“I’m not going away with you.”

“This isn’t going to die down.” He kept his voice even and low, reasonable. The stakes were too important for all of them. “The reporters will swarm you by morning, if not sooner. Your friends will sell photos of the two of us together.”

“Then we’re through, you and I.”

“Do you honestly think anyone’s going to believe the breakup is for real? The timing will seem too convenient.”

“We ended things last weekend.”

Like hell. “Tell that to the papers and see if they believe you. Pleading a breakup isn’t going to buy you any kind of freedom fromt heir interest.”

She studied him through narrowed eyes. “How do I know you’re not just using this as an excuse to get back together?”

Was he? An hour ago, he would have done anything to get into her bed again.

From CHAPTER ONE:

A wolf-like snarl cut the thickly howling air.

Kneeling in the snow, Sunny Foster stayed statue-still. Five feet away, fangs flashed, white as piercing icicles glinting through the dusky evening sunset.

Nerves prickled her skin covered with four layers of clothes and snow gear even though she knew large predators weren’t supposed to live at this elevation. But still… She swept her hood back slowly, momentarily sacrificing warmth for better hearing. The wind growled as loudly as the beast crouching in front of her.

She was alone on Mount Redoubt with nothing but her dog and her survival knife for protection. Cut off by the blizzard, she was stuck on a narrow path trying to take a short cut once her snow machine died.

Careful not to move too fast, she slid the blade from the sheathe strapped to her waist. While she had the survival skills to wait out the storm, she wasn’t eager to share her icy digs with a wolf or a bear. And a foot race only a few feet away from a sheer cliff didn’t sound all that enticing.

Bitter cold, at least ten below now, seeped into her bones until her limbs felt heavier. Even breathing the thin mountain air was a chore. These kinds of temps left you peeling dead skin from your frostbitten fingers and toes for weeks. Too easily she could listen to those insidious whispers in her brain encouraging her to sleep. But she knew better.

To stay alive, she would have to pull out every ounce of the survival training she taught to others. She couldn’t afford to think about how worried her brother and sister would be when she didn’t return in time for her shift at work.

Blade tucked against her side, she extended her other hand toward the flashing teeth.

“Easy, Chewie, easy.” Sunny coaxed her seven year old Malamute-Husky mutt. The canine’s ears twitched at a whistling sound merging with the wind. “What’s the matter boy? Do you hear something?”

Like some wolf or a bear.

Chewie was more than a pet or a companion. Chewie was a working partner on her mountain treks. They’d been inseparable since her dad gifted her with the puppy on her eighteenth birthday. And right now, Sunny needed to listen to that partner who had senses honed for danger.

Two months ago Chewie had body blocked her two steps away from thin ice. A couple of years before that, he’d tugged her snow pants, whining, urging her to turn around just in time to avoid a small avalanche. If Chewie nudged and tugged and whined for life threatening accidents, what kind of hell would bring on this uncharacteristic growling?

The whistling noise grew louder overhead. She looked up just as the swirl of snow parted. A bubbling dome appeared overhead, something in the middle slicing through…

Holy crap. She couldn’t be seeing what she thought. She ripped off her snow goggles and peered upward. Icy pellets stung her exposed face but she couldn’t make herself look away from the last thing she expected to see.

A parachute.

Someone was no-kidding parachuting down through the blizzard. Toward her. That didn’t even make sense. She patted her face, her body, checking to see if she was even awake. This had to be a dream. Or a cold-induced hallucination. She smacked herself harder.

“Ouch!”

Her nose stung.

Her dog howled.

Okay. She was totally awake now and the parachute was coming closer. Nylon whipped and snapped, louder, nearer. Boots overhead took shape as a hulking body plummeted downward. She leapt out of the way.

Toward the mountain wall–not the cliff’s edge.

Chewie’s body tensed, ready to spring into action. Coarse black and white fur raised along his spine. Icicles dotted his coat.

The person–a man?–landed in a dead run along the slippery ice. The “landing strip” was nothing more than a ledge so narrow her gut clenched at how easily this hulking guy could have plummeted into the nothingness below.

The parachute danced and twisted behind him, specter like as if Inuit spirits danced in and out of the storm. He planted his boots again. The chute re-inflated.

A long jagged knife glinted in his hand. His survival knife was a helluva lot scarier looking than hers right now. Maybe it had something to do with the size of the man.

Instinctively, she pressed her spine closer to the mountain wall, blade tucked out of sight but ready. Chewie’s fur rippled with bunching muscles. An image of her dog, her pet, her most loyal companion impaled on the man’s jagged knife exploded in her brain in crimson horror.

“No!” she shouted, lunging for his collar as the silver blade arced downward.

She curved her body around seventy-five pounds of loyal dog. She kept her eyes locked on the threat and braced for pain.

The man sliced the cords on his parachute.

Hysterical laughter bubbled and froze in her throat. Of course. He was saving himself. Nylon curled upward and away, the “spirits” leaving her alone with her own personal Yeti who jumped onto mountain ledges in a blizzard.

And people called her reckless.

Her Airborne Abominable Snowman must be part of some kind of rescue team. Military perhaps? The camo gear suggested as much.

What was he doing here? He couldn’t be looking for her. No one knew where she was, not even her brother and sister. She’d been taught since her early teens about the importance of protecting her privacy. For fifteen years she and her family had lived in an off-the-power-grid community on this middle of nowhere mountain in order to protect volatile secrets. Her world was tightly locked into a town of about a hundred and fifty people.

She wrapped her arms tighter around Chewie’s neck and shouted into the storm, “Are you crazy?”

“No, ma’am,” a gravelly voice boomed back at her, “but I am cold, although don’t tell my pal Franco I admitted as much. My buddies can’t fly close enough to haul us out of here until the storm passes.”

“And who are these buddies of yours?” She looked up fast.

No one else fell from the clouds. She relaxed her arms around her dog. He must be some branch of the military. Except his uniform wasn’t enough to earn her automatic stamp of approval, and she couldn’t see his face or read his eyes because of his winter gear and goggles.

He sheathed his knife. “Air Force pararescue, ma’am. I’m here to help you hunker down for the night to ride out this blizzard safely.”

All right then. That explained part. It was tough to question the honorable intentions of a guy who would parachute into the middle of a blizzard–on the side of a mountain–to rescue someone.

Still, how had he found her? Old habits were tough to shed.

“Uhm,” she squinted up at the darkening sky again, “are there more of you about to parachute in here?”

He shifted the mammoth pack on his back. “Do you think we could have this conversation somewhere else? Preferably after we find shelter and build a fire?”

That much, she agreed with.

Staying out here to talk could get them killed. For some reason this hulking military guy thought he needed to save her. She didn’t understand the whys and wherefores of anyone knowing about her presence in the first place. However simply walking away from him wasn’t an option.

Easing to her feet, she accepted the inevitable, sheathed her knife, but kept her hand close to it. Just in case.

She would not be spending the night in a warm shelter curled up asleep with her dog. She would have to stay awake and alert. With too many secrets, she couldn’t afford to let down her guard around anyone, and sprinting away wasn’t exactly an option.

Her uninvited hero was already taking charge. “We need to find the best location to minimize the force of the wind, then start digging out a snow pit.” He had some kind of device in his hand, like a GPS. “I’ll keep the instructions simple and you can just follow my lead.”

“Excuse me, but I’ve already located shelter. A cave only a few yards away.” She knew every safe haven on this pass. She had a GPS too, although it hadn’t come out of her case since she’d left her small mountain community this morning. “But you’re welcome to work on that pit if you prefer.”

“Oooo-kay,” he said with a long puff of fog. “Cave it is.”

“Follow Chewie.”

“Chewie?”

“My dog.” She pointed to her Malamute mutt now sniffing his way westward along the ledge.

The man hefted his gear more securely on his back–a pack that must weigh at least fifty or more pounds. “Looks like a pissed off wolf to me.”

“Then perhaps you need to get out those fancy night vision goggles you guys use.” She felt along the rock wall, marbleized by the elements. “Sun’s falling fast. Don’t lollygag.”

His steps crunched heavy and steady behind her. “You’re not the most grateful rescuee I’ve ever come across.”

“I didn’t need saving, but thank you all the same for the effort.”

He stopped her with a hand to the arm. “What about your friends? Aren’t you worried about them?”

His touch startled her, the contact bold and firm–and foreign. She came from a world where everyone knew each other. There was no such thing as a stranger.

She gathered her scrambled thoughts and focused on his words. “My friends?”

How did he know about what she’d been doing today? She’d been on her own escorting Ted and Madison to a deputy from the mainland who would take them the rest of the way. He worked for a small county along Bristol Bay and arranged for transportation by boat or plane, even bringing in supplies for them in an emergency.

Had something gone wrong after they’d left her? Ted and Madison were seasoned hikers, physically fit. They’d been frequent patrons of the fitness equipment she kept at the cabin that housed her survival and wilderness trek business. She couldn’t imagine there would have been any problem with their trek off Mount Redoubt to rejoin the outside world.

“The rest of your group. In case you were worried–which apparently you’re not–they’re all toasty warm with dry blankets up in the helicopter on their way back to the resort cabin, probably wishing they’d stayed in California.”

Climbing group, from California? He must think she was a part of some other group. Relief burned through her like frostbitten limbs coming to life again. He didn’t know about Ted and Madison or the sheriff’s deputy, and he had no idea at all why she was really out here today.

She couldn’t afford–her relatives back in their community couldn’t afford–a single misstep. There were careful procedures for people who left, methods to protect their location. “I’ve had better survival training than the average person.”

And she would need every bit of that training to ditch this hulking big military savior when the time came to escape.
***

Winning It All anthology
“Pregnant with the Playboy’s Baby”
by Catherine Mann
Silhouette Desire, August 2010

Seven Oaks Farm—Bridgehampton, NY:

Vanessa Hughes had been burned. And it had nothing to do with the summer sun beating down overhead as she stood on the sidelines watching the polo match in action. The earth vibrated beneath her high heels from the thundering hooves passing by.

The calendar didn’t lie. She was late. Scary late. Maybe pregnant late.

Her stomach bubbled with nausea. She’d forced herself to eat. She had to regulate her blood-sugar level for her diabetes, but fear had her ready to upchuck. Clamping her hand on top of her broad-brimmed hat, she peered through her overlarge sunglasses at one particular player in all black, riding his favorite chestnut sorrel.

Two months of being romanced by the intense and passionate Nicolas Valera had been magical, soothing and stirring all at once. Although they hadn’t slept together again since the sauna incident, he’d provided her much-needed distraction from confusion over learning of her adoption. Those moments of being secretly whisked away in a limo, finding anonymous flowers on her pillow, even stealing kisses in a kitchen pantry, had carried her through. She’d thought she’d found the perfect solution, and she had even considered giving in to temptation and indulging in uncomplicated sex.

That was impossible now. She was ninety-nine percent sure she was pregnant. Even thinking about the possibility made her sway in her high heels. She just had to get up the nerve to take the home pregnancy test stashed in the bottom of her voluminous purse. And she would. After the match.

Thank goodness sunglasses kept her eyes from betraying her fear to the crowd around her under the large white tent— the mainstay of old-money New Yorkers, Europeans, artsy and cultured Hampton royalty mixed with a couple of Hollywood celebrities. And right beside her stood Brittney Hannon, a high-profile senator’s daughter.

Vanessa fanned her face with the program booklet. Her ever-present shades enabled her to watch Nicolas undetected as he rode across the field, mallet swinging.

Maximo’s coat gleamed like a shiny penny. Nicolas loved that horse, a Crillo/Thoroughbred mix. Maximo wasn’t the largest, but he was absolutely fearless.

Like Nicolas.

How would he react when she told him the news? It wasn’t as if they had a real relationship beyond attraction. She wasn’t sure how much more upheaval she could take.

Her heart nearly cracked in two to think of her father lying to her about being adopted. He’d always been there for her before. Her mom, however, had ignored Vanessa unless cameras were present. Not so nice to think ill of the dead, but then Vanessa didn’t have much experience tempering her thoughts and emotions. This whole “good girl” gig was new to her.

She’d tried her best to clean up her act this summer, for her father’s sake. No more wild-child acting out in public.

Private indulgences were another matter altogether. She just couldn’t stay away from Nicolas, and that could cost her big-time. Their secret affair wouldn’t be so secret once her pregnancy started showing. She glared at the ever-present cameras from behind the protective shield of her sunglasses.

“Damn paparazzi,” she muttered, tapping her large black sunglasses in place.

Pulling a picture-perfect smile, Brittney Hannon linked arms with Vanessa. “As I’ve learned the hard way, press photos are an unavoidable part of the game. Don’t let them ruin the match for you.”

Vanessa turned to the senator’s daughter, who’d weathered a bit of scandal herself at the start of the summer. Who’d have thought she would find a kindred spirit in the conservatively dressed Brittney, who had a reputation for being the antithesis of her showgirl mother?

“Don’t you ever get tired of it?” Vanessa asked. The press had splashed racy photos of Brittney and a well-known playboy, only to learn later the two were engaged. “Don’t you want some privacy? It’s not as if we asked to be born into this.”

Brittney blinked in surprise. And no wonder. Vanessa was known for welcoming the limelight. She’d never even considered that one day she might feel differently, and she sure hadn’t realized how difficult it would be to step into the shadows.

The politician’s daughter shrugged an elegant shoulder. “My father has the chance to make a real difference for our country. He takes a lot of heat as a natural byproduct of the job. The least I can do is keep my nose clean and smile for the paparazzi. Besides, none of this is real. It’s all just for show.” The outwardly reserved woman struck a subdued pose for the cameras, dimples showing in her cheeks. She spoke quietly out of the side of her mouth as she said, “But when I get away from all this, I’m finding it easier than I expected to simply indulge in being happy.”

Vanessa wasn’t even sure she knew the meaning of happy. The closest she’d come was the excitement of being with Nicolas, yet even that left her hollow inside afterward. Aching. Feeling she was missing something.

Brittney tapped Vanessa’s arm with a French-manicured nail. “You have some dirt on the hem of your dress.”

Gasping, Vanessa looked down at her simple, white Valentino Garavani original. “Really?” She twisted to look behind her. “Where?”

“Just teasing so you’ll lighten up. You never have so much as a speck on you. Now smile.”

Halfway through the round of clicking cameras, halftime started. Finally, she would be closer to Nicolas.

Vanessa slid her Jimmy Choo Saba bag from her shoulder, slipped off her heels and pulled on a pair of simple flats. Waving a quick goodbye to Brittney, Vanessa tucked her strappy heels into her oversize leather purse.

Time to divot-stomp. One of her earliest memories of coming to the matches was of holding her daddy’s hand and stomping down the chunks of earth churned up from the polo ponies’ hooves. She would jump up and down, smashing the ground until her Mary Janes were covered in mud.

Her mother had hated how she came home dirty, her huge hair bow lopsided. Vanessa stifled a wince. She’d despised those bows that weighed a ton and pulled her ponytail back so tightly from her face that she had a headache by the end of the day.

Smile nice for the camera, Nessa.

What a pretty baby.

The only way to get her mother’s attention had been to go on shopping trips or sit still for a hair brushing. Her mother touched her only during those primping routines or when posing her for the camera.

Once she’d gotten out from under Lynette Hughes’s fashionista thumb, Vanessa wore white. All the time, every day. She’d already spent two lifetimes in front of a three-way mirror as her mom put together perfectly color-coordinated outfits.

No more picking or choosing for Vanessa.

These days her hair stayed straight and free in the wind, or simply sleeked back in a low ponytail. Sunglasses covered her eyes so she never had to blink back dots from camera flashes.

People called her an eccentric drama queen. She was just tired of being a baby doll.

Baby?

Her brain snagged on the word. Her breath caught in her throat as she thought of having to tell Nicolas, of ending the fragile, tantalizing truce they’d forged. And her gaze zipped right back to the only man who could have fathered her baby, if she was indeed pregnant.

Nicolas would mingle with the divot-stomping crowd at halftime, even autograph some polo balls. He was a renowned six-handicap player after all, in the top five percent of players in the world. With fans—and with her—he would be coolly reserved, as always.

They wouldn’t be able to talk, according to the rules of their summer-seduction game. Normally, she would have enjoyed playing out the moment. But today, she resisted the urge to check her watch. How long before she could slip away and use the pregnancy test tucked deep in the bottom of her purse? As much as she feared the answer, she couldn’t afford to wait, not with her health concerns. Her diabetes could place both her and a baby at risk. She stomped a chunk of dirt back into the ground with extra oomph and wished her fears were as easily addressed.

Tingles prickled along her arms as Nicolas approached. She could feel him, could have even sworn she caught a whiff of his signature scent on the wind, a soap-and-cologne combo that smelled enticingly of bay leaves. He drew closer. If she hadn’t known by his scent, she would have been able to guess by the reaction of those around her. People slowed, their eyes fixed on her as if waiting for her to react.

Nicolas stepped alongside her, nearly shoulder to shoulder. Her fears and wants tangled up inside her until she almost lost her balance. Nicolas pressed his booted foot ever so precisely in front of her, leveling the ground, then walking past with only the barest brush of his hand against hers. He never looked at her, didn’t even miss a stride even though his simple touch had set her senses on fire.

Her fist closed around the scrap of paper he’d slid into her palm. She might not yet know the specifics of what he’d written, but she knew without question she would be seeing him alone soon.

Nicolas had arranged the location for their next tryst.

Six hours later, Nicolas added a twist of lime to his sparkling water. Nothing stronger for him at tonight’s party. He never drank during the season.

Even if the timing had been different, he needed to keep his mind sharp. His instincts told him he was close to his goal of getting Vanessa back into his bed. Yes, he knew one misstep could cost him the whole game, but he had hope.

He glanced at his Rolex—thirty minutes to kill at this party before ducking out to meet her at the Seven Oaks boathouse.

Bridgehampton polo season parties were always top notch. The highest of high society pulled out all the stops entertaining their friends and celebrities in for the summer. The extravagance was so far beyond his spartan upbringing in Argentina. His village could have eaten for a month off the food spread out at multiple stations. Most gatherings were fundraisers, which took the edge off some of the decadence. Between his polo earnings and sportswear endorsements, his bank balance matched that of most of the partygoers. Still, he wouldn’t forget where he came from. Nicolas emptied half his high-priced water.

Tonight’s benefit was for the Humane Society. Hollywood star Bella Hudson had flown out with her hotel-magnate husband—and their dogs. Bella was talking with fellow actress Carmen Atkins. The two movie stars held the press’s attention for now. Nicolas took the rare free moment to look at Vanessa.

Twenty-five years old—she was young, so young with her pampered life—yet she charmed the hell out of him. The tabloids painted a party-girl picture and he’d bought into that last year, never bothering to look deeper, only thinking about their next sexual encounter. But over the past couple of months, he’d come to realize Vanessa was also smart, witty and sensitive.

Their breakup had been tumultuous last year—and tough. He’d never known he could want someone that much. Now? He couldn’t even look away, much less leave. Abundant energy crackled from her petite frame, no more than five foot two inches, if that. She always wore high heels and still barely reached his chin.

Tonight, in her white satin dress, she was very much the “celebutante,” perfectly groomed to catch the camera’s eye. For some reason he’d never learned, she always wore white and managed to stay pristinely clean whether outdoors at polo matches or under a big tent at a Humane Society fundraiser with pets on leashes all around. Since the sun had gone down, he could see her unshielded eyes, a pale blue that turned almost silver when he made love to her.

His body jolted at the mere thought of being with Vanessa. Their secretive romancing had him on edge. He clamped down the urge to simply haul her off to the nearest room. Except he couldn’t afford a repeat of the scene she’d thrown last year. He needed to project a professional image, important for his dream of launching his own training camp, even someday owning his own team.

Nicolas shifted his gaze from her to the linen-draped table of food beside her and walked closer. Swiping a tiny napkin, he trained his eyes forward and spoke to Vanessa behind the cover of his raised drink. “Did you help with the party plans?”

“Why would you say that?” She also kept her attention forward, her gaze not even straying his way as she cradled a glass of sparkling water with lime—like his own drink.

He nodded lightly toward the gauzy tent. “Everything is white.”

Hydrangeas rested in clear crystal containers. Mammoth flower arrangements sat on top of pristine pillars. At least a tenth of the guests had brought their pets, yet there wasn’t so much as a muddy paw print marring the décor.

Smiling, Vanessa inhaled deeply. “I adore lilies and stephanotis.”

A tuxedoed waiter passed, carrying a silver tray of hors d’ouevres. Nicolas popped a smoked salmon canapé in his mouth, while Vanessa reached for a portabella mushroom and herb bruschetta. Her hand shook.

Odd.

He looked from her arm up to her pale face. “Are you all right?”

“You played well today.” Ignoring his question, she dabbed at the corners of her mouth, her lipstick leaving traces on her napkin.

All summer she’d made a point of leaving hidden lip prints on his body for him to find when he showered later. Yet he still hadn’t sealed the deal.

God, he couldn’t wait to get her alone in the boathouse. He’d even set up a few surprises for her there. He glanced at his watch. Twenty-seven more endless minutes.

At least he could talk to her now. The shoosh of the champagne fountain on one side and the bubbling of the white chocolate fondue on the other added extra cover for their conversation.

She sipped her sparkling water, as the band took to the stage after their break. “I can’t meet you tonight.”

Surprise hit him, and disappointment, too. “You are free after this gathering, and I know it.”

“Are you spying on me?”

“I just listen well enough to know you do not have plans.”

“Then listen now.” She placed her cup on the table. “I can’t always be at your beck and call.”

Surprise shifted to irritation. “You are the one who set the rules for this game.”

“Sometimes rules have to change…”

The Tycoon Takes a Wife
by Catherine Mann
Silhouette Desire, May 2010

CHAPTER ONE:
Pensacola, Florida: Present Day

“Congratulations to the bride to be, my little princess!”

The toast from the father of the bride drifted from the deck of the paddleboat, carried by the muggy Pensacola breeze to Eloisa Taylor back on the dock. Eloisa sat dipping her aching feet in the Florida Gulf waters, tired to the roots of her ponytail from helping plan her half sister’s engagement party. Her stepfather had gone all out for Audrey, far more than a tax collector in a cubicle could afford, but nothing was too good for his “little princess.” Still he’d had to settle for a Monday night booking to make the gala affordable.

The echo of clinking glasses mingled with the lap of waves against her feet. Dinner was done, the crowd so well fed no one would miss her. She was good at that, helping people and keeping a low profile.

Putting together this engagement party had been bittersweet, forcing her to think about her own vows. Uncelebrated. Unknown even to her family. Thank God for the quickie divorce that had extracted her from her impulsive midnight marriage almost as fast as she’d entered it.

Usually she managed to smother those recollections, but how could she not think about it now with Audrey’s happily-ever-after tossed in her face 24/7? Not to mention the cryptic voice message she’d received this morning with his voice. Jonah. Even a year after hearing it last, she still recognized the sexy bass.

Eloisa. It’s me. We have to talk.

She swept her wind-whipped ponytail from her face, shivering from the phantom feel of his hand stroking her face. A year ago, she’d indulged herself in checking out the heritage of her real father. A summer indulgence had led her to one totally wrong man with a high-profile life that threatened her carefully protected world. Threatened secrets she held close and deep.

Eloisa blinked back the memories of Jonah, too many given how little time she’d spent with him. They were history now since she’d divorced him. Not that their twenty-four-hour marriage counted in her mind. She should ignore the call and block his number. Or at least wait until after her sister’s “I do” was in the past before contacting him again.

A fish plopped in the distance, sailboat lines clinking against masts. The rhythmic, familiar sounds soothed her. She soaked up the other sounds of home, greedily gathering every bit of comfort she could find. Emerald-green waters reflected a pregnant moon. Wind rustled through palm trees.

An engine growled softly in the distance.

So much for a late-night solitary moment. She shook dry one foot, then the other and glanced over her shoulder. A limo rolled closer. Late arriving guests? Really late since after-dinner dancing was well underway.

Reaching for her sandals she watched the long black stretch of machine inching beside the waterway. The shape of the sleek vehicle wasn’t your average wedding limo. The distinctive grille glinted in the moonlight, advertising the approach of an exclusive Rolls-Royce. Tinted windows sealed off the passengers from view, but left her feeling like a butterfly pinned to the board of a science project. The private area should be safe. Yet, was anywhere totally secure, especially in the dark?

Goose bumps stung along her skin and her mouth went dry. She yanked on her shoes, chiding herself for being silly. But still, Audrey’s fiancé was reputed to have some shady connections. Her stepdad could only see power and dollar signs, apparently unconcerned with the crooked path that money took.

Not that any of those questionable contacts had cause to hurt her. All the same, she should return to the floating party barge.

Eloisa jumped to her feet.

The limo sped up.

She swallowed hard, wishing she’d taken a self-defense class along the way to earning her library studies degree.

Okay, no need to go all paranoid. She forced her hands to stay loose and started walking. Only about thirty yards ahead, and she would alert the crew member at the gangway. Then she could lose herself in the crowd of dancers under the strings of white lights. The engine grew louder behind her. Eloisa strode longer, faster.

Each breath felt heavier, the salt in the air stinging her over-sensitive pores. Her low heel caught between planks on the boardwalk. She lurched forward just as the car stopped in front of her.

A back door swung wide—not even waiting for the chauffeur—and blocked her getaway. She couldn’t continue ahead, only sideways into the car or into the water. Or she could back up, which would take her farther from the boat. Frantically she searched for help. Would any of those seventy-five potential witnesses in party finery whooping it up to an old Kool and the Gang song notice or hear her?

One black-clad leg swung out of the limo, the rest of the man still hidden. However that Ferragamo python loafer was enough to send her heart skittering. She’d only met one man who favored those, and she hated how she still remembered the look and brand.

She backed away, one plank at a time, assessing the man as he angled out. She hoped, prayed for some sign to let her off the hook. Gray hair? A beer belly?

Anything non-Jonah.

But no such luck. The hard-muscled guy wore all black, a dark suit jacket, the top button of his shirt undone and tie loose. He wore his brown hair almost shoulder length and swept back from his face to reveal a strong, square jaw.

A jaw far more familiar than any shoes. Nerves danced in her stomach far faster than even the partiers gyrating to the live band on the boat.

He pivoted on his heel, facing her full on, the moonlight glinting off the chestnut hints in his wavy hair. Sunglasses shielded his eyes from her. Shades at night? For a low profile or ego?

Regardless, she knew. Her ex-husband wasn’t content with just calling and leaving a message. No, not Jonah. The powerful international scion she’d divorced a year ago had returned.

Jonah Landis whipped off his sunglasses, glanced at his watch and grinned. “Sorry I’m late. Have we missed the party?”

To hell with any party. Jonah Landis wanted to find out why Eloisa hadn’t told him the entire truth when she’d demanded a divorce a year ago. He also wanted to know why his passionate lover had so dispassionately cut him off.

The stunned look on Eloisa’s face as she stopped cold on the dock would have been priceless if he wasn’t so damn mad over the secret she’d kept from him, a secret that he’d only just found out was gumming up the works on their divorce decree.

Of course when he’d met her in Madrid a year ago, he’d been distracted by the instantaneous, mind-blowing chemistry between them. And looking at her now, seeing her quiet elegance, he figured he could cut himself some slack on missing details that could have clued him in—like how much she’d fit into her Spanish surroundings.

The woman was a walking distraction.

Wind molded her tan silk dress around her body. The dimly lit night played tricks with his vision until she looked nearly naked, clothed only in shifting shadows.

Had she known that when she chose the dress? Likely not. Eloisa seemed oblivious to her allure, which only served to enhance her appeal.

Her sleek dark hair was slicked back in a severe ponytail that gave her already exotic brown eyes a tug. Without so much as lip gloss, she relegated most models to the shadows.

Once he had her name on the dotted line of divorce papers—official ones this time—he would have nothing to do with her ever again. That had been the plan anyway. He didn’t need round two of her hot-cold treatment. So he’d misread the signs, hadn’t realized she was drunk during the “I do” part. That didn’t mean she had to slap his face and fall off the planet. He was over Eloisa.

Or so he’d thought. Then he’d seen her and felt that impact all over again, that kick-in-the-gut effect he’d thought must have been exaggerated by his memory.

He tamped back the attraction and focused on seeing this through. He needed her signature and for some reason he refused to leave it up to lawyers. Maybe it had something to do with closure.

Eloisa inched her heel from between the planks and set both feet as firmly as her delicate jaw. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to accompany you to your sister’s engagement party.” He hooked an elbow on the open limo door, the chauffeur waiting up front as he’d been instructed earlier. “Can’t have my wife going stag.”

“Shhh!” Lurching toward him, she patted the air in front of his face, stopping just shy of touching his mouth. “I am not your wife.”

He clasped her hand, thumb rubbing over her bare ring finger. “Damn, I must have hallucinated that whole wedding ceremony in Madrid.”

Eloisa yanked her hand away and rubbed her palm against her leg. “You’re arguing semantics.”

“If you would prefer to skip the party, we could grab a bite to eat and talk about those semantics.” He watched the glide of her hand up and down her thigh, remembering well the creamy, soft texture under his mouth as he’d tasted his way up.

She stared at him silently until he met her eyes again. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Climb into the car and see.”

She glanced back at the boat, then at him again, her long ponytail fanning to rest along her shoulder. “I’m not so sure that’s a good idea.”

“Afraid I’ll kidnap you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” She laughed nervously as if she’d considered just that.

“Then what’s holding you back? Unless you want to continue this conversation right here.” He nodded toward the boat full of partyers. “I thought you wanted me to be quiet.”

She looked back over her shoulder again, and while it appeared no one noticed them, who knew how long that would hold? Not that he gave a damn what anyone thought, unlike his enigmatic wife. He’d learned a long time ago he had two choices in this world. Let others rule his life or take charge.

The second option won hands down.

He cocked an eyebrow and waited.

“Fine,” she bit out between gritted teeth.

She eyed him angrily as she angled past and slid into the car without even brushing against him. Eloisa settled into the leather seat.

Jonah tucked himself inside next her, closed the door and tapped the glass window between them and the chauffeur, signaling him to drive. Just drive. He would issue a destination later.

“Where are we going?” she asked as the limo eased into motion, the tinted windows closing them in their own private capsule.

“Where do you want to go? I have a penthouse suite farther down on Pensacola Beach.”

“Of course you do.” Her gaze flicked around the small space, lingering briefly on his computer workstation to her left before moving on to the minibar and the plasma screen TV.

“I see you haven’t changed.” He’d forgotten how prickly she could be about money. Still, it had been refreshing. He’d had plenty of women chase him because of the Landis portfolio and political influence.

He’d never had a female dump him because of it. Of course back then he hadn’t known she had access to money and influence beyond even his family’s reach. Mighty damn impressive.

And confusing since she hadn’t bothered to share that even after they married.

He put a damper on the surge of anger, a dangerous emotion given the edge of desire searing his insides. To prove to himself he could stay in control, he slid two fingers down the length of a sleekly straight lock of her black hair.

Eloisa jerked her head away. “Stop that.” She adjusted the air-conditioning vent nervously until the blast of air ruffled her ponytail. “Enough playing, although you certainly seem to be an expert at recreation. I just want to know why you’re here, now.”

With all he knew about her, she still understood so little about him. “What’s wrong with wanting to see my wife?”

“Ex-wife. We got drunk and ended up married.” She shrugged casually, too much so. “It happens to lots of folks, from pop stars to everyday Joes and Josephines. Just check out the marriage logs in Las Vegas. We made a mistake, but we took steps to fix it the morning after.”

“Do you consider all of it a mistake? Even the part between ‘I do’ and waking up with a hangover?” He couldn’t resist reminding her.

A whisper of attraction smoked through her dark eyes. “I don’t remember.”

“You’re blushing,” he noted with more than a little satisfaction, grateful for the soft glow of a muted overhead light. So he was smug. Sue him. “You remember the good parts all right.”

“Sex is irrelevant.” She sniffed primly.

“Sex? I was talking about the food.” He turned the tables, enjoying the cat-and-mouse game between them. “The mariscada en salsa verde was amazing.” And just that fast, he could all but taste the shellfish casserole in green sauce, the supper she’d shared with him before they had after-dinner drinks. Got hitched. Got naked.

He could see the same memory reflected in her eyes just before her mouth pursed tight.

“You’re a jackass, Jonah.”

“But I’m all yours.” For now at least.

“Not anymore. Remember the morning-after ‘fix’? You’re my ex-jackass.”

If only it were that simple to put this woman in his past. God knows, he’d tried hard enough over the past year to forget about Eloisa Taylor Landis.

Or rather Eloisa Medina Landis?

He’d stumbled upon the glitch in a church registry, a “minor” technicality she’d forgotten to mention, but one that had snarled up their paperwork in Spain. The sense of shock and yeah, even some bitter betrayal rocked through him again.

No question, he needed to put this woman in his past, but this time he would be the one to walk away.

“Now there you’re wrong, Eloisa. That fix got broken along the way.” He picked up a lock of her hair again, keeping his hand off her shoulder.

Lightly he tugged, making his presence felt. A spark of awareness flickered through her eyes, flaming an answering heat inside him. He looked at the simple gold chain around her neck and remembered the jewels he’d once pictured there while she’d slept. Then she woke up and made it clear there would be no summer together. She couldn’t get out of his life fast enough.

Her breath hitched. He reminded himself of his reason for coming here, to end things and leave.

Now he wondered if it might be all the more satisfying to have one last time with Eloisa, to ensure she remembered all they could have had if only she’d been as upfront with him as he’d been with her.

He glided his knuckles up her ponytail to her cheek, gently urging her to face him more fully. “The paper work never made it through. Something to do with you lying about your name.”

Her eyes darted away. “I never lied about my name—”

Chapter One

Librarian Anna Bonneau was well on her way to landing in the pokey. And that’s exactly where she wanted to be.

Handcuffed to a park bench in protest all afternoon while reading hadn’t been a great hardship since books were her life. However waiting for the police to take notice was starting to give her fanny fatigue.

Finally, a cop cruiser squealed to a stop by the curb.

She should have realized they wouldn’t actually have a problem with her sit-down protest until closing time – five p.m. The recreation area was empty but for autumn trees awash with colors, swings twisting in the wind by Lake Huron , the place her mother had taken her for tea parties.

Losing her mother at twelve had been the most difficult time in her life, and this park represented a living tribute to the warm woman whose time on earth had been cut short by a car accident. Her father – a local retired judge – had tried to continue the picnic tradition, but their differences in opinion during her teenage years made things difficult.

All in the past. Now, Anna did her best to focus on her book while keeping a peripheral check on the police officer stretching out of his cruiser. Finally, progress in her cause.

She’d always wanted to be a librarian. However, landing a job in her sleepy hometown of Oscoda , Michigan was a dream come true. She’d waited three years working in a library in the Detroit area for this position to come open.

Two weeks from now, she would start her job. And not a chance did she plan to let the short-sighted members of the town planning commission rip up this park to plop a “Gentlemen’s Club” restaurant and bar right beside her library.

She shifted her numb tush off the metal bench growing cooler by the second in the autumn temps, all the while keeping her eyes firmly focused on rereading a Suzanne Brockmann reissue. Yes, Anna adored her romance novels as much as the long ago classics.

A scream pierced the air. A child.

Anna jolted up from her seat only to be yanked back down by the handcuff – ouch. Her book fell to the ground as she took in the sight of a parked truck and second male carrying a kid gaining ground on the police officer. She peeked around a tree, angling for a better view. Howling shrieks echoed, closer, fuller, tugging at her heart until she saw someone she’d hoped never to lay eyes on again after he had broken her heart in high school.

Forest Jameson.

As he crossed the lawn toward her, Anna’s tummy back flipped as it had when she’d first seen him bat one over the fence on the baseball field. He was a hunk, no doubt, however too uptight back during their teenage dating days. She’d heard he’d returned about four months ago to set up a legal practice, but she hadn’t seen him since her return a week ago.

Why was he at the park, and why was he hauling along a child? They could be here to play – not that the kid sounded happy. More likely, Forest was here because her father, his long ago mentor, had called and asked him to save her numb tush.

The cop, old Officer Smitty, stopped short of her bench. Closely following, Forest Jameson juggled the boy, a briefcase and a tote bag stuffed with toys dangling from his shoulder.

“Anna.” He nodded a greeting. “You still look the same.”

She wasn’t sure how to take that and before she could answer, he’d turned back to the child.

Forest jostled the wailing, magenta-faced kid wearing sunglasses. “Hang on, Joey. Just a few minutes and we’ll be through here. I promise, son.”

A son? Her eyes zipped to Forest’s ring finger. Bare. She didn’t want to think about the relief.

Forest met her gaze. “Divorced and the nanny quit.”

His tight lipped answer engendered sympathy along with embarrassment over being caught checking.

Forest strode over to the cop. “I’m here to represent the interests of Miss Bonneau.”

Well sheesh. Wasn’t that convenient? “Uh, hello? Miss Bonneau has something to say about that.”

The child – around four, maybe? – arched his back, pumping his feet. “I want to go home!”

“Well, you’re going anywhere if you don’t settle down.” Forest’s unwavering parental tone of calmly stated boundaries was betrayed by his harried composure.

Officer Smitty jumped in with the universal key and unlocked the handcuffs confining her to the bench. “H’lo Miss Bonneau. How about you take care of this little stinker and I’ll have a conversation with the lawyer?”

Click. The handcuffs fell away, ending her latest protest and there wasn’t a thing she could do about it. Maybe she would ride this one out and see what Forest had to say – in the interest of being entertained. Right?

She snagged her book from the ground, placed it on the bench and reached for little Joey. He didn’t even loosen the lock hold on his dad’s neck. Single parent Forest was clearly overwhelmed.

Hmmm. It seemed she needed to bail him out as well and clearly the men would talk more if they thought she was out of the way. She may have wanted her standard quick stop in jail, but her father said Forest never lost his cases so she would simply stay near enough to listen until she came up with plan B.

And the kid surely was a heart-tugger. “Could I take him for you while you work your attorney magic?”

Forest hesitated, which irked her to no end. Finally, he nodded and eased the boy’s arms from around his neck, speaking the whole time. “It’s okay, son. This is Miss Anna. She’s going to play with you while I talk business. Okay?”

Joey hiccupped. “Kay.” His chocolate colored curls stuck to his head with tantrum-induced sweat. “Can I go swing?”

Of course. He passed Joey over. “Anna? You’re sure you don’t mind?”

If he’d been surprised that she guessed his reason for showing up, he sure didn’t show it.

“Not at all.”

She took the child, a solid weight. The scent of baby shampoo and sweat soothed her with the sweet innocence of childhood. Gracious, he was cute in his striped overalls, conductor’s cap and Thomas the Train sunglasses.

Forest opened his mouth as if to speak further, but Anna turned away. Her nerves were on edge and resisting the temptation to stare at the grown up Forest was almost irresistible. His gentleness with the child could well draw her, just as it had when she’d seen him volunteering with little leaguers in high school.

She headed toward the swings offering soothing words both for herself and Joey.

“Can you sit in the swing and hold me, please?” Joey asked.

“Of course, sweetie.”

This was easier than she thought. She could hold the child, keep him happy and listen to the two men decide her fate as if she wasn’t even there. Grrr. She tickled Joey’s chin with the tail of her braid until he chortled. His cool guy sunglasses the cutest little things she’d ever seen.

Unable to resist gloating since that usually riled Counselor Uptight in the past, Anna glanced past Joey to his father. Bummer. Forest hadn’t even noticed. He was too busy unloading baby gear. As he placed the toy bag and briefcase on the bench, his suit coat gaped open to reveal a broad chest covered by his crisp white shirt. She swallowed hard.

He whipped off his steel rimmed glasses and snatched a tissue from the briefcase to clean away evening mist. Anna’s breath hitched. Forest’s blue eyes glittered like a shaken bottle of soda water. Wasn’t she supposed to be the one who delivered surprises?

Darn it, she wouldn’t let him trounce her heart again the way he had when he left town without so much as a farewell.

“Miss Anna, higher!” Joey squealed, yanking her braid. “Miss Anna, want to swing higher.”

She blinked twice to clear her mind. Joey’s tug helped. The kid had the strength of a fifth grader. She welcomed the wake-up call.

Why couldn’t her father understand she believed in justice as strongly as he did? She merely approached it from a different angle with her protests she’d been organizing since passing a petition in the second grade for new monkey bars on the playground.

Forest finished his discussion with Smitty and the older cop ambled off to his patrol car. Forest strode toward her with determined steps and held his arms out for his son, tapping the boy on the shoulder. “Time to go, Joey.”

The little fella pivoted in her lap and launched at his dad with obvious affection. This time, however, he squirmed down to walk, holding his dad’s hand.

Anna eased up from the swing. “What’s the verdict?”

“Since we made it out of here before closing, you got off with a simple ticket, but no jail time.”
“I guess that will have to do, but I was hoping we could squeeze some news coverage.”

A tight smile crooked his perfectly sculpted mouth as he mimicked her voice. “Why thank you, Forest , for keeping me from paying an expensive fine. And heaven forbid I might have actually had to go to jail and eat their fine cuisine. It’s great to see you again.”

She slumped in the swing. He had gone to a lot of trouble for her and she was being brattier than a two year old. “Thank you for your time and help. It’s, uh, good to see you too.”

Even if it had cost her the short stint in jail and a much coveted feature in the weekly newspaper that she’d been hoping for.

Still, heaven knew she needed to put distance between herself and his too-enticing blue eyes. The sparkle in those charmers rivaled any giggles from Joey.

Lauren Presley wondered how a man could be so deeply inside her and yet totally distant at the same time. But no doubt about it, the sated, half-dressed man tangled up with her on her sofa at work had emotionally left the building.

She would boot the rest of him out of her deserted office as soon as she could breathe again.

The butter-soft leather of her turquoise couch stuck to the back of her legs through her thigh high stockings, sweat still slicking her body from their frenetically passionate – surprise – hook up. At least her fledgling graphic art business was closed for the day, the workplace empty.

Everything seemed out of sorts, disconnected like a Salvador Dali painting. She couldn’t blame Jason for regretting their impulsive act since she was pretty much freaking out too over how fast her panties had landed on the floor, her dress up around her waist while she’d torn at his belt buckle and zipper. Jason Reagert was a business friend, a working alliance they may very well have wrecked. She needed to get through this awkward post-sex moment ASAP with her pride intact.

She absolutely refused to be like her desperate, needy mother.

A low drone filled the quiet of the empty office. Lauren tensed. “Your pants are vibrating.”

Jason arched back and raised a dark eyebrow, his close cropped hair mussed on top from her fingers. “Pardon?”

She clapped her hand on his warm hip – beside his BlackBerry. “Seriously. It’s buzzing.”

“Damn.” He disentangled himself, cool air brushing over her bared legs. Jason swung his feet to the floor, his Testoni loafers thunking against the scarred wood as he sat and unclipped the handheld. “Helluva bad timing.”

Avoiding his eyes, she slid upright and adjusted her silky black wrap dress in place again. Her panties would have to wait. She kicked the scrap of ebony satin under the sofa. “Your pillow talk leaves something to be desired.”

“Sorry.” His zipper closing rasped, overloud in the late night silence. “It’s my reminder alarm.”

“Alarm for what?” She stared nervously at the white brick walls, the easel in the corner, the artwork on lit screens.

“My flight to California.”

Right.

He was leaving.

Lauren stood, smoothing her dress and looking for her favorite Manolo leopard pumps that she wouldn’t be able to wear again without thinking of this stupid, impetuous night.

She and Jason had been wrapping up final details on a graphic art design project she’d freelanced for his last ad campaign at the New York firm – he was leaving his NYC job and heading to greener career pastures in California. The job at Maddox Communications in San Francisco was a great opportunity for him. She’d known about this for a couple of weeks…. And as she’d hugged him goodbye tonight, she’d been knocked off balance by how upset she was over his impending move.

One second she’d been looking up at his leanly handsome face while blinking back tears, and the next second they’d been kissing… and more. A tingle of pleasure prickled down her spine, settling lower as she remembered the bold sweep of his tongue and his hands, his strength as he’d cupped her bottom and lifted her against him. Already her body ached to reach for him again, grab hold of that tie she’d never quite manage to undo and tug him toward her again. The impulse was too much, too strong.

Too overwhelming.

Gathering up her shredded self control, she looked away from his strong cheekbones and tempting mouth. She didn’t know where all these frenetic feelings had come from and wasn’t sure how to untwine them now that he was leaving.

She spied her leopard print shoes under the desk and welcomed the chance to put some space between herself and Jason and a sofa that smelled of good sex. She knelt, pulling one pump free but the other stayed annoyingly out of reach.

“Lauren,” his loafer clad feet stopped beside her, making her all the more aware of her ungainly butt-up position, “I don’t make a habit of–”

“Stop.” She sat back on her feet, willing away one of those awful blushes that came with her auburn-head complexion. “You don’t need to say anything.” Echoes of her mother’s humiliating pleas for her husband to stay bounced around in Lauren’s head.

“I’ll cal–”

“No!” Standing, she gave up on her shoes, her toes curling against the cool wood floor. “Don’t make promises you aren’t certain you’ll keep.”

He scooped his suit jacket from the back of a contoured metal chair. “You could call me.”

“What would that accomplish?” She faced him full on for the first time, taking in his prep-school good looks, hardened with an edge from his years in the Navy. He came from old money and had made his fair share of new as well. “You’re moving to California and New York City is my home. It’s not like we have any kind of real connection beyond being work acquaintances who happened to get caught up in a fluky hormonal maelstrom. Nothing to disrupt our entire lives over.”

Shaking her long, loose hair back, she opened the door to the larger studio outside, empty but for vacant rolling chairs pushed haphazardly up to tables.

He braced a hand on the doorframe, his arrogant brown eyes revealing a hint of surprise. “You’re giving me the brush off?”

Apparently Jason Reagert wasn’t told no often. Of course she’d been mighty quick to say yes, something she intended to change starting now.

“I’m simply being realistic, Jason.” She stared him down, her spine straight in spite of the fact he stood at least a head taller.

Later, away from him, she would hole up in her cute little one bedroom apartment on the upper east end of Manhattan. Or better yet, hide out in the Metropolitan Museum of Art for the entire day, crawling into the world of each painting. Her art was everything. She couldn’t forget that. This business – bought with a surprise inheritance from her dear elderly Aunt Eliza – was her big chance to make her dreams come true. To prove to her mother she was worth something more than a debutante slot and lucrative marriage.

She refused to let any man derail her.

Finally, Jason nodded shortly. “Okay, that’s the way you want it, that’s the way things will be.” He skimmed back her hair with his knuckles, his callused thumb stroking her cheekbone. “Good-bye, Lauren.”
She settled her features into a portrait worthy of any Dutch master – solemn and unrelenting. Jason turned away, his jacket hooked on one finger over his shoulder, and she fought back the urge to call out to him.

Hearing he was leaving New York had brought a surprise pinch of regret. But nothing compared to the twist in her gut as she watched him walk out the door…

Dark Ops Novel 3:
RENEGADE
By Catherine Mann

Chapter One

Present Day: Tonopah Test Range, Nevada:

For Tech Sergeant Mason “Smooth” Randolph a great flight was a lot like great sex.

Both brought the same rush, sense of soaring and driving need to make it last as long as absolutely possible. On the flipside, a bad flight was every bit as crappy as bad sex. Both could quickly become awkward, embarrassing, and downright dangerous.

As Mason planted his boots on the vibrating deck of an experimental cargo plane, his adrenaline-saturated gut told him that today’s ultra secret mission had the potential to rank up there with the worst sex ever.

The top notch engines whispered a seductive tune, mingling with the blast of wind gusting through the cargo door cranking open. Whoever came up with dropping supplies out of the back of a fast moving aircraft must not have stood where he was standing now. Of course for that matter, nobody had stood in his boots on this sort of flight. That was the whole purpose of his job in an Air Force’s highly classified test squadron.

He did things no one had tried before.

On today’s mission, he would offload packed pallets from a test model hypersonic cargo jet, a jet that could go Mach 6, far outpacing the mere supersonic speed of Mach 1. The deck of this new baby gleamed high tech and totally pristine without the oil and musty smell that accumulated with the history of many successful missions.

The metal warmed beneath his boots as the craft ate up miles faster than the pilot up front – Vapor – could plow through a buffet. If the plane completed testing as hoped, future fliers could travel from the U.S. to any point on earth in under four hours. Entire deployments could be set up in a matter of a single day, ready to roll, rather than the weeks-long build ups of the past.

No doubt, the price tag on this sleek winged sucker was huge, but for forward thinking strategists, it saved many times over that much by shortening deployments. Of course money had never meant dick to him.

He did care about all those marriages collapsing under the strain of long separations.

Radio talk from the two pilots up front echoed in his headset as he checked his safety belt one last time, then raised his hand to hover over the control panel. His empty ring finger itched inside his glove. Yeah, this test in particular struck a personal note for him. It was too late for him since his own marriage had already gone down the tubes, but maybe he could save some of his military brethren from suffering the same kick in the ass he’d endured six years ago.

Without slowing, the cargo door cranked the rest of the way open, settling into place with an ominous thunk. Wind swirled inside, the suction increasing with the yawning gape. No more time to consider how the drop shouldn’t even be possible. Not too long ago, going to the moon hadn’t seemed possible. It took test pilots, pioneers. All the same, this was going to be sporty.

Mason tightened his parachute straps just in case and keyed his microphone in his oxygen mask to speak to the pilots in the cockpit. “Doors opened, ramp clear.”

“Copy.” From the flight deck, pilot Vince “Vapor” Deluca acknowledged. “Thirty seconds to release.”

Mason scanned the cargo pallets resting on rollers built into the floor. Everything appeared just as he’d prepped for this final run before next week’s big show for select military leaders from ally nations around the world. Pallets were packed, evenly balanced, and lined up, ready to roll straight out over the Nevada desert. Muscles contracted inside him as the pilot continued the countdown over headset.

“Jester two-one,” Vapor continued, “is fifteen seconds from release.”

Mason focused on the bundle at the front of the pallet. A void of dark sky waited beyond the back ramp only a few feet away, ready to suck up the offload. He mentally reviewed the steps as if he could somehow secure the outcome. A small parachute would rifle forward, air speed filling it with enough power to drag out the pallet. That chute would tear away, sending the pallet into a free fall until the larger parachute deployed.

“Five,” Vapor counted down, “four-three-two-one.”

A green light flashed over the door.

The bundle shot its mini-chute into the air behind the door. As it caught the hypersonic air the first pallet began to move, rolling, rolling and out. One gone. The second rattled down the tracks, picture perfect, and then the next in synchronized magnificence as the mammoth load whipped out at a blurring speed.

Mason’s gut started to ease. Next week’s shindig for their visiting military dignitaries could be a huge win for the home team and moving this plane into the inventory. A flop, however, could mean death to their government funding, an abrupt end to the whole project. He keyed up his mic–

The last pallet bucked off the tracks.

Oh shit. The load slammed onto its side with hundreds, maybe thousands of pounds of force. The cargo net ripped, flapping and snapping through the air. Gear exploded loose, catapulting every-fucking-where.

He ducked as a piece of shattered pallet flew over his head.

“Smooth?” Vapor’s voice filled the headset. “Report up.”

Mason grappled for the button to respond while sidestepping a loose crate cartwheeling his way. The mesh net whipped around his leg and jerked him toward the open back. His feet shot out from under him.

“Smooth, damn it, radio up–”

His mic went silent. The cord rattled useless and unplugged. His helmeted head whacked the deck, sparking a fresh batch of stars to his view of the night sky.

He slapped his hands along the metal grating, grappling for something, anything to slow the drag toward the back. Would his safety harness hooked to the wall hold? Under normal circumstances, sure. These weren’t normal circumstances. Everything was a first ever test at unheard of speed.

He vise-gripped the edge of a seat. The pallet dragged at his leg. He kept his eyes focused ahead, squeezing down panic, hoping, praying Vapor or Hotwire would come back to check. His arms screamed in the socket and his legs burned from being stretched by the weight of the pallet teetering on the edge of the back hatch.

Don’t give up. Hang on.

The bulkhead opening filled with a shadow. Thank God. The copilot – Hotwire – roared into view, his mouth moving as he shouted words swallowed up by the vortex of wind.

Mason’s fingers slipped. The weight, the force, the speed, it was all too much. “Oh, shit.”

He pulled his arms in tight as the pallet raked him along the metal floor like a hunk of cheddar against a grater. Ah damn, what about his safety harness? The strap around his waist pulled taut. An image of his body ripped in half came to mind, a snapshot that would forever stay in safety manuals to warn others of the hazards of fucking up. Not that he knew what he’d done wrong. That would be for others to decide after they buried the two halves of him in a wooden box.

Hotwire hooked his own safety belt on the run and reached. So close. Not close enough.

Mason’s harness popped free from around his waist. Whoomp. The air sucked at him like a vacuum. He flew out of the back of the plane at hypersonic speed only to stop short when he slammed against the pallet, his leg still lashed by mesh. Pain detonated throughout him. Then his stomach plummeted faster than his body.

Happy Fucking New Year.

Instincts on overdrive, he wrapped his arms around the pallet. The pressure on his body eased as the pallet continued a freefall downward into the inky night. His flight suit whipped against him. Images of his ex-wife flashed though his head along with regret. A shiver iced through his veins. Was he dying?

No. The wind and altitude caused the cold. Think, damn it. Don’t surrender to the whole life review death march.

Either he could do nothing and pray that when the larger chute opened it didn’t batter him to death against the pallet. Or he could free his leg from the netting, kick away from the pallet and use his own parachute, provided it hadn’t been damaged during the haul out the back of the plane.

His options sucked ass, but at least he was still alive to fight. Getting clear of the damaged pallet seemed wisest. Determination fueled his freezing limbs. Vertigo threatened to overtake him as he kicked to untangle his boot from the netting. He jerked, pulled, and strained until yes, his leg came free.

“Argh!” Mason grunted, muscles burning.

He shoved away just as the large chute deployed. His body plummeted, pin-wheeling. The pallet was jerked to a stall by the chute, tearing apart in a shower of wood and supplies. Good God, he would have been drawn and quartered.

He reined himself in, struggling to control the fall while gauging his surroundings but the solitary void combined with an eerie silence. How much further until he landed? If he pulled the cord too soon, he could float forever with no sense of direction, ending up lost deep in the desert.

Screw it. Better too early than waiting too long and shattering every bone in his body by not using his parachute soon enough. He reached down, feeling along his waist until he found the handle.

He yanked. Cords whistled past and overhead. Nylon rippled upward until… whoomp.

Air filled the chute and pulled him. Hard. The rapid stall knocked the wind out of him and damn it to hell, crushed his left nut under the leg strap.

He shook his head to clear his thoughts, no time to piss and moan. He grabbed a riser and hefted into a one arm pull up to ease pressure on the strap. Ahhh, better, much better. Pain eased. His brain revved.

Now, how did that “You just fucked up bad and are now floating towards the earth” checklist go?

Canopy. His eyes adjusting to the dark, he checked the canopy and no rips, no tears, not even the dreaded “Mae West” where a line looped over the chute for a double bubble effect.

Visor. Little chance of landing in a tree here so he pulled the visor up.

Mask. He stripped his oxygen mask off his face, unhooked the connectors on his chest and pitched it away into the abyss.

Seat kit. Strapped to his butt, it contained a raft. Not much call for that in the desert. He opened the connector and ditched the raft too.

LPUs. Life preserver units. He thumbed the horse collar LPU around his neck and down his chest, pulled the inflate tabs and another high pressure bottle inflated the floatie. It might cushion the landing and save a few broken ribs. Although no telling what he might have already busted back in the plane. Thank goodness for the adrenaline numbing his system.

What next? Oh yeah. Steer. Damn, he was punch drunk. He reached up for the risers and grappled until he wrapped his fingers around the steering handles.

The next step? Prepare. Yeah, he was so prepared to smack into the ground he could barely see. He scanned below as best he could, checking out the sand, sand, sand, occasional bundle of desert scrub staying clear of the distant mountains. Okay, dude. Final step.

Land. He put his eyes on the horizon and bent his knees slightly, ready to perform the perfect PLF, parachute landing fall. The ground roared up to meet him. He prepped for… the… impact.

Balls of the feet.

Side of the leg and butt.

Side of the arm and shoulder.

Complete.

Mason lay on the gritty sand, stunned. No harm in lying still for a few and rejoicing in the fact he would live to fly and make love again. There wasn’t any need to rush out of here just yet. He wasn’t in enemy territory.

Although he didn’t have a clue exactly what piece of the Nevada desert he currently occupied. His tracking device would bring help though. Rescue would show up in an hour or so. Maybe by then he could stand up without whimpering like a baby.

He shrugged free of his parachute and LPU one miserable groan at a time. Already he could feel the bruises rising to the surface. He would probably resemble a Smurf by morning, but at least he still had all his limbs, and no bones rattled around inside him that he could tell.

His teeth chattered, though. From the freezing cold of a winter desert night, or from shock? Either way he needed to get moving. He pushed to his feet, stumbling for a second before the horizon stopped bobbling.

A siren wailed in the distance.

Already? Perhaps this flight experience wouldn’t suck so much after all. Even bad sex could be rescued with a satisfying ending.

He blinked to clear his eyesight. Twin beams of light stretched ahead of a Ford F-150, blinding him the closer the vehicle approached. He shielded his eyes with one hand and waved his other arm. Ouch. Fuck.

A loudspeaker squeaked and crackled to life. “Get back down on the ground. Lay flat on your stomach,” a tinny voice ordered. “If you move at all, you will be shot.”

Shot? What the hell? Had he landed in some survivalist kook’s farm?

But that wouldn’t explain the siren. He must have drifted into restricted territory, not surprising since they flew many of their secret test missions in secured areas. The truck screeched to halt and someone wearing cammo stepped out. A flashlight held at shoulder level kept him from seeing the face, but he could discern an M4 carbine at hip level well enough.

He shouted, “Don’t shoot. I’m not armed, and I’m not resisting.”

“Stay on the ground,” the voice behind the light barked.

A female voice?

Okay, so much for his PC rating today. He’d assumed the security cop was a male, not that it made any difference one way or the other. He respected the power of that M4.

Mason flattened his belly to the desert floor, arms extended over his head. A knee plowed deep in the small of his back. If he didn’t have a bruised kidney before, he sure did now.

A cold muzzle pressed against his skull. All right, then. The knee didn’t hurt so much after all.

“Hands behind you, nice and slow.” The lady cop’s husky voice heated his neck. “So, flyboy, do you want to tell me what you’re doing out here in Area 51?”

Phoebe Slater brought a baby to the millionaire military hero’s seaside welcome-home gala.

Undoubtedly most of the guests plucking canapés and champagne from silver trays at this high-profile affair could afford nannies. Of course the Hilton Head Island wealthy could also afford tailored tuxedos and sequined high-end dresses as they mingled the evening away in the country club gardens by the shore. Her basic little black dress had been bought at a consignment store to wear to the few mandatory cocktail parties related to her position as a history professor at the University of South Carolina.

Of course she usually didn’t accessorize with baby drool dotting her shoulder.

Phoebe jostled the fractious five-month-old infant on her hip, smoothing down the pink smocked dress. “Hang on, sweetie. Just a few more minutes and I can feed you before bedtime.”

As waves crashed in the distance, a live band played oldies rock, enticing guests to the dance floor with a Billy Joel classic. Even South Carolina’s governor was dancing under the silver silk canopy with his wife. Darn near gawking, Phoebe stumbled on the edge of the flagstone walkway.

Definitely this was a party for the movers and shakers in the political world—as well as on the polished wood dance floor planked over the sandy lawn. She untangled her low heel from between two decorative rocks. She wasn’t here to socialize tonight. She’d come to find little Nina’s father.

If only she had a better idea of what he looked like.

Her longtime friend and old sorority sister— Nina’s biological mother—had told Phoebe that Kyle Landis was the baby’s daddy a couple of months ago when she’d asked for “just a little help” with Nina while she went on an audition for a dinner-theater production in Florida. Bianca had been so excited to get her prebaby body back, insisting this was her chance to provide a better life for her daughter.

Who could have known Bianca wouldn’t return?

Phoebe hugged Nina closer, all the more determined to make sure this precious baby had a stable life. Which meant finding Kyle Landis, a man she’d never met in the flesh. She’d hoped to ID him by his Air Force uniform, but the place was packed with tall, dark-haired guys decked out in formal military gear. Medals gleamed in the moonlight.

Cupping the back of Nina’s bonnet-covered head as the little one finally dozed off, Phoebe scanned the sea of faces, their profiles shadowy with only the illumination of moon, stars and pewter tiki torches. She only had an older photo to go by, a picture tucked deep in the bottom of the flowered diaper bag slung over her clean shoulder. No way was she going to disturb Nina by looking, not now that the baby was nearly out for the count.

He used to appear in the newspapers frequently when his late father had been a senator. Then his mother and brother had stepped into the political spotlight, too. But the family kept Kyle out of the media’s scrutiny as much as possible for safety’s sake because of his tours of duty in war zones.

The crush of people grew thicker, faces tougher to see. As much as she hated to draw attention to herself, she was going to have to ask for help finding—

“Can I get you something?”

The deep voice rumbled from behind her as if in answer to her very thoughts, jolting her with a clear shot of sexy bass on the salty ocean breeze. Lordy, the waiter must rack up tips with that bedroom voice of his. She glanced over her shoulder to ask for a napkin—she’d forgotten the burp rag again, damn it.

Her smile froze.

Captain Kyle Landis—in the flesh, all right.

His dark brown hair was trimmed military short, mellow blue eyes creased at the corners from a deep tan she knew he’d earned in a Middle Eastern desert. A broad forehead and strong jawline gave him a masculine appeal just shy of harsh.

She should have realized the guy would be even better looking in person. He was a lucky son of a gun from an established old Southern family—handsome and rich, with a smoky voice to boot. He’d even reportedly survived a crash unscathed. His muscled chest in a blue uniform jacket sported at least double the medals of most here, perhaps only outdone by his stepfather, a general.

What were the odds of Kyle finding her tonight, instead of the other way around? But then, as the guest of honor, maybe he felt obligated to make sure everyone else was having a good time.

“Can I get you something?” he repeated, a cut-crystal whiskey glass cradled in his hand.

An older woman angled past, whipping a full, ruffled train against Phoebe’s leg. The scent of strong perfume made Nina sneeze. She readjusted the baby, wishing they were at home in her bentwood rocker rather than here with this man. “I actually don’t need help anymore, since I was looking for you.”

A dimple dug into his cheek with his one-sided smile. “I’m sorry, if we’ve met before, I’m not remembering.”

That dimple would have been charming if she hadn’t already heard from Bianca to be wary of his prep-school-polished sense of humor. She might be out of her financial league here, but she was a smart, determined woman.

Phoebe forged ahead, needing to say something before he turned her over to a bouncer. “I’m not here for myself.”

He glanced behind her quickly, then focused his full, deep-blue-eyed attention on her face again. “Which one of my pals are you with? We don’t get many chances to meet the wives.”

“I’m not married.” But she had been. She shoved away even the thought of Roger before the inevitable stab of pain could steal her focus.

Kyle’s gaze flicked briefly to Nina, then away. So much for him recognizing his child on sight.

To be fair, he didn’t even know about Nina’s existence. Bianca had insisted early in the pregnancy that, while she wasn’t sure if she wanted to keep the baby, she would inform the baby’s father. Then later said she’d chickened out, then couldn’t find him and certainly didn’t want to send this kind of news to him overseas through his family.

As if Bianca would’ve even gotten past personal assistants to talk to anyone in his famous family. It had been a major challenge to gate-crash this shindig, but no security could outdo her determination.

That drive—along with channeling some acting tips she’d picked up from Bianca—and Phoebe had convinced them all she was the caterer’s assistant’s wife. Easy enough to do, since she was more the friend-next-door than the flashy-leading-lady.

Nothing could stop her, not now that Kyle had come home. Somebody had to tell him about his new “little” responsibility and since Bianca was MIA, that left it up to her.

Might as well get this over with. “Is there somewhere we can step aside to talk?”

“I’m sorry, but my mother would haul me back in by my ear if I tried to duck out of my own welcome-home party.” He angled closer, the fresh scent of his aftershave teasing her nose. “Maybe later, though?”

Undeniable interest flared in his cobalt-blue eyes, his full attention fixed on her.

Holy crap. Could he actually be hitting on her? She’d prepared herself for any possible reaction from him—except that.

She jolted back a step, holding up one hand. “Wait, that’s not what I meant.”

And even if he were interested enough to actually contact her, what if it took him a week to call? She didn’t have another week to waste waiting for him to phone her back.

Nina didn’t have a week.

Phoebe patted between the baby’s shoulders, praying she would stay asleep. The last thing she needed was a colicky nuclear meltdown. “I have to speak with you for five minutes out of earshot of everyone else. …”

Chapter One

His hands roved her bare body, melting her with the warm heat of his strong caress.

Bella Hudson bit her lip to hold back an embarrassing groan. Barely. She called upon all her training as a Hollywood actress to stay silent while Henri worked his magic on her oiled up body.

Muscles melting, she buried her forehead deeper in the massage table’s face cradle. The scent of aromatherapy candles soothed her nose while Christmas carols sung in French mixed with ocean sounds to caress her ears.

Pure bittersweet pleasure. Very bittersweet.

Sixty-two year old masseur Henri was likely to be the only man touching her for quite some time since her jerk of an actor boyfriend stomped her heart just last week. And wow, that thought sure kinked up her neck again, encroaching on her peaceful retreat.

She and her precious dog – Muffin – had escaped to France for some much needed soul soothing at the seaside Garrison Grande Marseille. Garrison hotels always provided the best in pampering, peace and privacy.

And crossing the Atlantic guaranteed she wouldn’t risk accidentally running into Ridley or worse yet, Uncle David.

Men. They were all rats. Well, except for Henri, who was too old for her and married, but oh my, he worked wonders with heated river stones along her lower back.

“Henri, are you and your wife happy?” She stared through the face cradle at Henri’s gym shoes as he swapped out the stones beside her treasured little Muffin snoozing away in her pink doggie carrier.

“Oui, Mademoiselle Hudson. Monique and I are very ‘appy. Four-tee years, three children and ten grandchildren later. My Monique is still beautiful.”

He continued to laud his wife and family, his adoration so thick it threatened to smother her.

Or make her gag.

She’d really thought Ridley loved her, only to have him say he’d been too caught up in the romance of their starring roles in the movie about her grandparents’ WWII romance. She’d really thought her parents loved each other too.

Wrong. And wrong again.

Her mother had cheated. She’d slept with her own brother-in-law and now Bella’s Uncle David was actually Daddy David. Her two cousins were actually her half-siblings. Good God, her family was ripe to be featured on an episode of Jerry Springer.

Even river stones couldn’t ease that ache.

A low sounding beep echoed through the room. A series of clicks sounded. Had the whale sounds traded up to dolphin calls?

Henri yanked the sheet up to her shoulders. “M’selle Hudson , quick, get up.”

“What?” she asked, not quite tracking yet.

Her eyes snapped open. She blinked to adjust in the dim light and found Henri blocking someone trying to push through the door.

Someone with a camera.

Crap. Crap. Totally tracking now, Bella bolted off the table and to the floor. Her feet tangled in the sheet and she pitched forward.

“Paparazzi. Run,” Henri barked as Bella struggled to regain her footing. “Run. M’sieur Garrison prides himself on protecting the privacy of his clients. He will fire me. Then my wife, she will keel me. She is crazy mean when she gets angry.”

So much for Henri and Monique’s happy marriage.

“Where the hell am I supposed to run to?” Bella spun away from the door – and the camera – making sure to anchor the sheet over her backside. She dashed to Muffin’s quilted pink carrier and grasped the handle.

She couldn’t wedge past Henri and the photographer struggling to raise his camera over Henri’s head.

“The screen,” Henri gasped, “move the screen. There’s another door behind. I will hold off this piece of garbage, M’selle Bella.”

Henri might have strong hands, but he appeared to be fighting a losing battle. Time was shorter than this oil spotted sheet.

Clutching the Egyptian cotton in one hand and the rhinestone studded carrier in her other, Bella raced to the antique screen painted with Monet-style murals. Sure enough, she found a narrow exit decorated with a large red bow. She butt-bumped the bar, creaked the door open and peeked out.

She looked left and right down an empty corridor, less ornate than the rest of the hotel. Labeled office doors bedecked with simple holiday wreaths. There might be some after-hours workers around, but running into them beat the hell out of sprinting through the wide open, high ceiling lobby with crystal chandeliers spotlighting her mad dash toward the elevator.

“Okay, Muffin, cross your paws, ‘cause here we go.”

Her sweet little fur baby yawned.

Bella tucked into the dimly lit hall, empty but for ornately carved antiques. Her bare feet pounded along the thick Persian carpet on her way past a lush green tree, tiny lights winking encouragement. She paused at the first office.

Locked. Damn.

She ran her hands along door after door on her way down. All locked. Double damn.

An echo sounded behind her. The sound of someone running. She glanced over her shoulder and…

Click. Click. Click.

She recognized the sound of a camera in action too well. The short but bulky photographer had overpowered Henri.

Bella ran faster, Muffin’s cloth cage bumping against her leg. She wasn’t a novice in ditching the press. She’d been aware of the media attention on her family since she was born twenty-five years ago.

Gilded framed photos of employees stared at her in a weird pseudo voyeurism. She rounded the corner and yes, yes, yes, found a mahogany door slightly ajar. No lights on. Likely empty. She would lock herself inside and call for help.

Panting, she raced the last few steps, slid through the part in the door.

And slammed into a hard male chest.

One without a camera slung over his shoulder, thank heaven, but still a warm bodied – big bodied – man. She looked up into his cool gray eyes. She didn’t need to check the formal photo by the door to confirm the identity of this dark haired, billionaire bachelor. At only thirty-four, he’d already been featured in plenty of “most eligible” lists. This expatriate bad boy had broken hearts from the Mediterranean to South Beach .

She’d fallen into the arms of hotel magnate Sam Garrison…

CHAPTER ONE

Mediterranean Sea – Present Day

Sixty seconds ago piloting this flight had been all gumdrops and rainbows. In an exploding flash, Captain Jimmy Gage’s day turned to dog shit.

His cutting edge new CV-22 was still tooling through the late afternoon sky just fine. The folks speed boating along the Mediterranean Sea , however? Not so good.

“What the hell?” He braced his hand against the control panel while aftershocks from the detonation below reverberated upward. This day may have turned to dog shit, but God willing, not nearly as bad as three years ago.

He needed to get his head out of his ass and focus on the radio in his helmet squawked to life. A crap-ton of voices crowded the airwaves until even his flight trained ears threatened to go on overload.

He peered through the windscreen, stick shuddering in his grip. Dots still danced in front of his eyes from the blast. Blue water stretched ahead to the distant Turkish coastline. The small boat of USO performers they’d been escorting to a naval aircraft carrier stalled behind…

In flames.

Training overrode questions. Time to get his butt in gear.
There were three pilots up front and only one flight engineer in the cargo hold at the moment. Smooth would have his hands full scooping survivors from the ocean in back.

Jimmy switched his headset to hot mic so he could hear everything and respond, while keeping his hands free to work. “Vapor, swap seats with me. I’m heading back to help out Smooth.”

“Roger that,” Vince “Vapor” Deluca jockeyed by and into the copilot’s seat beside the aircraft commander. “Holy shit, what a mess down there. Coming left.”

Jimmy charged past the bulkhead, already channeled into his new role. He was a test pilot these days, and being able to fly any plane, any crew position, anytime had been a requisite for graduation. Thanks to his new job in a black ops test squadron, he could do his damned level best to ensure technology became an ally rather than an enemy as it had three years ago.

A personal mission he now lived every minute in tribute to Socrates. A mission that carried extra weight today.

This should have been a shadowy slip across international waters under the guise of escorting a handful of new USO performers to an aircraft carrier off the coast of Turkey . The flight had provided the perfect cover for them to slip into Incirlik Air Base and meet up with CIA and NSA agents already in place. All focused on locating and rescuing Chuck Tanaka, a member of their test squadron who had been kidnapped in the region a week ago by God only knew what kind of monster.

Chuck wasn’t the only service member to have gone missing in the region. But he was the only one with an experimental tracking device embedded under his skin.

No way in hell was Jimmy leaving behind another brother-in-arms.

“Hotwire?” the commander’s voice barked. “Smooth? Can either of you give us more on what’s happening?”

Jimmy leaned out the open side hatch, wind roaring around him. Acrid gusts from the flames stung his nose, his eyes. He blinked his vision clear. The explosion hadn’t taken out the entire speedboat, a good sign.

Except a hole gaped in the bow of the Navy boat, sucking in water fast. An accident or deliberate?

He’d faced plenty of hairy situations during combat and test pilot school – not to mention his four month stint as a POW punching bag – but tossing in the wildcard of panicked civilians added an element of unpredictability to any situation that had nothing to do with gauging the odds of technology. Normally he thrived on the charge of an intense assignment, even a good old head-cracking, chair-smacking bar fight to let off steam that had never quite emptied out of him even three years after Socrates’s murder.

Jimmy tore his eyes from the mesmerizing flames licking up from damaged boat hull and studied the survivors bobbing in the waves. “The boat’s listing, gonna submerge soon. People are jumping overboard left and right trying to get to the life raft, Colonel.”

Their squadron commander, Lieutenant Colonel Scanlon, had come along due to the sensitivity of their real mission. The delay this explosion caused could very well steal precious minutes that ended up costing Chuck or one of the other missing servicemen his life. From his own captivity, Jimmy knew the inhumane lengths some twisted souls would go to extract sensitive information from military targets – and back then he hadn’t even been part of the dark ops test squadron with its all the more explosive information to protect.

But he couldn’t think of his friend now or the international ramifications of the top secret data stored in his brain.

“Bringing it around,” their colonel drawled over the airwaves. “How many are in the water?”

The CV-22 banked hard and fast, the tilt rotor tackling the tight turn with ease. Built to replace the MH-53 helicopter, the CV-22 hovered with blades on the wings overhead and could shift the rotors forward to fly like a plane at twice the speed of its predecessor. They needed every ounce of that agility today.

Jimmy gripped the side of the hatch, hooking a gunner’s belt around his waist for safety although his balance was sure after ten years of flying. Smoke from the explosion snaked inside reminding him of another time, a crash best scrapped from his mind right now.

Already jam-packed with top-secret intelligence gear to trace their lead in Turkey , the cargo hold would be crammed to the gills fast once they pulled everyone from the water.

“I count nine swimming toward the deployed life raft, sir.”

Lucky for them they couldn’t see the sharks.

Jimmy, however, had a bird’s eye view of the too many black shadows slithering just beneath the surface.

“Nine? Hell, if there are more, we’ll be hard pressed to take them on. Vapor, are there any ships close enough to get over here and help pick these people up?”

“Negative contacts on the radar,” Vapor answered. “We’ll have to pluck them out ourselves. Shit, is that a shark?”

“Okay, then,” the commander drawled through the airwaves. “Let’s move out about three hundred yards and get turned around. Hotwire, prepare to work your ass off.”

“Roger that, sir.” He made tracks around equipment strapped to the deck, his boots clanking metal on his way toward the lowering back ramp.

“Copy all, boss man,” Vapor responded. “Sierra Four, Sierra Four, this is Prey Two-One. We have a boat on fire and sinking fifty-four miles due north of your position. We estimate nine in the water, but there could be more. Can you get a helo heading this way?”

Chatter from the aircraft carrier buzzed in the background while Jimmy worked with Smooth to rig the rescue hoist for deployment. The CV-22 downshifted into a hover over the burning boat.

There had been talk initially of flying the performers. The local coordinator, however, had decided the speedboat had more of a “Navy” feel and chose to go with the small boat for a prima donna theatrical effect.

Damned bad luck choice for the people in the ocean. But worse for Chuck if these people’s need for drama ended up costing him even one extra minute of pain.
Jimmy kept his voice as steady as his hands. “Colonel, waters are beyond choppy. That life raft could capsize at any second.”

“Alright boys, let’s get some people out of the ocean.”

The hovering aircraft descended, closer to the rocking raft, nearer still. Jimmy stared out the cavernous back hatch as the nine people waving wildly became clearer, the sharks tougher to monitor even with Smooth’s help.

Smooth swiped spray from his face. “How about you work the winch and I’ll monitor them coming up to the ramp?”

“Got your back.” Jimmy deployed the winch outward, a three person rescue hook like the forest penetrator used in helicopters. “Colonel, ease up on the raft anytime.”

“Roger. Don’t let me get too close before you lower the sling into the water. We don’t need to be shocking these folks with the static electricity in that line.”

A burst of wind growled louder than the engines. The tilt-rotor nudged so low spray speckled his flight suit.

Jimmy played the cable toward the water, the whump, whump, whump of the rotors overhead sweeping foamy ripples. “Line is on the way down. Twenty feet… Ten.” The hoist slapped the surface by the orange rubber life raft. “Contact with the water. Ready to move in.”

“Roger, Hotwire,” the Colonel replied, “easing up. Keep a good eye on all of them and make sure the rotor wash doesn’t push anyone under.”

“We’re watching,” Jimmy affirmed. “Keep coming forward. Forward. Ten feet more. Good, hold it right there.”

A man slid from the raft, the boat captain from the looks of his Navy uniform. He grabbed the rescue hook and shouted back to the others. A woman in a glittery costume detached herself from the side. With the help of the Navy dude, she pulled the horse collar over her head and under one arm like a sash. The guy seemed to have things in hand below, so Jimmy held his position by the winch. Two more women joined her, facing each other on the three-seater apparatus.

So far so good.

“I have three in place. Bringing them up.” Jimmy set the winching mechanism into humming motion. Easy. Easy. Eyes glued to the trio to be sure all arms and legs were clear of the line. The whir of the winding cable blended with the roar of wind and rotors. “Survivors clear of the water.”

Destroyed boat parts swirled below with jagged edges that could graze anyone trying to secure themselves in the hoist. Blood in the water would draw the sharks in a snap.

Urgency pumped through him, prodding him to speed this up, but his training insisted on routine. Eyes on the line. As they neared the side door, he passed over the controls to Smooth and grabbed for the cable.

“Slack…” Jimmy called the order to slow the cable. He clamped the first woman’s hand as she clambered up the ramp. “Slack, slack.” He hauled the second, then third inside. “Stop slack. Survivors on the deck.”

He reached to steady the stumbling brunette who had to be a performer given her gold sequined dress. Sopping wet and gasping, she shoved a hank of hair from her face, mascara streaking her cheeks.

Smooth’s mega-watt smile that shouted high priced orthodontics. “Damn, she looks famous.”

“Save the autograph hounding for later and let’s rustle up some blankets. We’ve got six more men and women to bring on board.” Jimmy handed the pop diva over to his panty-peeler crew mate.

In quick succession, he scooped the remaining six in two runs, four of the people wearing costumes and two men in Navy uniforms. Jimmy started to breathe easier as the last collapsed into the CV-22’s belly.

“Colonel, we’ve got them all loaded and secured. No injuries. No sign of casualties. A quick head count and we’ll be ready to bounce.” Good thing for Chuck and the other unaccounted for soldiers this had gone quickly. They should be back on track to reach Turkey for their NSA briefing by nightfall.

A collective exhale echoed, before the Colonel whistled low and long, “Thank God. Bob Hope would be so pissed.”

Smooth grinned, although his eyes didn’t stray from the barely legal diva, no surprise since the guy never let a female pass without falling for her. “Your age is showing, Colonel. Bob Hope would be over a hundred.”

Lieutenant Colonel Scanlon growled. “Hope’s the father of the USO. Stop blaspheming a legend or I’ll turn Vapor loose on you. You don’t want him rewiring your car so the horn honks every time you put on the turn signal.”

Jimmy allowed himself a laugh now that the crisis had passed without so much as a shark nibble. Humor carried them through hell in this job, one of many reasons he preferred to crew with the squadron-renowned joker.

Maybe this day wouldn’t turn into dog shit after all. They would make a quick landing on the aircraft carrier, drop off their extra cargo and be on their way, closer to finding Chuck.

His laughter faded. Back to business. “Sir, still running a visual and I don’t see any more in the water. Smooth’s asking the survivors just to be sure.”

Smooth straightened, spinning fast back to Jimmy and holding up one finger. “We’re missing one. A woman.”

Damn it. Jimmy peered into the mist of sea spray below. Any of those curling waves could be shielding her – if she hadn’t already drowned or met up with a shark.

“Okay, everybody,” the Colonel ordered, “eyeballs out. Let’s find her. Vapor, work the infrared and see if you can spot a heat source. I’m gonna start a slow circle around what’s left of the boat.”

Jimmy braced a hand and planted his feet as the aircraft banked. Half the speedboat stuck from the water, smoke billowing, stealing what little visibility he had left. A crack cut through the air a second before…

The damaged boat exploded into a watery bonfire.

The CV-22 shuddered. Their new passengers shrieked. He zeroed in on the vision below. Flames flicked upward like a demonic hand shooting a fiery bird at the heavens. The orange-red glow domed out over the water.

And illuminated a small figure struggling to stay afloat.
Bare arms smacked the water, long hair trailing behind the woman. Smoldering scraps of metal showered down around her.

A deadly shadow undulated below the surface a few feet away.

His focus narrowed, frustration at the possible cost of this delay taking a back seat to the life-threatening emergency at hand. “Got a visual. There is someone down there, alive.” Her head and shoulders bobbed then disappeared from sight, her hair swooping after her. “Crap, she just went under. Colonel, come twenty degrees right and you should see her.”

“Copy all.” The craft cranked hard and fast, the Colonel’s drawl growing thicker. “I saw her for a second before a wave hit her. Anyone else got another visual? Smooth? Hotwire?”

“I keep catching glimpses. She isn’t gonna make it unless…” Focus gelled into determination.
Jimmy patted the flattened LPU – life preserver unit – draped over him. He would inflate it once he reached her. “I’m going in. Smooth, get ready to haul us up.”

He stared out the yawning opening at the thirty-foot jump. Not much of a drop except… Hell. He hated heights even more than he hated sharks. Some might think that strange for a flier, but he’d learned from his dead sister to meet fears head-on, fists flying even to the end.

Jimmy took three steps back, keeping his eyes locked on the speck of humanity bobbing in the ocean below. He gasped in air tinged with the scent of hydraulic fluid. And sprinted toward the load ramp. His combat boots pounded metal then air. No kicking free shoes for a nice little dip. Warriors went into the water in full out gear.

“Ahhhhh…” He hurtled through the battering wind and sea spray. “Fuck.”

She’d damn well better still be alive.
* * *
Chloe Nelson refused to die. The Mediterranean Sea , however, seemed determined to override her wishes.

She grappled through the wall of water slamming over her. A week of swimming lessons at the YMCA as a kid hadn’t prepared her for the open high seas. Her head breaking free, she gasped for air, her eyes stinging. She choked on a salty gulp and prayed hard, really hard that those rescue folks in the hovering aircraft wouldn’t abandon her while she worked her way clear of the debris.

The whump, whump, whump of the blades overhead churned waves faster around her, making it impossible to grab the harness they’d lowered for the rest of her group. Now she couldn’t see the thing, much less strap herself inside.

Could this be some kind of twisted justice for stepping so far outside her comfort zone as a classical musician? Never had she expected years of nose-to-the-grindstone training would result in a gig as a back up singer wearing sequins, fringe and do-me-sailor pumps.

Rhinestone studded shoes currently spiraling their way to the bottom of the Mediterranean . Chloe pedaled her bare feet faster underwater, determined to get out of here before she drowned or a shark made her his Happy Meal.

Something grazed her upper thigh…