Elite Force” book 3
Sourcebooks Casablanca
May 2012

Chapter One

Patrick Air Force Base, Florida

“Kill one. Screw one. Marry one.”

Major Liam McCabe almost choked on a gulp of the Atlantic as his pararescue teammate’s words floated across the waves. Today’s two-mile swim was pushing toward an hour long. A light rain pocked the surface faster by the second. Still, there was no reason to think one of his guys had gone batty.

Liam sliced an arm through the choppy ocean, looking to the side. “Wanna run that by me again, Cuervo?”

Jose “Cuervo” James swam next to him, phrases coming in bursts as his face cleared the water. “It’s a word game. Kill one. Screw one. Marry one. Somebody names three women…” Swim. Breathe. “And you have to pick.” Swim. Breathe. “One to marry. One to kill. One to-”

“Right,” Liam interrupted. “Got it.”

He would have sighed and shaken his head except for the whole drowning thing. At moments such as these, he felt like a stodgy old guy more than ever.

“So, Major?” Cuervo stroked along and over the rippling waves. Storm clouds brewed overhead. “Are you in?”

On monotonous swims or runs, they’d shot the breeze plenty of times to take their minds off screaming muscles. The distraction was particularly welcome during intense physical training.

This word game, however, was a first.

A quick glance reassured him the other six team members were keeping pace with him and Cuervo. Each held strong, powering toward the beach still a quarter of a mile away.

Feet pumping his fins, Liam shifted his attention back to the “game.” His body burned from the effort, but he had plenty of steam left inside to finish up. He was their team leader. Their commanding officer. He would not fall behind.

“How about I just listen first?” Water flowed over his body, briny, chilly. Familiar. “Let one of the others start off.”

“Sure, old man,” huffed Cuervo, spewing a mouthful to the side. “If you need to save your breath to keep pace. Okay, Fang, you’re up.”

Fang, the youngest of the group and the one most eager to fit in, arced his arms faster to pull up alongside. “Bring it on.”

“Topic for first three. Brad Pitt’s women,” Cuervo barked. “Gwyneth Paltrow. Jennifer Aniston. Angelina Jolie.”

“Jennifer’s hot.” Fang spewed water with his speedy answer. “I would do her in a heartbeat.”

Liam found an answer falling from his mouth after all. “I’d marry Angie.”

“Too easy.” Cuervo snorted. “You’ve been married three times, Major, so that’s not saying much for Angie.”

Which just left… poor Gwyneth.

But then he’d always had a thing for brunettes. And redheads. And blondes. Hell, he loved women. But he really loved brunettes. One brunette in particular, the one he hadn’t married or slept with or even made it past first base with, for God’s sake.

Focus on the swim. The team.

The damn game. “Cuervo, are we playing this or not?”

“Next trio up… topic is singers,” Cuervo announced. “Britney Spears. Christina Aguilera. And Kesha.”

Huh? “Who the hell is Kesha?”

“Are you sure you’re not too old for this job?”

“Still young enough to outswim you, baby boy.” Liam surged ahead of Cuervo. Swims were a lot easier on his abused knees than parachute landings or runs. But a pararescueman needed to be ready for anything, anywhere. Any weather.

Thunder rolled like a bowling ball gaining speed, and his teammates were the pins.

All games aside, this little dip in the rain was about more than a simple training exercise. More than team building. He needed his pararescuemen in top form for a mission they usually didn’t handle-the external security for an upcoming international summit being held at NASA. Not normal business for pararescuemen, but well within their skill set to act as a quick-reaction force if anything went down. After all, isn’t that what a rescue was? A quick reaction to something going down? Trained and prepared to fight back enemy-combatant forces if necessary to protect their rescue target.

This made for a tough last assignment. His final hoo-uh, ooh-rah before he said good-bye to military life. Since he was eleven years old watching vintage war movies on a VCR with his cancer-stricken mama, all he’d wanted was to be that man who took the hill and won the woman. His mother had lost her battle. But Liam had been determined to carry on the fight by putting on that uniform.

Damned if he would go out with a whimper.

Fang slapped the water. “Can we get back to the fuck-me game?”

“Hey,” Wade Rocha’s voice rumbled as deeply as the thunder, “no need to make this crude.”

“Oh, excuse me,” Fang gasped. “Now that you’re married, you’re all Sergeant Sensitivity.” Gasp. Stroke. “I guess we’ll call this… kill one, marry one…” Gasp. Stroke. “Make sweet, flowery love to one.”

Rocha muttered, “You’re just jealous, smart-ass.”

Fang chuckled and spluttered. “Not hardly. Monogamy until I’m in the grave?” He shuddered. “No thanks. Not into that.”

But Liam was.

He’d tried his ass off to make the happily-ever-after thing work. Tried three times, in fact. Problem was, he had a defective cog when it came to choosing a woman to spend his life with. Didn’t help that he’d always put the mission first, something that hadn’t sat well with any of his wives. A small fortune spent on marital counseling hadn’t been able to fix the relationships or him.

And still, he couldn’t get that one woman-that one brunette-out of his mind, no matter how many times he chanted, “Old patterns, not real, get over her.”

He was a romantic sap who fell in love too easily. He kept looking for that classic silver-screen ending. Guy gets girl. Roll credits.

If only he could have persuaded Rachel Flores to go out with him once they’d returned to the States. They’d worked together rescuing earthquake victims in the Bahamas six months ago. Had become good friends, or so he’d thought. After they got back, she never returned his calls.

Sure, if they had dated, the relationship would have self-destructed like all the rest. Then he could have walked away free and clear, no regrets, no lengthy explicit dreams that woke him up hard and unsatisfied. Now he was stuck with images of Rachel rattling around in his noggin until he wouldn’t even notice another woman if she were waiting on the beach ahead wearing nothing but body glitter and a do-me smile.

Except there wasn’t anyone on the beach. Just a stretch of sand and trees and a five-mile hike waiting to set his knees on fire after he hit the shore.

His life had been about training and service since he’d joined the army at eighteen. Became a ranger. Then got his degree while serving, became an officer, and swapped to the air force and pararescue missions.

Training. Honing. Brotherhood.

He’d sacrificed three marriages and any social life for this and would have kept right on doing so. Except now his thirty-eight-year-old body was becoming a liability to those around him.

One week. He had one week and a big-ass demonstration left. Until then he would do his damnedest to keep his team focused and invincible. He wasn’t going to spend another second fantasizing about a particular sexy spitfire brunette with as much grit as his elite force team.

Liam narrowed his eyes against the sting of salt and the pounding rain pushing through the surface like bullets. “I’ve got a new game, gentlemen. It’s called Pick Your Poison.” Stroke. Breathe. “If you’ve gotta die in the water…” Stroke. Breathe. “Would you choose a water moccasin? An alligator? Or a shark?”

***

Rachel Flores learned to break into cars when her mom rescued animals from locked automobiles. But she’d never expected to use that skill to lock herself and her dog inside a vehicle.

Checking over her shoulder, Rachel searched for military cops or a suspicious passerby around the tan concrete buildings on Patrick Air Force Base. The dozen or so camo-wearing personnel all seemed preoccupied with getting out of the Florida storm and into their cars at the end of the workday. Everyone was in too much of a hurry to spare a glance at her. Or maybe she was just that good at pretending she and her dog belonged here. Even though they totally didn’t.

Death threats offered up a hefty motivator for her to circumvent a few rules.

Raindrops slid down her face, her hair and clothes slicked to her skin. She’d wasted valuable minutes trying to pick the lock, but the car was darn near pickproof. Which was actually a waste of technology, when combined with a vulnerable ragtop.

One way or another, she would get inside Liam McCabe’s vehicle….

CHAPTER ONE
Nellis AFB, Nevada

“I’ve lost my edge, Colonel.”

The admission burned its way up Captain Chuck Tanaka’s throat, each word pure acid on open wounds inside him. But he was an ace at embracing pain, and he’d be damned before he would endanger anyone else by taking the Colonel up on his offer to put Chuck back in the action.

F-16s roared overhead, rattling the rafters in the gaping hangar. Colonel Rex Scanlon stood beside him as airmen prepped for deployment to the Middle East with immunizations, gas masks, duffel bags full of gear. Close to two hundred warm bodies going to war.

Including his crew. His old crew from the top secret test squadron.

Pilots Jimmy Gage and Vince Deluca lined up with loadmaster Mason Randolph standing in a long, long line for a gamma globulin immunization along with an assload full of other shots to prepare them for the diseases overseas. He remembered well how the huge needle left a lump that made for uncomfortable flying. Back when he’d been their navigator. Before his injuries grounded him for life.

These days he was the squadron mobility officer. He ensured all deploying personnel were up to date with training, shots, equipment.

In a nutshell? He rode a desk and pushed paper.

Musty gear and a low hum of chitchat filled the hangar. All familiar. Jimmy, Vince and Mason shuffled forward, flight suits down around their ankles in boxer shorts while the doc shouted, “Next.”

“Tanaka?” Scanlon leaned forward, staring him down from behind black rimmed glasses. “I need you on this mission. You’re the man. You have the skills.”

Not the skills he wanted, not the job he wanted. Better to exist.

Chuck took a folder from an overeager airman and signed off the bottom of a form. One more ready to deploy. Around them, uniformed men and women carried large green deployment bags stuffed full of equipment picked up at numerous stations. Security cops were posted throughout, watching and talking into radios. Off to his left, a dozen more who’d completed drawing equipment sat on the floor fitting the ballistic plates into their body armor. Another group checked over their weapons, disassembling and putting them back together.

His fingers twitched with muscle memory from performing the same tasks countless times. In the past. Speed mattered and he couldn’t trust his hands or his feet any longer.

Chuck slapped the folder closed. “I figure I’ve given my fair share to Uncle Sam. He won’t mind if I sit out the rest of my commitment to the Air Force at my desk, rubber stamping paperwork.”

Scanlon scrubbed his face, sighed hard, his eyes too full of the hell that went down when they’d both been in Turkey two years ago. “Without question, you’ve sacrificed more than your fair share for your country. But this op, this enemy, these people…” His jaw clenched and the pity shifted to something harder. “This is our chance to even the score for what they did to you and those other servicemen they kidnapped.”

Hunger. Mind games. Torture. Chuck’s grip tightened on his clipboard.

Thankfully, his thoughts were broken by another airman thrusting a folder at him. He opened it and took a few minutes to calm himself by reading the checklist before signing at the bottom. He embraced routine and monotony through the days and sweated through the nights.

Chuck passed the folder back to the airman and waited until he stepped away before meeting the Colonel’s gaze dead on. “A very wise nun always told me holding grudges is bad for the soul.”

“In case you didn’t notice, I’m not laughing.”

Neither was Chuck these days. But he was getting by. Surviving one step at a time, literally, as he recovered from the ass kicking he’d taken overseas at the hands of a sadistic bitch bent on prying secrets from servicemen, then selling the info to the highest terrorist bidder.

She hadn’t gotten jack shit from him about the covert test missions he used to fly or the cutting edge equipment he developed in the dark ops squadron. But he’d paid a heavy price for keeping those secrets.

“Pardon my bluntness, Colonel, but have you taken a look at me lately?” His eleven broken bones had healed as well as they ever would, and he was lucky to be on his feet again. Reconstructive surgery had taken care of most of the scars. External ones, anyway.

His ex girlfriend claimed he was still an “emotional cripple.” Whatever the hell that meant. “Sir, I know exactly what I’m worth these days, or rather how little. You’re not fooling anyone here. Offering me a mission is the equivalent of a pity fuck. Sir.”

Scanlon’s thick eyebrow hitched upward through two shouts of “Next” before he pulled the clipboard from his hand and gave it to Chuck’s assistant, a surprised master sergeant.

The Colonel guided Chuck away from the bustle and behind some pallets loaded for the deployment. “Chuck, this mission could be the back breaker for what some of the intel spooks think is a major attack here in the States. Our equipment, equipment you helped test, is the only way to exploit the one hole we have been able to find in their organization–”

“Not interested,” he interrupted, desperate as hell to stop the Colonel from taunting him with what he could not have anymore.

Scanlon continued as if he’d never been interrupted, “You’ll go in undercover as a blackjack dealer on an Italian cruise ship next week. You won’t be going in alone. I’ll have your back, and David Berg will be running the surveillance equipment on board the Fortuna. Think about it. At worst you’ll get some sun and great food. And at best, you’ll bring down a terrorist cell.”

Hunger for the chance to fight back gnawed at his gut. “You don’t need me as the front man.” Maybe… “Why not let me operate the gadgets? Nobody runs the packet analyzer and translator algorithms as well as I do. It’s more art than science.”

Shit, he was already envisioning himself there. “Forget I said that. I’m exactly where I should be–.”

Pop! A gunshot blasted from the other side of the pallets. A chunk of wood splintered into the air.

Chuck jerked hard and fast, looking over his shoulder even as he knew it had to be some dumb ass who’d slipped a round in his weapon then seriously screwed up with an unintentional discharge. He looked across the hangar—

And stared straight into cold, emotionless eyes of a gunman who looked too damn much like one of their own firing wildly into the clusters of airmen.

So fast. Shouts and more pops. Bullets. From the gunman and the security cops, but no one could get a decent aim as the guy ran and bobbed. The gunman turned toward Chuck’s old crew. Fired. Jimmy spun back as a round caught him in the shoulder. The gun tracked Jimmy for another—

Chuck drew his sidearm before he could think and centered on the uniformed gunman’s chest. Pop. Pop. Pop. He squeezed off three shots, center of mass.

Everyone and everything in the hangar went unearthly still. The only sound was a haunting echo of Chuck’s shots.

The gunman crumpled to the ground a second before the acrid scent of gunfire bit the air.

Chuck’s fist clenched around the familiar weight of his 9mm. The hangar seemed to freeze frame, imprinting itself in his brain. Cops with weapons drawn. Others with their fists wrapped around the butt of a gun. The unarmed huddled, hugging their heads protectively.

Slowly, sounds of sirens outside pierced his consciousness and snapped the frame back into motion. Security cops swarmed the downed gunman. His old crewmate, Jimmy, sat up, clutching his shoulder with blood pouring between his fingers while the rest of the crew checked him over. No one else opened fire but the edgy need to stay on guard seared the air as three other injured held onto a bleeding leg or arm. No one dead though. Thank God.

Adrenaline singed his insides, his pulse pounding in his ears. The gun felt right in his hands. Taking out an enemy felt even better.

The Colonel secured his unfired weapon back in the holster and stared at Chuck’s smoking gun, now pointing upward. “Still think you’ve lost your edge, Tanaka? Because from where I’m standing, it appears you just stopped a massacre.”

Chuck lowered his weapon slowly, the inevitable flooding his veins with each slug of his heart. “That same old nun also told me gloating is as dangerous as grudges.”

“Fair enough, Captain. I take it then you’ll be joining Berg and me at the morning briefing?”

He nodded once without taking his eyes off the unconscious gunman.

“Good, good,” Scanlon righted his black framed glasses. “Meanwhile, you may want to brush up on your blackjack skills.”

Chuck thumbed the barrel of his weapon, an undeniable thirst filling him. The need to get back in the fight. The need to defend his comrades.

The need to avenge.

There were still a lot of blanks to be filled in, but then that’s what briefs were for. He didn’t need to hear anymore well-executed persuasive arguments. He already knew.

He was going all in.
**

HOT ZONE

Chapter One

The world had caved in on Amelia Bailey. Literally.

Aftershocks from the earthquake still rumbled the gritty earth under her cheek, jarring her out of her hazy micro nap. Dust and rocks showered around her. Her skin, her eyes, everything itched and ached after hours—she’d lost track of how many – beneath the rubble.

The quake had to have hit at least seven on the Richter Scale. Although when you ended up with a building on top of you, somehow a Richter scale didn’t seem all that pertinent.

She squeezed her lids closed. Inhaling. Exhaling. Inhaling, she drew in slow, even breaths of the dank air filled with dirt. Was this what it was like to be buried alive? She pushed back the panic as forcefully as she’d clawed out a tiny cavern for herself.

This wasn’t how she’d envisioned her trip to the Bahamas when she’d offered to help her brother and sister-in-law with the legalities of international adoption.

Muffled sounds penetrated, of jackhammers and tractors. Life scurried above her, not that anybody seemed to have heard her shouts. She’d screamed her throat raw until she could only manage a hoarse croak now.

Time fused in her pitch black cubby, the air thick with sand. Or disintegrated concrete. She didn’t want to think what else. She remembered the first tremor, the dawning realization that her third floor hotel room in the seaside Bahamas resort was slowly giving way beneath her feet. But after that?

Her mind blanked.

How long had she been entombed? Forever, it seemed, but probably more along the lines of half a day while she drifted in and out of consciousness. She wriggled her fingers and toes to keep the circulation moving after so long immobile. Every inch of her body screamed in agony from scrapes and bruises and probably worse, but she couldn’t move enough to check. Still, she welcomed the pain that reassured her she was alive.

Her body was intact.

Forget trying to sit up. Her head throbbed from having tried that. The ceiling was maybe six inches above where she lay flat on her belly. Again, she willed back hysteria. The fog of claustrophobia hovered, waiting to swallow her whole.

More dust sifted around her. The sound of the jackhammers rattled her teeth. They seemed closer, louder with even a hint of a voice. Was that a dog barking?

Hope hurt after so many disappointments. Even if her ears heard right, there had to be so many people in need of rescuing after the earthquake. All those efforts could easily be for someone else a few feet away. They might not find her for hours. Days.

Ever.

But she couldn’t give up. She had to keep fighting. If not for herself, then for the little life beside her, her precious new nephew. She threaded her arm through the tiny hole between them to rub his back, even though he’d long ago given up crying, sinking into a frighteningly long nap. His shoulders rose and fell evenly, thank God, but for how much longer?

Her fingers wrapped tighter around a rock and she banged steadily against the oppressive wall overhead. Again and again. If only she knew Morse code. Her arm numbed. Needle-like pain prickled down her skin. She gritted her teeth and continued. Didn’t the people up there have special listening gear?

Dim shouts echoed, like a celebration. Someone had been found. Someone else. Her eyes burned with tears that she was too dehydrated to form. Desperation clawed up her throat. What if the rescue party moved on now? Far from her deeply buried spot?

Time ticked away. Precious seconds. Her left hand gripped the rock tighter, her right hand around the tiny wrist of the child beside her. Joshua’s pulse fluttered weakly against her thumb.

Desperation thundered in her ears. She pounded the rock harder overhead. God, she didn’t want to die. There’d been times after her divorce when the betrayal hurt so much she’d thought her chance at finally having a family was over, but she’d never thrown in the towel. Damn him. She wasn’t a quitter.

Except why wasn’t her hand cooperating anymore? The opaque air grew thicker with despair. Her arm grew leaden. Her shoulder shrieked in agony, pushing a gasping moan from between her cracked lips. Pounding became taps… She frowned. Realizing…

Her hand wasn’t moving anymore. It slid uselessly back onto the rubble strewn floor. Even if her will to live was kicking ass, her body waved the white flag of surrender.

**

Master Sergeant Hugh Franco had given up caring if he lived or died five years ago. These days, the Air Force pararescueman motto was the only thing that kept his soul planted on this side of mortality.

That others may live.

Since he didn’t have anything to live for here on earth, he volunteered for the assignments no sane person would touch. And even if they would, his buds had people who would miss them. Why cause them pain?

Which was what brought him to his current snow-ball’s-chance-in-hell mission.

Hugh commando crawled through the narrow tunnel in the earthquake rubble. His helmet lamp sliced a thin blade through the dusty dark. His headset echoed with chatter from above – familiar voices looking after him and unfamiliar personnel working other missions scattered throughout the chaos. One of the search and rescue dogs above ground had barked his head off the second he’d sniffed this fissure in the jumbled jigsaw of broken concrete.

Now, Hugh burrowed deeper on the say so of a German Shepherd named Zorro. Ground crew attempts at drilling a hole for a search camera had come up with zip. But that Zorro was one mighty insistent pup so Hugh was all in.

He half listened to the talking in one ear, with the other tuned in for signs of life in the devastation. Years of training honed an internal filter that blocked out communication not meant for him.

“You okay down there Franco?”

He tapped the talk button on his safety harness and replied, “Still moving. Seems stable enough.”

“So says the guy who parachuted into a minefield on an Afghani mountainside.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” Somebody had needed to go in and rescue that Green Beret who’d gotten his legs blown off. “I’m good for now and I’m sure I heard some tapping ahead of me. Tough to tell, but maybe another twenty feet or so.”

He felt a slight tug, then loosening to the line attached to his safety harness as his team leader played out more cord.

“Roger that, Franco. Slow and steady man, slow and steady.”

Just then he heard the tapping again. “Wait one, Major.”

Hugh stopped and cocked his free ear. Tapping for sure. He swept his light forward, pushing around a corner and saw a widening cavern that held promise inside the whole hellish pancake collapse. He inched ahead, aiming the light on his helmet into the void.

The slim beam swept a trapped individual. Belly to the ground, the person sprawled with only a few inches free above. The lower half of the body was blocked. But the torso was visible, covered in so much dust and grime he couldn’t tell at first if he saw a male or female. Wide eyes stared back at him with disbelief, followed by wary hope. Then the person dropped a rock and pointed toward him.

Definitely a woman’s hand.

Trembling, she reached, her French manicure chipped, nails torn back and bloody. A gold band on her thumb had bent into an oval. He clasped her hand quickly to check the thumb for warmth and a pulse.

And found it. Circulation still intact.

Then he checked her wrist, heart rate elevated but strong.

She gripped his hand with surprising strength. “If I’m hallucinating,” she said, her raspy voice barely more than a whisper, “please don’t tell me.”

“Ma’am, you’re not imagining anything. I’m here to help you.”

He let her keep holding on as it seemed to bring her comfort—and calm—while he swept the light over what he could see of her to assess medically. Tangled hair. A streak of blood across her head. But no gaping wounds.

He thumbed his mic. “Have found a live female. Trapped, but lucid. More data after I evaluate.”

“Roger that,” McCabe’s voice crackled through.

Hugh inched closer, wedging the light into the crevice in hopes of seeing more of his patient. “Ma’am, crews are working hard to get you out of here, but they need to stabilize the structure before removing more debris. Do you understand me?”

“I hear you.” She nodded, then winced as her cheek slid along the gritty ground. “My name is Amelia Bailey. I’m not alone.”

More souls in danger. “How many?”

“One more. A baby.”

His gut gripped. He forced words past his throat clogging from more than particulates in the air. “McCabe, add a second soul to that. A baby with the female, Amelia Bailey. Am switching to hot mic so you can listen in.”

He flipped the mic to constant feed, which would use more battery but time was of the essence now. He didn’t want to waste valuable seconds repeating info. “Ma’am, how old is the baby?”

“Thirteen months. A boy,” she spoke faster and faster, her voice coming out in scratchy croaks. “I can’t see him because it’s so dark, but I can feel his pulse. He’s still alive, but oh God, please get us out of here.”

“Yes, ma’am. Now, I’m going to slip my hand over your back to see if I can reach him.”

He had his doubts. There wasn’t a sound from the child, no whimpering, none of those huffing little breaths children made when they slept or had cried themselves out. Still, he had to go through the motions. Inching closer until he stretched alongside her, he tunneled his arm over her shoulders. Her back rose and fell shallowly, as if she tried to give him more space when millimeters counted. His fingers snagged on her torn shirt, something silky and too insubstantial a barrier between her and tons of concrete.

Pushing further, he met resistance, stopped short. Damn it. He grappled past the jutting stone, lower down her back until he brushed the top of her—

She gasped.

He looked up fast, nearly nose to nose now. His hand stilled on her buttock. She stared back, the light from his helmet sweeping over her sooty face. Her eyes stared back, a splash of color in the middle of murky desperation.

Blue. Her eyes were glistened pure blue, and what a strange thought to have in the middle of hell. But he couldn’t help but notice they were the same color as cornflowers he’d seen carpeting a field once during a mission in the U.K.

Hell, cornflowers were just weeds. He stretched deeper, along the curve of her butt, bringing his face nearer to hers. She bit her lip.

“Sorry,” he clipped out.

Wincing, she shrugged. “It was a reflex. Modesty’s pretty silly right now. Keep going.”

Wriggling, he shifted for a better path beyond the maze of jagged edges, protruding glass, spikes…

“Damn it.” He rolled away, stifling the urge to say a helluva lot worse. “I can’t reach past you.”

Her fingers crawled to grip his sleeve. “I’m just so glad you’re here, that everyone knows we are here. Joshua’s heart is still beating. He’s with us and we haven’t been down here long enough for him to get dehydrated, less than a day. There’s hope, right?”

Less than a day? Nearly forty-eight hours had passed since the earthquake occurred, and while he’d participated in against all odds rescues before, he had a sick sense that the child was already dead. But alerting the woman to her own confusion over the time wouldn’t help and could actually freak her out.

“Sure, Amelia. There’s always hope.”

Or so the platitude went.

“I’m going to hang out here with you while they do their work upstairs.” He unstrapped the pack around his waist and pointed his headlight toward the supplies. “Now I’m gonna pull out some tricks to make you more comfortable while we wait.”

“Happen to have an ice cold Diet Coke? Although I’ll settle for water, no lemon necessary.”

He laughed softly. Not many would be able to joke right now, much less stay calm. “I’m sorry, but until I know more about your physical status, I can’t risk letting you eat or drink.” He tugged out a bag of saline, the needle, antiseptic swabs, grunting as a rock bit into his side. “But I am going to start an IV, just some fluids to hydrate you.”

“You said you’re here to help me,” she said, wincing at a fresh burst of noise from the jackhammers, “but who are you?”

“I’m with the U.S. Air Force.” Dust and pebbles showered down. “I’m a pararescueman—you may have heard it called parajumper or PJ—but regardless it includes a crap-ton of medic training. I need to ask some questions so I know what else to put in your IV. Where exactly did the debris land on you?”

She puffed dust from her mouth, blinking fast. “There’s a frickin’ building on top of me.”

“Let me be more specific. Are your legs pinned?” He tore the corner of a sealed alcohol pad with his teeth, spitting the foil edge free. “I couldn’t reach that far to assess.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I thought you were checking on Joshua.”

“I’m a good multi-tasker.”

“My foot is wedged, but I can still wriggle my toes.”

He looked up sharply. If she was hemorrhaging internally, fluids could make her bleed out faster, but without hydration…

The balancing act often came down to going with his gut. “Just your foot?”

“Yes. Why? Do you think I’m delusional?” Her breath hitched with early signs of hysteria. “I’m not having phantom sensations. I can feel grit against my ankle. There’s some blood in my shoe, not a lot. It’s sticky, but not fresh. I’m feeling things.”

“I hear you. I believe you.” Without question, her mind would do whatever was needed to survive. But he’d felt enough of her body to know she was blocked, rather than pressed into the space. “I’m going to put an IV in now.”

“Why was it so important about my foot?”

He scrubbed the top of her hand with alcohol pads, sanitizing as best he could. “When parts of the body are crushed, we need to be… uh… careful in freeing you.”

“Crush syndrome.” Her throat moved with a long slow swallow. “I’ve heard of that. People die from it after they get free. I saw it on a rerun of that TV show about a crabby drug addict doctor.”

“We just need to be careful.” In a crush situation, tissue died, breaking down and when the pressure was released, toxins flooded the body, overloading the kidneys. And for just that remote possibility, he hadn’t included potassium in her IV.

Panic flooded her glittering blue eyes. “Are you planning to cut off my foot?” Her arm twitched, harder, faster until she flailed. “Are you going to put something else in that IV? Something to knock me out?”

He covered her fingers with his before she dislodged the port in her hand. “There’s nothing in there but fluid. I’m being honest with you now, but if you panic, I’m going to have to start feeding you a line of bullshit to calm you down. Now you said you wanted the unvarnished truth—”

“I do. Okay. I’m breathing. Calming down. Give me the IV.”

He patted her wrist a final time. “I already did.”

Blinking fast, she looked at the tape along her hand. A smile pushed through the grime on her face. “You’re good. I was so busy trying not to freak out I didn’t even notice.”

“Not bad for my first time.”

“Your first time?”

“I’m kidding.” And working to distract her again from the rattle overhead, the fear that at any second the whole damn place could collapse onto them.

She laughed weakly, then stronger. “Thank you.”

“It’s just an IV.”

“For the laugh. I was afraid I would never get to do that again.” Her fingers relaxed slowly, tension seeping from them as surely as fluid dripped out of the bag. “The second they uncover us, you’ll make Joshua top priority. Forget about me until he’s taken care of.”

“We’re going to get you both out of here. I swear it.”

“Easy for you to claim that. If I die, it’s not like I can call you a liar.”

A dead woman and child. He resisted the urge to tear through the rocks with his bare hands and to hell with waiting on the crews above. He stowed his gear, twisting to avoid that damn stone stabbing his side.

“Hey,” Amelia whispered. “That was supposed to be a joke from me this time.”

“Right, got it.” Admiration for her grit kicked through his own personal fog threatening to swallow him whole. “You’re a tough one. I think you’re going to be fine.”

“I’m a county prosecutor. I chew up criminals for a living.”

“Atta girl.” He settled onto his back, watching the hypnotic drip, drip. His fingers rested on her wrist to monitor her pulse.

“Girl?” She sniffed. “I prefer to be called a woman or a lady, thank you very much.”

“Where I come from, it’s wise not to be nitpicky with the person who’s saving your ass.”

“Score one for you.” She scraped a torn fingernail through the dust on the ground. Her sigh stirred the dust around that shaky line. “I’m good now. So you should go before this building collapses on top of you and keeps you from doing your job for other people.”

“I don’t have anywhere else to be.” He ignored a call from McCabe through his headset that pretty much echoed the woman’s words. “The second they give the go ahead, I’m hauling you out of here, Amelia Bailey.”

“And Joshua. I want you to promise you’ll take care of him first.”

“I will do what I can for him,” he answered evasively.

Her wide eyes studied him for seven drips of the IV before she cleared her throat. “You don’t think he’s alive, do you? I can feel his pulse.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’m not imagining it, damn it.” Her hand flipped and she grabbed his arm, her ragged nails digging deep with urgency. “I can feel his pulse in his wrist. He’s a little chilly, but he’s not cold. Just because he’s not screaming his head off doesn’t mean he’s dead. And sometimes, he moves. Only a little, but I feel it.” Her words tumbled over each other faster and faster until she dissolved into a coughing fit.

Ah, to hell with it. He unhooked his canteen. “Wet your mouth. Just don’t gulp, okay? Or they’ll kick my butt up there.”

He brought the jug to her lips and she sipped, her restraint Herculean when she must want to drain it dry. Sighing, she sagged again, her eyes closing as she hmmmed, her breathing evening out. He freaked. She needed to stay awake, alert.

Alive.

“Tell me about your son Joshua.” He recapped the canteen without wasting a swallow on himself.

Her lashes fluttered open again. “Joshua’s my nephew. I came with my brother and his wife to help them with the paperwork for their adoption. They don’t want any legal loopholes. What happens to Joshua if they’re…?”

She bit her lip.

His brain raced as he swept the light along the rubble, searching for some signs of others. Although there hadn’t been a helluva lot of survivors in the vicinity. All the same, he made sure they heard upstairs, by speaking straight into his mic as he asked her, “Where were your brother and sister-in-law when the earthquake hit?”

“They were in the street, outside the hotel. They left to buy lunch. They waited until Joshua was asleep so he wouldn’t miss them.” Her voice hitched. “I promised I would take care of him.”

“And you have.” He pinned her with his eyes, with his determination, the swath of light staying steady on her face. “Keep the faith. Hold steady and picture your family in one of the camps for survivors right now going nuts trying to find you.”

“I’ve read stories about how babies do better because they have more fat stores and they don’t tense up or get claustrophobic.” Her eyes pleaded with him. “He’s just napping, you know.”

The force of her need pummeled him harder than the spray of rocks from the jack hammered ceiling. The world closed in to just this woman and a kid he couldn’t see. Too clearly he could envision his wife and his daughter, trapped in the wreckage of a crashed plane. Marissa would have held out hope for Tilly right to the end too, fighting for her until her nails and spirit were ragged.

Shit.

The vise on his brain clamped harder, the roar in his ears louder, threatening his focus. “I’m changing your IV bag now, so don’t wig out if you feel a little tug.”

She clenched her fist. “You must get pretty jaded in this line of work.”

“I’ve got a good success rate.” He didn’t walk away from tough odds. Every mission was do or die for him.

“About my foot,” she started hesitantly, “am I imagining that it’s okay? Be honest. I won’t panic. I need to be prepared.”

“The mind does what it needs to in order to survive. That’s what you need to focus on. Surviving.”

Not that any amount of determination had mattered in the end for Marissa or Tilly. They’d died in that plane crash, their broken bodies returned to him to bury along with his will to live. A trembling started deep inside him. His teeth chattered. He dug his fingers into the ground to anchor himself into the present. Amelia Bailey would not die on his watch, damn it.

But the trembling increased inside him. Harder. Deeper. Until he realized… The shaking wasn’t inside, but outside.

The ground shuddered with another earthquake.
***
HOT ZONE
by Catherine Mann
Sourcebooks Casablanca
December 2011

…He needed more time with her.

His mind filled with a vision of Alexa chasing his kids around, all wet from the tub. Warm memories pulled him in with a reminder of the family life he should be having right now and wasn’t because of his workload. Having Alexa here felt so right.

It was right.

And so he wasn’t sending her home in the morning. Not only did he need her help with the children, he wanted her to stay for personal reasons. the explosive chemistry they’d just discovered didn’t come around often. Hell, he couldn’t remember when he’d ever burned this much to have a particular woman. So much the craving filled his mind, as well as his body.

The extension of their trip presented the perfect opportunity to follow that attraction to its ultimate destination.

Landing her directly in his bed.
***
BILLIONAIRE’S JET SET BABIES
by Catherine Mann
Harlequin Desire
October 2011

“I never thought you would turn into a smug, stuck-up snob.”

“Why don’t you speak a little louder? I don’t think they heard you over at table ten,” Rafe quipped.

“Why do you care what they think? What does it matter to you if I lose my job?”

“Sarah, perhaps we should talk this out somewhere more private.”

“Oh, so now you want to speak to me? After five months of ignoring my existance? After fourteen years of not even a postcard when you left for L.A. after graduation? I’m so sorry if hearing the truth makes you uncomfortable.”

He’d opened his mouth to take her down a peg…. Then the absurdity of it all hit him. He was renowned for making top corporate raiders quake in their Gucci loafers, but fearless Sarah took him on without a wince…

“Rich, Rugged and Royal” Book 3
HIS HEIR, HER HONOR
By Catherine Mann

“Cover the family jewels, gentlemen,” Lilah Anderson called into the men’s locker room at St. Mary’s Hospital. “Female coming through.”

High heels clicking on tile, Lilah charged past a male nurse yanking on scrubs and an anesthesiologist wrestling with a too small towel, barely registering the flash of male flank here, masculine chest there. Smothered coughs and chuckles echoed around her in the steamy tiled area, but she remained undeterred.

Completely focused on locating him.

No one dared stop her on her way past benches and lockers. As chief administrator of Tacoma’s leading surgical facility, she could have any of them fired faster than someone could say “Who dropped the soap?”

Her only problem? A particularly stubborn employee seemed determined to avoid her every attempt to speak with him over the past couple of weeks. Therefore, she’d chosen the one place she could be certain of having Dr. Carlos Medina’s complete attention – a public shower.

The stall tactics would end here and now. And speaking of stalls…

Lilah stepped deeper into the swell of steam puffing around a cream colored plastic curtain. His secretary, Wanda, had warned that he couldn’t be reached since he was washing up after a lengthy surgery. He would be exhausted and cranky.

Not deterred in the least, Lilah saw this as the perfect opportunity she’d been seeking to corner him. She’d grown up with two brothers, and she would have been left out of everything if she didn’t occasionally invade their male inner sanctums. She eyed the line of showers.

Three of the five were in use. The first sported a shadowy, short and round male figure. Not Carlos.

From the second, a balding head peeked around the industrial curtain with shocked green eyes. Also not her surgeon in question.

She nodded to the head of pediatrics. “Good afternoon, Jim.”

Jim ducked back into his stall, which left her to focus on the third tiled cubicle. She marched forward, heels tapping almost as fast as her heart.

Stopping, she planted her feet and checked first. Through the plastic folds, she studied the lean outline standing under the spray, scrubbing his hands over his head. Without even pulling aside the curtain, she knew that body well, intimately so.

She’d found him, Carlos Medina – doctor, lover and as if the guy didn’t already have enough going for him, he was also the eldest son of a former European monarch. His princely pedigree, however, didn’t impress her. Long before she knew about his royal roots, she’d been drawn to his brilliance, his compassion for his patients…

And a backside that looked damn fine in scrubs. Or wearing nothing at all. Definitely not what she needed to think about right now.

Lilah gathered her nerve as firmly as she clenched the curtain and swept it aside, metal rings clink, clink, clinking along the rod.

A wall of steam rolled out, momentarily clouding her vision until the mist dispersed and exposed an eyeful of mouth wateringly magnificent man. Water sluiced down Carlos’s naked body turned sideways, revealing long lean muscles flexing and bunching. And heaven help her, she had a perfect view of the curve of his taut butt.

Beads of moisture clung to his bronzed skin, arms and legs sprinkled with dark hair. No tan lines marked him since he spent most of his time indoors either in surgery or asleep. But his natural olive coloring gave him an all over tanned look, as if he’d bared himself unabashedly to the sun.

Turning his head toward her in a slow, deliberate move, not even a whisper of surprise showed on Carlos’s face. His eyes shone nearly black… heavy lidded… darkly enigmatic. She couldn’t suppress a shiver of desire as his intense gaze held hers. Her stomach knotted with a traitorous ache that could only serve to distract her from her mission today.

He raised one thick eyebrow, slashing upward into his forehead. “Yes?”

His subtle Spanish accent saturated the lone syllable like the steam in the air, so hot she felt the urge to ditch the jacket on her power suit.

In the next stall, water shut off in a hurry as the head of pediatrics made a hasty departure from the locker room. Others lingered, backs studiously turned as they retrieved clothing.

Lilah tugged her jacket more firmly in place. “I need to talk to you.”

“A telephone conversation would have saved my coworkers some embarrassment.” He spoke softly as always, never raising his voice as if he knew innately that people would hang on his every word.

“What I have to say isn’t for an impersonal call.” And wasn’t that the understatement of the year? What she needed to tell him also wasn’t for the curious ears behind her, but she would have Carlos alone soon.

All alone?

Static-like awareness popped along her nerves until the hair on her arms rose. And was that an answering spark lighting his dark eyes? Then he blinked away any hint of emotion.

“It does not get much more personal than this, boss lady.” He turned off the shower. “Could you pass me that towel?”

She snagged the white cotton draped on a hook, hospital name and logo stamped along the bottom. She pitched the towel to him rather than risk an accidental touch. As he looped it around his waist, she couldn’t resist staring for a stolen second.

Water soaked his hair even blacker, shiny and swept back from his face. Every hard and hunky angle of his aristocratic cheekbones and nose was revealed. Dark brows slashed just over brown eyes that rarely carried humor, but turned lava lush when he made love to her.

Pivoting, his back to her for the first time, he snagged his shampoo. Her eyes quickly left his slim hips and taut butt, drawn more to the scars along his lower back. In the four years she’d known him, he’d chalked up his permanent limp to a teenage riding accident. The one time she’d pressed him further, the first time she’d seen those scars, he’d brushed aside further questions with distracting kisses along her bare skin.

While she was a lawyer and not a doctor, her tenure working at the hospital – and flat out common sense – clued her in that he’d suffered a major physical trauma.

Toiletries bag tucked under his arm, he leaned toward her. His shoulders, then his eyes, drew her in until the rest of the space faded away. She swallowed hard.

He stared back, unblinking, unflinching. “Let’s make this quick.”

“Your charm never ceases to impress me.”

“If you’re looking for charm, you hired the wrong man four years ago.” He’d been thirty-six then to her thirty-one, a lifetime ago. “I’ve spent most of the day repairing the spine of a seven year old Afghani girl injured by a roadside bomb. I’m beat.”

Unwanted sympathy whispered through her. Of course he was exhausted from the drawn out, tragic surgery. Even when he caved to his pride and used a chair during extended operations, the toll it took on him was always evident. But she couldn’t afford to weaken now.

They’d been friends for years only to have him turn into a cold jackass because of an impulsive one night stand together after a Christmas fundraiser. It wasn’t like she’d dropped a wedding planner in his lap five seconds after the third orgasm waned.

Yep, three. Her toes curled inside her pumps at just the memory of each shimmering release.

The sex had been amazing. Beyond amazing actually, and after that impulsive hook-up, she’d envisioned them transitioning into a relationship of friends with kick-ass benefits. A nerve tingling, safe option. But he’d pulled away as fast as he’d pulled on his pants the next morning. He was cold, withdrawn and painfully polite.

But she wasn’t backing down. “I don’t have the time for niceties. I’m just here to say my piece. So grab some clothes and let’s talk.”

He ducked his head until his voice heated her ear. “You’re not the type to create a scene. Let’s set up a time to talk when you’re calmer. This is already awkward enough.”

Her nose twitched at his fresh washed scent. Yes, she’d chosen an unconventional route for her confrontation, but Carlos Medina’s tenacious – stubborn – reputation was legendary. She felt confident the hospital board would cut her a little slack for her scene. And if they didn’t? Then so be it. Sometimes a woman had to make a stand.

This was her time. She couldn’t afford to wait much longer.

“I’m not setting up an appointment. I’m not delaying this conversation.” She lowered her voice, although after from the sound of retreating footsteps behind her there must not be many people left. “We talk. Today. The only matter up for discussion is whether we chat right here in front of everyone or if we speak in an office. And believe me, if we stay here, it’s going to get a lot more awkward very quickly…”
*#*#*#

HIS THIRTY-DAY FIANCEE by Catherine Mann
“Rich, Rugged & Royal” book 2
Silhouette Desire, January 2011

Chapter One

Catching a royal was tough. But catching an elusive Medina was damn near impossible.

Teeth chattering, photojournalist Kate Harper inched along the third story ledge leading to Prince Duarte Medina’s living quarters. The planked exterior of his Martha’s Vineyard resort offered precious little to grapple hold of as she felt her way across in the dark, but she’d never been one to admit defeat.

Come hell or high water, she would nab her top dollar picture. Her sister’s future teetered even more precariously than Kate’s balance on the twelve inch beam.

Wind whipped in off the harbor, slapping her mossy green Dolce and Gabbana knockoff around her legs. Her Popsicle cold toes curled along the wooden ridge since she’d ditched her heels on the balcony next door before climbing out.

Wrangling a ticket to the Fortune 500 mogul’s rehearsal dinner for his son hadn’t been easy, but she’d managed by promising a dimwit dilettante to run a tabloid piece on her ex in exchange for the woman’s invitation. Once in, however, Kate was on her own to dodge security, locate Prince Duarte, and nab the shot.

The mini-cams embedded in her earrings were about to tear her darn earlobes in half. She’d transformed a couple of old button cameras into what looked like gold and emerald earrings.

The lighthouse swooped a dim beam over her through the cottony-thick fog, klaxon wailing every twenty seconds and temporarily drowning out the sound of wedding party guests mingling on the first floor. She scooched closer to the prince’s balcony.

Kate stretched her leg further, further still until… Pay dirt. Her pounding heart threatened to pop a seam on her size-too-small satin gown. She grabbed the railing fast and swung her leg over.

A hand clamped around her wrist. A strong hand. A male hand.

She yelped as another hand grabbed her ankle and hauled, grip strong on her arm and calf. His fingers seared her freezing skin just over her anklet made by her sister. A good luck charm to match the earrings. She sure hoped it helped.

A swift yank sent her tumbling over onto the balcony. Her dress twisted around her thighs and hopefully not higher. She scrambled for firm footing, her arms flailing as her gown slid back into place. She landed hard against a wall.

No, wait. Walls didn’t have crisp chest hair and defined muscles and smell of musky perspiration. Under normal circumstances, she’d have been more than a little turned on. If she wasn’t so focused on her sister’s future.

Kate peeked… and found a broad male torso an inch from her nose. A black shirt or robe hung open exposing darkly tanned skin and brown hair. Her fingers clenched in the coarse fabric. Some kind of karate work-out clothes?

Good God, did Medina actually hire ninjas for protection like monarchs in movies? Hell, how would she even know what royals did or didn’t do?

Kate looked up the strong column of the ninja’s neck, the tensed line of his square jaw in need of a shave. Then holy crap, she met the same coal black eyes she’d been planning to photograph.

“You’re not a ninja,” she blurted.

“And you are not much of an acrobat.” Prince Duarte Medina didn’t smile, much less say cheese.

“Not since I flunked out of kinder-gym twenty years ago.” This was the strangest conversation ever, but at least he hadn’t pitched her over the railing yet.

He also didn’t let go of her arms. The restrained strength of his callused fingers sparked an unwelcome shiver of awareness along her chilled skin.

He glanced down at her bare feet. “Booted for a balance beam infraction?”

“Actually, I broke another kid’s nose.”

She’d tripped the nasty little boy after he’d called her sister a moron.

Kate fingered her earring. She had to snap her pictures and punch out. This was an opportunity more rare than a red diamond.

The Medina Monarchy had pretty much fallen off the map twenty-seven years ago after King Enrique Medina was deposed in a coup that left his wife dead. For decades rumors swirled that the old widower had walled up with his three sons in an Argentinean fortress. After a while, people stopped wondering about the Medinas at all. Until she’d felt the journalistic twitch to research an individual in the background of a photo she’d taken. That twitch had led to her news story which popped the top off a genie bottle. She’d exposed the secret lives of three now-grown princes who were hiding in plain sight in the United States.

Her window of opportunity to grab an up close picture was short. Already paparazzi from every corner of the globe were scrambling for a photo op now that news of her initial find leaked like water through a crumbling sandcastle.

But somehow, she’d beaten them all because Duarte Medina was really here. In the flesh. In front of her. And so much hotter up close. She swayed and couldn’t even blame it on vertigo.

He scooped her up, apparently sporting real strength to go with those ninja workout clothes.

“Come inside.” His voice rumbled with the barest hint of an exotic accent, the bedroom sort of inflection perfect for voiceovers in commercials that would convince a woman to buy anything if he came with it. “You need to get out of this cold before you pass out.”

So he could call security to lock her up? Her angle with the earring cameras wasn’t great but she hoped she’d snagged some workable shots while she jostled around in his arms.

“Uh, thanks for the save.” Should she call him Prince Duarte or Your Majesty?

Coming into this, she’d envisioned getting her photos on the sly and hadn’t thought to brush up on protocol when confronted with a prince in karate pajamas. A very hot, swarthy prince carrying her inside to his suite.

Now that she studied his face inches from hers, his ancestry was unmistakable. The Medina monarchy had originated on the small island of San Rinaldo off the coast of Spain. And in the crackling air moment she could see his bold Mediterranean heritage as clearly as his leanly handsome arrogance. With fog rolling along the rocky shore at his back through the open balcony doors, she could envision him reigning over his native land. In fact it was difficult to remember at all that he’d lived for so many years in the United States.

He set her on her feet again, her toes sinking for miles into the plush carpet. The whole room spoke of understated wealth and power from the pristine white sofas, to the mahogany antique armoire, to a mammoth four poster bed with posts as thick as tree trunks.

A bed? She tried to swallow. Her throat was too dry.

Duarte smiled tightly, heavy lidded eyes assessing. “Ramon has really outdone himself this time.”

“Ramon?” Her editor’s name was Harold. “I’m not sure what you mean.” But she would play along if it meant staying put a few minutes more. To get her pictures of course.

“The father of the bride has a reputation for supplying the best, uh,” his pulse beat slowly along his bronzed neck, “companionship to woo his business associates, but you surpass them all in originality.”

“Companionship?” Shock stunned her silent. He couldn’t be implying what she thought.

“I assume he paid you well, given the whole elaborate entrance.” His upper lip curled with a hint of disdain.

Paid companionship. Ah hell. He thought she was a high priced call girl. Or at least she hoped he thought high priced. Well she wasn’t going that far for her sister, but maybe she could scavenge another angle for the story by sticking around just a question or two longer.

Kate placed a tentative hand on his shoulder. No way was she touching the ripped muscles of his bared chest. “How many times has he so generously gifted you?”

His smoky dark eyes steamed over the tops of her breasts darn near spilling out of the wretched thrift store dress. “I have never availed myself of – how shall we say? – paid services.”

“Not even once?” Maybe she could inch just her pinky past his open neckline. A good journalist would ask, of course.

“Never.” His hard tone left no room for doubt.

She held back her sigh of relief and let herself savor the heat of his skin under her touch. Sheesh, just her pinky for crying out loud.

Her fingers curled. “Oh, uh… just oh.”

“I am a gentleman, after all. And as such, I can’t simply send you back onto the balcony. Stay while I make arrangements to slip you out.” He palmed low on her waist. “Would you like a drink?”

Her stomach squeezed into an even tighter ball of anticipation inside her too-tight dress. Why was she this hyped up over an assignment? This was her job, one she was well trained to do. Thoughts of her days as a photojournalist for news magazines bombarded her. Days when her assignments ranged from a montage of a Jerusalem pilgrimage to the aftermath of an earthquake in Indonesia.

Now, she worked for the GlobalIntruder.com.

She stifled a hysterical laugh. God, what had she sunk to? And what choice did she have with a shrinking newspaper industry? She had no other job skills and plenty of bills piling up faster than loaded celebrities cleared lines of coke.

Of course she was nervous, damn it. This photo was about more than staying in the media game. It was about finding enough cash fast to make sure her special needs sister wasn’t booted out of her assisted living facility. Jennifer had an adult body with a child’s mind. She needed protecting and Kate was all she had left keeping her from becoming an adult ward of the state.

Too bad Kate was only a couple of rent payments away from bankruptcy court.

The prince’s hand slid up her spine, clasping the back of her neck. Her traitorous body tingled.

She needed a moment to regroup – away from this guy’s surprise allure – if she hoped to get the information she needed. “Is there a powder room nearby where I can freshen up while you pour the drinks? When I leave your suite, I shouldn’t look like I climbed around outside the balcony.”

“Oh course. I’ll show you the way.”

Not what she had in mind. But she’d kept her cool during a mortar attack before. She could handle this. “Just point, please. I’ve got good internal navigational skills.”

“I imagine you’re good at a great many things.” His breath heated over her neck as he dipped his head closer to speak. “I may have never had use for offers such as yours before, but I have to confess, there is something captivating about you.”

Oh boy.

His warm breath grazed her exposed shoulder, his lips so close to touching her skin without closing that final whisper for connection. Her breasts beaded against the already snug bodice of her gown. She pushed her heels deeper into the carpet to keep her balance. Her anklet rubbed against her other leg. Her good luck charm from Jennifer. Remember Jennifer.

“About that bathroom?” Frantically, she looked around the bedroom suite with too many tall, paneled doors, all closed.

“Right over here.” His words heated over her neck, raising goosebumps along her arms.

“Uh, but…” Was that breathy gasp hers? “I prefer to hit the head solo.”

“Of course.” He stopped just at her earlobe as if to share a secret.

Had he touched her? She couldn’t even tell, given her senses were a-swirl from the phantom caresses of steamy exhales. He cupped the other side of her head. Hunger gnawed deep within her as she ached to lean into his cradling touch.

Then he backed away, his hand teasing a tempting trail and his black workout clothes rustling a lethal whisper. “Just through that door, Ms. Kate Harper.”

Duarte gestured right, both of her earrings dangling from between his fingers…