Jenners approached Murdoch. “Damn fine job, Captain. Your squad set a new record today. If I’m ever in trouble, I know who I want sent in to haul my ass out of hot water.”
Eli nodded. “We’ll take care of you.”
Mitch looked at the men who were just as dirty and sweaty as he was. As an evaluator, he’d challenged each of them to push harder, to set a new standard and rise to it. They had. Mitch had had his doubts about Staff Sergeant Tolbert, the team’s Assistant Weapons NCO. Even though Tolbert had passed the rigorous training, Mitch wasn’t sure the guy was willing to give the one hundred and ten percent required in a special forces unit. But even Tolbert had pulled out the stops. “Nice job. I’ll see you all at 1300.”
He waited until the men had cleared the training area to head toward the showers. Eli Murdoch walked with
him. “Tolbert came through,” Murdoch said, inadvertently echoing Mitch’s earlier assessment.
“He’s shaping up and falling in line.”
Mitch had been totally unsurprised to find Murdoch assigned as a squad leader at Fort Bragg after he and Murdoch had earned their jump wings at Fort Benning back in June. Murdoch was the closest thing to a friend Mitch had ever allowed himself. They’d met six years earlier when they were both wet-behind-the-ears junior officers, fresh out of ROTC.
Murdoch and his wife, Tara, were good people. Mitch had even wound up buying a brick ranch-style home on the same street as Tara and Eli in the historic Haymount area of Fayetteville.
“By the way—” Oh, hell, he knew what was coming when Murdoch started out with
by the way
. “Tara wants to know if you’ll join us for dinner on Saturday night.”
Crossing the last of the dirt training field, Mitch cut to the chase. “Are any of her single friends going to be there?”
Murdoch shrugged and offered a smart-ass grin. “She didn’t say.”
“Your wife has more single friends than Louisiana has mosquitoes, and that’s saying something.” Unfortunately, Tara seemed hell-bent on introducing him to each and every one of them. Even Tara’s homemade meat loaf and mashed potatoes wasn’t worth another attempted hookup.
“I swear I didn’t know Dizzy Donna was going to
be there last week.” Murdoch threw his hands up in mock surrender. “
That
chick is a walking, talking nightmare.”
Eli wouldn’t get any argument from Mitch on that front. “Man, she’s gotta stop worrying about my love life. And she might want to reconsider some of the crazies she calls friends.”
“I know. I know. But it’s a chick thing. Tara thinks you’re great so you’re the first person she thinks of when one of her girlfriends is looking for Mr. Right. If I didn’t know she was crazy about me, it might piss me off.” Murdoch offered an arrogant grin that said he wasn’t remotely concerned about his wife’s affections.
“Right.” Murdoch and his wife, still newlyweds, were damn near embarrassingly in love. “Dizzy Donna. It fits.” Mitch didn’t require his dates to be Mensa candidates but all that woman could talk about was her favorite band.
Murdoch smirked. “She thinks you’re
gay
.”
“What the fu—?” Mitch threw back his head and laughed. “She thinks I’m gay?”
“That’s what she told Tara. She said she’d called you three times and you hadn’t returned her calls. Therefore, you must be gay.”
“I guess it didn’t occur to her that I just wasn’t interested. I thought if I ignored her, she’d get the message.” He chuckled again. That was one way to get rid of her, he supposed. “Whatever. As long as she quits calling me. And it was more like three times a day.”
“Ouch.” Murdoch winced.
“Hey, I’m cool with letting her think I’m gay if it means she’ll stop harassing me. She’s definitely not my type.”
Murdoch groaned. “Why’d you have to say that? Now Tara’s going to want to know what your type is.”
They walked into the gym building.
“Murdoch, how’s she going to know about this part of our conversation if you don’t tell her?” Mitch grinned. “Just keep your mouth shut.” A tall order for Murdoch.
“In a perfect world, it would work that way, but Tara’s got a way of…”
Actually, Mitch had seen Tara Murdoch in action. She did have a way. She’d make a helluva interrogator. “Fine. My idea of the perfect woman?” He thought about what constituted the ideal female. “Tall, thin, blond. Quiet. Athletic. Practical and organized. Someone who feels the same way I do about the military.” Yep. That pretty much covered it.
They walked into the locker room. “Just for the record, while we’re on the subject, do you ever just settle for maybe five out of eight on the requirement list?”
“What’s the point of having a requirement list if you’re going to settle?”
“Maybe compromise is a better word.”
Mitch shrugged and pulled his T-shirt over his head. “Compromise. Settle. Same difference. And the answer
is no. Why have standards if you don’t stick to them?” He sat on the bench and began to unlace his boots.
How many times had his dad sworn he was going to keep a job this time, only to last a whopping two weeks? How many times had his mother vowed to stay sober only to fall off the wagon again? At twelve, thank God, he’d gone to live with his mother’s parents and finally found some measure of sanity. His grandfather had retired from the Army and ran his household the way he’d run his career—organized, scheduled.
Mitch had learned early on that you either did what you said or you didn’t. Good intentions didn’t count for shit and actions did all the talking. That’s what he embraced about the military—there was no room for the bullshit he’d grown up with. Life in the armed forces was cut and dried. Black and white. You knew exactly what was expected of you and you knew exactly where you stood. There was a rule and regulation for everything.
If not for going to live with his grandparents and pursuing his own military career, he might have followed in his parent’s footsteps.
“So, you think you can make dinner Saturday night?”
Mitch pulled off the boots and followed with his sweaty socks. “Can’t. I’m heading down to Charoux for a couple of days. The old man—” his grandpa liked being called that “—is turning eighty and I’m bringing in some of his Army buddies for his birthday. There aren’t a whole hell of a lot of them left.”
Mitch was looking forward to it. He only made the trip back home about once a year. Anything more and the old man accused him of “hovering” although Mitch always suspected his grandfather was determined not to be a burden. From the day Mitch had left Charoux, home had become whatever base he was stationed at for that moment in time.
“You flying?”
“Yeah.” He stripped out of his pants. His briefs followed. “No time for a road trip.” He enjoyed driving.
“I’ll let Tara know.”
Mitch snagged a towel and a bar of soap and headed toward the showers, leaving Murdoch in the locker room.
He turned on the water and stepped under the warm spray.
It’d be nice to take a break from the women Tara Murdoch kept throwing at him.
E
DEN’S PALMS BEGAN TO SWEAT
as she approached the wooden sign that proclaimed, “Fort Bragg, Home of the Airborne and Special Operations Forces.” But then again, maybe it was just because she had to pee and not because she was entering the confines of Uncle Sam.
She’d flown in last night, picked up a rental car and checked into her hotel. She pulled up to the manned gate and waited behind three cars ahead of her for her base clearance. She’d been offered on-base lodging but had opted to shell out the money for a hotel room in civilian territory. She tapped her finger against the steering wheel, keeping time with the song on the radio. She was going to be late.
Time management wasn’t her strong suit. She’d started out in what should have been plenty of time considering she was only fifteen minutes from the base. But she’d taken a wrong turn and wound up on some back road, then she’d passed the man selling late-season watermelons out of the bed of his pickup on the side of the road and the setting had such a quintessential Southern feel about it, she’d had to stop and chat
with Junior Budgeton—that’d turned out to be his name. She’d taken a couple of photos and even a few candids when Junior’s grandson had wandered down to the highway from a clapboard house squatting on a hill for one of his “Pap’s treats”—a bright red slice of sticky, juicy watermelon with its green-rimmed rind. Bottom line—she was late.
Finally, she pulled up to the gate manned by a soldier wearing the signature maroon beret of the 82nd Airborne. He was polite but definitely not Hot Jumper calendar material. After checking his list and her ID he waved her through with instructions on how to get to where she was going.
Twenty minutes later—finding a parking spot had turned out to be far harder than finding the building itself—she hurried down the stretch of spotless military hallway as fast as her three-inch heels and pencil skirt allowed.
Being late, and was she ever, was considered heresy at Fort Bragg’s Special Ops command center. Yet another aspect to love about the military—not. She was making the public relations, “thank you for having me here” call to the big office and then she’d meet with the public affairs people. She’d change afterward into jeans and flats.
Thirty whopping minutes on base and she already felt stifled. For the hundredth time, she lamented getting stuck with this Army Paratrooper calendar.
Damn Patti’s black little soul to hell for rooking
Eden into this with limoncello and tarot cards. Her father would put it down to “artsy fartsy hyperbole” but she swore she could already feel the military’s rigidity shutting down her brain.
Late, late, she’s late for a very important date.
As
The Alice in Wonderland
refrain echoed through her head, she chuckled to herself—after all, stressing wasn’t going to turn back the clock—and put on a burst of speed as she turned the corner.
Thwump.
She collided with another moving force. She bounced straight off of a solid wall of soldier and her feet flew out from under her. Windmilling her arms uselessly, Eden landed on the polished gray-specked tile floor on her well-padded derriere. All the air whooshed out of her body.
Winded, she looked up past long legs, lean hips, a flat belly and a wall of chest, to a face that defined sinfully handsome. Chiseled lips, lean cheeks bisected by a sharp blade of a nose, and piercing eyes that were the most curious mix of gray and green, like cool, velvety moss on a stone statue.
A shock of recognition coursed through her quickly followed by a warm flush of desire. Mercury. He bore a striking resemblance to the statue in her garden except he wasn’t naked and his wings were on a shoulder patch rather than on his feet. The thought that she’d like to see him naked chased through her head.
Sprawled at his feet ignominiously, quite suddenly
Eden felt light-headed as if her brain was oxygen deprived. That had to be why she continued to sit on her ass in the middle of the hallway and stare openmouthed at the man who’d literally knocked her off her feet.
Lieutenant Colonel Mitch Dugan—she wasn’t so flustered that she missed the silver oak leaf cluster on his shoulder or the name badge on his broad chest—leaned down, extending a helping hand.
Without considering it, she took it and suffered further indignity when it became apparent that her high heels and narrow tight skirt didn’t lend themselves to being pulled to her feet. With a faint shake of his head he stated the obvious, “That’s not working. Let’s try this,” he ordered. In a span of seconds, he released her hands, hooked his arms beneath her armpits and effortlessly stood her up.
For an instant she was against his hard body, his arms muscled bands around her, her breasts pressing against that unrelenting chest, her hips lined up with his, his chin—with a faint cleft, the photographer in her noted—at eye level. Flesh and blood. Yowza, he was hot. She tilted her head back to look at him and his enigmatic gray-green gaze snared hers.
A tremor jolted her from the soles of her feet to the top of her head. She was breast to chest with Mercury incarnate. He was a beautiful piece of flesh-and-blood man and Eden rolled with her impulse. It was a big base, after all. Who knew when she’d have this opportunity again?
She stood on her tip-toes, sliding another inch up Lieutenant Colonel Hardbody, and kissed him. A slow, deliberate press of her mouth against his lips. Firm, cool…magic.
As she pulled away, something indefinable flickered in his eyes. Laughter, whistles, and even a catcall erupted behind them. Oops. For a second she’d forgotten they weren’t alone. A quick glance showed at least half a dozen men had witnessed that kiss. Definitely time for her to get to where she was going.
“Thanks, soldier,” she said, stepping back and around where he stood like a stone statue. She headed down the hall.
“I’d suggest you avoid going around kissing
soldiers
,” he said. Ah, the Lieutenant Colonel was touchy about his rank. She stopped and pivoted to face him. “It could get you in trouble,” he continued. His crisp voice carried a hint of Southern drawl that rendered it spine-tingling sexy. He paused and then tacked on, “Ma’am.”
Tall, commanding, sure of himself—he had Special Ops written all over him. She’d made it a rule to never date, or sleep with, soldiers. She’d sworn there’d be no rolling around getting hot and sweaty while she was here. Hadn’t she deemed that insanity? Especially since she was basically allergic to the military. It just seemed neater, cleaner to avoid any involvement with Uncle Sam’s finest. But now there was
him.
It was like the day she’d seen her house with its
walled garden and lemon tree and knew it was meant for her. There was something about this Lieutenant Colonel that made her want to slide beneath his seriousness and coax a smile from him.
She shot a flirtatious smile. “No worries. I only kiss the ones who sweep me off my feet and then pick me back up…soldier.”
She turned on her heel and hurried down the hall. She was now later than ever. She was also determined to find out everything she could about one Lieutenant Colonel Dugan.
One look into those gray-green eyes, one magic kiss and she was fully, squarely in the camp of temporary insanity.
“L
UCKY BASTARD
,” M
C
E
LHANEY
said as Mitch joined the platoon leaders waiting on the company commander to show up for the weekly briefing. He settled into one of the brown metal folding chair in the briefing room that resembled a high-tech classroom.
Even though Mitch wasn’t a platoon leader, but was stationed at Fort Bragg as a Special Ops training evaluator, he participated in the weekly briefing as part of his M.O. Each platoon leader headed six twelve-men squads or detachments. It was Mitch’s military occupation to evaluate the training and readiness of the company. As a strategic planner specializing in reconnaissance and evasion, Mitch trained alongside the detachments. In a perfect world, he would’ve preferred
to head a squad, but he’d been promoted too quickly and now held the evaluation position.
Special Forces soldiers underwent training in weapons, engineering and demolitions, communications, medicine, operations and intelligence. Each detachment had two noncommissioned officers who specialized in each field, however all were cross-trained and all were multilingual.
Mitch was well-versed in numerous Arabic and Middle Eastern dialects, which had stood him well on recon missions into both Afghanistan and Iraq. He’d also participated in and evaluated the Special Forces HALO training where jumpers pushed the limits—free-falling from a high altitude, which kept them off enemy radar, and opening their chutes within a thousand feet of the ground.
But the bottom line was most of the platoon leaders feared him. And there were a couple, McElhaney and Robertson, who downright disliked him because he’d found their squad training substandard. Mitch had no use for a commander who’d rather cover his own ass than make sure his men were as prepared as possible to go into a mission, do their job, and come out alive.
There was no love lost between him and McElhaney. Robertson mostly gave him a wide berth.
“I know,” Carter seconded McElhaney’s comment. He looked at Mitch and shook his head, as if dumbfounded. “Dugan. Of all the guys to pick, she picks him.”
“You damn well better believe that the next time I
see her coming, I’m going to knock her down and pick her back up,” McElhaney said.
Ortiz, one of the five platoon leaders present, entered the conversation. “So who’s your mystery woman, Dugan?”
Ortiz was a damn fine leader. His men carried an edge over the others. Mitch nodded. “Trouble,” he said. “That’s who she is.”
Ortiz chuckled. “Does Trouble have a name?”
Trouble had a name alright. “Eden Walters.” Eden. Depending on your perspective it could be the proverbial garden of paradise or the place where one found irresistible temptation. He was betting on the latter. The taste of her had been on his mouth the whole damn morning, the feel of the press of her breasts against his chest, the light flirty, floral scent had clung to his lapel…and those dancing midnight-blue eyes.
Unbidden, the image came to mind of Eden Walters sprawled sexily on her back, at his feet. She wasn’t exactly pretty, her face was too angular, her features a bit too sharp, but she was arresting. He’d even go so far as to call her striking with her cap of short dark hair, creamy skin, and stunning blue eyes. And the woman had killer legs. Most definitely trouble. “Her old man’s BMFIC at Campbell.”
“No shit?” Carter looked suitably impressed. Being in charge of Fort Campbell, home to the only air assault division in the world, was a big deal.
“No shit. You’re running your mouth about Brigadier General Max Walters’s daughter.”
McElhaney’s grin was unrepentant and slightly unpleasant. “All I can tell you, buddy—” McElhaney definitely wasn’t his buddy “—is he isn’t here and she is. I bet I can get her to kiss me even without putting her on the floor.”
Ortiz, married with two kids and a third on the way, shook his head.
Carter smirked. “Not if she sees me first, dickweed.”
Mitch shook his head. What
had
she been thinking? She knew better. She’d grown up on military bases—she
had
to
know
better. Why not just wave a red flag in a field of bulls? The woman had to be crazy as hell.
And he should give a damn, why? Because he couldn’t seem to move past her kiss. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t kissed and been kissed any number of times. But there’d been something about her kiss that seemed to linger against his mouth long after she was gone.
And quite frankly the idea of Carter or McElhaney or any of the other innumerable soldiers lining up for one of her kisses had him wanting to bang some heads.
“So, what’s she doing here?” Ortiz asked. He was definitely the sharpest of the group, but Mitch had known that long before this discussion.
It had been easy intel to pick up. “She’s a big-name photographer. She’s putting together a calendar for a fundraiser.”
“A calendar of what?” Carter said. “Like paratrooper of the month or something like that?”
“Something like that. The specific terms used were hardbody and hot.”
“Guess that lets you off the hook, Dugan, since they’re not looking for a hard-ass.” McElhaney’s smile held barely disguised dislike. “But she definitely needs to get a good look at me.”
“Forget it,” Carter jumped into the fray. “They’d need to put more than the back of your head on there and that’s the only part of you that qualifies.”
McElhaney’s response was cut short when Company Commander Colonel Gus Hardwick—commonly known among the troops as Harddick—entered the room, strode to the table and chair in the front and started without preamble. Harddick wasn’t one to squander words or time.
For over an hour they discussed maneuvers, upcoming missions, squad performance, individuals that needed help, testing for the week and general status updates.
Mitch could tell Hardwick was winding down by the inflection in his voice and all the material they’d already covered. That suited Mitch just fine. He had a boatload of pain-in-his-ass paperwork to review—that was the part of his job he loathed—before an afternoon training jump.
“We’ve got one more thing to cover. As you know by now, we have a visitor here in Alpha company.” Harddick looked straight at him. “I’m sure we’re all in agreement that any additional money going to supplement survivor benefits is a good thing.” Hardwick paused. There wasn’t a man in the room who wasn’t remembering buddies lost in the line of duty and the
families they’d left behind. And damn straight their widows and kids could use the extra dough. Just because there was a crazy, sexy woman in charge of the project didn’t mean it wasn’t worthwhile.
Hardwick continued, “The photographer wants to pick her own subjects rather than choose from a pool of volunteers. In fact, she’ll be observing the training jump at Sicily this afternoon.” McElhaney’s platoon was scheduled for a HALO training jump in the Sicily Drop Zone at 1500 hours. Dugan, who’d be jumping with them, didn’t miss McElhaney’s smirk. The guy really was an asshole.