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The Keeper
Rhonda Nelson


A thief has been breaking into chef Mariette’s shop. And only taken organic butter!But one night, Mariette is attacked, and Ranger Security assigns her an ultra-dishy protector, Jackson. He’s hot enough to melt any woman’s defences.Has Mariette discovered the recipe for disaster, or is this tasty bodyguard someone she’ll want to keep for good?










Check out what RT Book Reviews is saying about Rhonda Nelson’s heroes in— and out of—uniform!

Letters from Home

“This highly romantic tale is filled with emotion and wonderful characters. It’s a heart-melting romance.”

The Soldier

“Wonderfully written and heart-stirring, the story flies by to the deeply satisfying ending.”

The Hell-Raiser

“A highly entertaining story that has eccentric secondary characters, hot sex and a heart-warming romance.”

The Loner

“A highly romantic story with two heart-warming characters and a surprise ending.”

The Ranger

“Well plotted and wickedly sexy, this one’s got it all—including a completely scrumptious hero. A keeper.”


Dear Reader,

While other women might think immediately of romance on certain days, I don’t—I think of chocolate. After nearly twenty years together my husband knows that I don’t require dinner out or a box of fancy truffles. Though I’ve sampled Godiva, Ghirardelli, See’s, Whitman’s and various different other chocolates, nothing tastes as good to me as plain old Hershey’s. It’s simple, delicious and in that sweet little kiss form? Ah … bliss. And speaking of kisses, the hero in this book certainly knows how to do that well.

Former Ranger Jackson Oak Martin is as big, steady and strong as the tree he’s named after. But when being too near a bomb when it explodes renders him partially deaf in one ear, Jack knows that his career in the military is over. When he’s recommended for a position at Ranger Security, Jack is unquestionably relieved. But when his first assignment results in forced proximity with pastry chef Mariette Levine and involves catching a “Butter Bandit”, Jack can’t help but wonder what the hell he’s gotten into. Particularly when he becomes obsessed with getting into her …

As always, thanks so much for picking up my books! I am so very thankful for my readers and love hearing from them, so be sure to follow me on Twitter @RhondaRNelson, like me on Facebook and look for upcoming releases and news on my website, ReadRhondaNelson.com.

Happy reading!

Rhonda




About the Author


A Waldenbooks bestselling author, two-time RITA


Award nominee and RT Book Reviews Reviewers’ Choice nominee, RHONDA NELSON writes hot romantic comedy for the Blaze


line. With more than twenty-five published books to her credit and many more coming down the road, she’s thrilled with her career and enjoys dreaming up her characters and manipulating the worlds they live in. In addition to a writing career, she has a husband, two adorable kids, a black Lab and a beautiful bichon frisé. She and her family make their chaotic but happy home in a small town in northern Alabama. She loves to hear from her readers, so be sure to check her out at www.readrhondanelson.com.


The Keeper

Rhonda Nelson


























www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




Prologue


“WHAT ABOUT YOU, OAK?” PFC Heath Johnson asked. “What do you want in a woman?”

Doing a routine sweep through his little portion of Baghdad, Major Jackson Oak Martin was only half listening to his fellow comrades enumerate what qualities their ideal woman would possess. He’d been through this area countless times over the past few months and was familiar with every pile of garbage, every mate-less shoe, every blown-out window. He carefully scanned the area ahead, every sense tingling.

Something had changed.

“Eyes out, guys,” Jack told them, slowing down as the hair on the back of his neck prickled uneasily. “I’m pulling a weird vibe.”

“Bullshit,” PFC Chris Fulmer scoffed, seemingly annoyed and bored, his usual mood. “It’s the same old, same old here, Major. Nothing’s happened in weeks in this area. I don’t know why we can’t move on,” he continued to predictably complain. He grunted. “Ignorant-ass waste of time, if you ask me.” He shot a grin at Johnson and pulled a cocky shrug. “You want to know what I want in a woman, Johnson? It’s simple enough.” He made an obscene gesture.

The group laughed and Jack quickly quieted them, growing increasingly uncomfortable. Dammit, he knew something was different. Could feel it. He looked left, then right, along both sides of the cluttered abandoned street. He scanned the rooftops and windows, the blown-out cars and debris. On the surface everything appeared undisturbed, innocuous even, but every iota of intuition he possessed was telling him that it wasn’t, that something—however small—had been altered.

And the small things were just as capable of getting them killed as the big things were.

“You’re a shallow bastard, you know that, Fulmer?” Johnson told him.

The young Nebraskan was as wholesome as the farm he’d grown up on, intelligent and wise beyond his years, and had quickly become one of Jack’s favorites.

A dreamy expression drifted over Johnson’s face. “I just want a woman who can cook. One who knows that potatoes don’t come out of a box and are better mashed, with gravy. One who knows how to fry chick—”

A blast to their immediate right cut off the rest of what Johnson was going to say, along with his legs.

Jack felt the power of the detonation roll over his body—a terrible shock of pain to his right ear—and felt himself fly through the air and land hard on his left side. He couldn’t catch his breath—it had been knocked out of him—and struggled to force the immediate panic aside. Debris and dust clouded his vision, making his eyes water and sting. He lifted his head, saw Johnson shaking uncontrollably on the ground, part of Fulmer’s skull clasped in his own hand, and Wilson and Manning were both bleeding from various parts of their bodies.

Oh, Jesus …

He immediately radioed for help, then, heartsick and terrified, lunged into action, crawling with more speed than grace to Johnson’s side.

The boy’s big blue eyes were wide with shock, and his mouth worked up and down. He grabbed Jack’s sleeve and yanked him down. His ashen lips moved shakily, but no sound emerged.

“Medic’s on the way,” Jack assured him, tearing bits of fabric from the edge of his jacket to fashion a makeshift tourniquet. So much blood, he thought, working frantically, his hands slippery with it. It was a mortal wound, he knew—he was familiar enough with war to know that—but he had to try, had to help. This was Johnson, dammit, his friend.

Johnson writhed and tried to bat his hands away, but Jack roughly pushed him back down. “I gotta do it,” he told him, feeling his insides vibrate with dread. “I know it hurts like a bitch, but just stay strong, buddy.” Jack could feel his heart thundering in his chest, the tremor in his fingers, a trickle of something wet and sticky running down his neck.

Before he could attach the second tourniquet, Johnson jerked him around hard, his pale, freckled face a mask of pain and desperation. He kept talking—seemed to be desperately trying to impart something significant—but his lips only moved. Seemingly frustrated when Jack didn’t respond, Johnson tried harder, appearing to scream. He said whatever it was again, gave him another little shake, then fell back against the ground once more. His eyes drifted shut.

Oh, no. No, no, no.

“Johnson,” Jack said, grabbing the boy’s shoulder. “Stay with me, Johnson. Dammit, don’t—”

A hand suddenly landed on his shoulder and Jack whirled and struck out, sending the medic sprawling. A second medic was right behind the first and a helicopter had landed in the street fifty yards from where they were located. Jack watched the blades whirl, belatedly noting the lack of sound. He frowned, his gaze darting from one person to the next, watched their lips move, saw the action and reaction.

Dread ballooned in his belly and his heart began to race even faster as the unhappy truth slammed into him.

PFC Heath Johnson had just uttered his last words … to a man who couldn’t hear them.




1


Six months later …

PERHAPS BECAUSE HE WAS now partially deaf in his right ear, former-Ranger Jack Martin was certain he had to have heard his new employers incorrectly. He chuckled uneasily.

“The Butter Bandit?”

Brian Payne—one of the three founding members of the infamous Ranger Security Company—nodded and shot a look at fellow partner Guy McCann. “That’s what Guy has dubbed him and, I’m sad to say, it’s stuck.”

Jamie Flanagan, who rounded out the triumvirate, flashed a what-the-hell sort of grin. “You’ve got to admit that it has a certain ring to it.” He pulled a face. “Besides, other than a few éclairs, cookies and bear claws, butter is the only thing this thief is stealing.”

How … bizarre, Jack thought. He was most definitely a fan of butter—who didn’t like it melting on a pile of pancakes or slathering it over a hot roll? He had fond memories of making it himself with nothing more than a little heavy whipping cream in an old mason jar and shaking it up until his arms were tired, the unmistakable “plop” against the side of the jar, signaling it was done. He’d learned the trick from his grandmother, who’d been more butter obsessed than Paula Deen.

But he couldn’t imagine even her stealing the stuff. It boggled the mind.

“Have there been any other butter thefts in the area?” Jack asked, trying to get his mind around the idea. Not a question he would have ever anticipated coming out of his mouth, but then again nothing about his recent life was anything he’d anticipated.

Leaving the military before retirement had never been in any plans he’d made—unless it had been in a pine box, which he’d been fully prepared to do—much less moving to anywhere other than Pennyroyal, North Carolina, upon retirement. He’d actually purchased property next to his parents there in his little hometown and had been toying with various house plans for years. Just something else he’d need to rethink at a later date.

At present he was just glad to have a job, to have had an alternative to sitting behind a desk for the rest of his career. The mere idea made him feel claustrophobic, hemmed in. While Jack knew there were many powerful men who did their best work from an office, he was not one of those men. He liked to move, needed some sort of physical action to coincide with his strategy.

Of course, sitting still had never been easy for him. Even in kindergarten his poor teacher had had to mark a square—with duct tape, the wonder material—on the floor around his desk to keep him there. If he came out of the “box” without permission, then he lost time on the playground.

While other people might think she was being cruel or unreasonable, Jack knew she’d had good reason. He’d given the poor woman sheer hell, had been virtually incapable of sitting still for any length of time. He could hear her, understand and learn without looking at her—while looking at something else or doing something else, like playing with a toy truck, for instance, he thought with a mental smile—but he hadn’t realized until much later that other people didn’t learn that way. With maturity had come discipline, but the underlying need to move was always itching just beneath the surface.

Even now.

That’s what had made the military so perfect for him. Action, reaction, strategy, purpose. It had been the ideal fit. And while Ranger Security wasn’t the military, it was run by former Rangers—men like himself—and, though he fully anticipated an adjustment, he knew he was up to the task. He almost smiled.

Even catching a butter thief, of all things, which was evidently going to be his first assignment for the company.

“No,” Guy replied to his question. “No other butter thefts in the area. Mariette’s store is the only one that’s been targeted. We’ve canvassed the area just to be sure.”

“Under normal circumstances we wouldn’t be taking this on at all, but after last night we just can’t sit back and do nothing,” Payne said, his tone grim. “Mariette’s more than a local business owner—she’s a good friend, as well.” He gestured to the other two men. “She’s provided many a cup of coffee, breakfasts and snacks for us over the past three years. She’s hosted our kids’ birthday parties—”

“For which we are eternally thankful,” Jamie added with a significant grimace.

“—and her shop is right here on our block.”

In other words, their turf, their friend.

Jack had actually noticed the little bakery when he first arrived here in Atlanta a week ago. It was a pretty redbrick with whimsical window boxes stuffed with yellow and lavender mums. “Raw Sugar” was written in fancy script from a sign shaped like a three-tiered cake. There’d been a teenage girl with Down syndrome sweeping the walk out in front and she’d looked so happy it had brought a smile to his lips.

“What happened last night?” Jack asked, a bad feeling settling in his gut.

The three men shared a dark look. “Mariette heard a noise and went downstairs to investigate—”

“She lives above the shop,” Jamie interjected, pausing to take a pull from his drink.

“—and interrupted the guy. Instead of running like a normal criminal who’d been caught, he picked up a dough roller and hurled it at her.” Payne’s voice lowered ominously. “It caught her behind the ear and knocked her out cold.”

Damn, Jack thought, anger immediately bolting through him. He’d like to take a dough roller to the jackass for throwing it at a woman. No wonder they’d decided to intervene. Even though she’d been assaulted this still wasn’t a case that was going to get high priority to an overworked local P.D. His grandfather, father and sister had all worn the uniform, so he should know. He’d thwarted tradition when he’d traded the badge for a pair of dog tags, a fact his father never failed to remind him of when he went home. Good-naturedly, of course, but Jack knew his decision to not follow in the “family business” had stuck in his father’s craw.

“Do you have any idea what he’s looking for?” Jack asked. “Aside from butter, that is?” There was no way in hell this was just about butter. If that were the case, their thief would be hitting multiple businesses, not just Raw Sugar.

Jamie shook his head and released a mighty sigh. “Not a damned clue.”

“That’s where you’re going to come in,” Payne told him. “She needs protection, obviously, but more than that we need to know what this guy’s after. You find the motive and you’ll resolve the threat.”

He certainly couldn’t fault that logic. He had no idea where in the hell he was going to start looking for motive—with Mariette, he supposed—but otherwise this didn’t seem as though it was going to be too involved and shouldn’t interfere with his other … project.

“Because the thief hasn’t struck during the day while the shop is open, we’re assuming that she’s in less danger at that point. We’re putting Charlie in under the guise of ‘helping out’ until Mariette closes, which will free you up to investigate during those hours and then cover protection at night, when he’s most likely to strike again.”

The mention of his sister, Charlie—who was the first female nonmilitary, non-Ranger employee hired on by the company—brought a smile to his lips. He and his sister had always been tight and, if there were a silver lining at all to his impromptu career change, it was that he’d get to see her on a regular basis. He’d actually moved into his new brother-in-law’s former apartment here in the building.

When the idea of coming on board with Ranger Security after the accident had first been mentioned, it was ultimately Jay who had convinced him that it would be the right move. The first look at the “boardroom” with its high-end electronics and toys, pool table and kitchenette—complete with its own candy counter—had been proof enough before anything else had been discussed. Between the unbelievable benefits package—the salary, the hardware, the furnished apartment—and the familiar camaraderie of former battle-worn soldiers, he knew that he’d been lucky to find a place where he felt sure he would eventually feel at home. He grimaced.

At the moment, even home didn’t feel like home.

But how could it, really? After what had happened in Baghdad? An image of Johnson’s frantic, desperate face loomed large in his mind’s eye—the dirt and the blood—and with effort, he forced the vision to recede.

For the moment, anyway. Until he could properly analyze it again. Sheer torture, but it had to be done. He would keep analyzing it for the rest of his life if he had to. He owed the kid no less.

Typically when Jack returned stateside it was to a big party and lots of fanfare. He was the only son and frankly, as the former all-star quarterback for the high-school football team, Pennyroyal’s golden boy. He was generally met with a cry of delight, a hearty slap on the back, a little nudge-nudge winkwink and a free drink.

The tone had been decidedly different this time.

The smiles had been pitying and bittersweet, the slaps on the back held a tinge of regret and finality and, because he’d been wounded, there hadn’t been a party.

It was just as well. He hadn’t felt like celebrating.

Payne handed him a thin file. He’d already given him a laptop, a Glock, the permit to carry concealed and the keys to his furnished and fully stocked apartment. Brian Payne had thought of everything, but then, that’s what one expected out of a man dubbed “the Specialist” by his comrades, Jack thought, surveying the seemingly unflappable former Ranger. His gaze briefly shifted to the other two men.

With a purported genius-level IQ and an equal amount of brawn, Jamie Flanagan had been the ultimate player until he met and married Colonel Carl Garrett’s granddaughter, and Guy McCann’s ability to skate the fine edge of recklessness and never tip over into stupidity was still locker room lore.

He couldn’t be working with finer men. Or woman, he belatedly added, knowing his sister wouldn’t appreciate the unintended slight.

“Mariette is expecting you,” Payne told him. He hesitated and, for whatever reason, that small delay made Jack’s belly clench. He glanced at his partners, whose expressions suddenly became mildly humorous, then found Jack’s once more. “While she appreciates our help, she’s not exactly happy about the way in which we’re providing it.”

Jack felt his lips slide into a smirk. In other words, she didn’t want him to spend the night with her.

In truth, he wasn’t exactly looking forward to spending the night at her place, either. He was still having damned nightmares and didn’t relish the idea of having to explain himself. Besides, cohabitating with a woman for any reason made his feet itch and triggered the urge to bolt.

Irrational? Probably.

But he’d given it a go with his former college sweetheart and that had ended … disastrously.

Both the relationship and the cohabitation.

Who knew that having only one foot of five in closet space would irritate him to no end? Or that the way she ground her teeth at night would feel like psychological torture? Or that when he’d rebelled against the minimal closet space she’d thrown all of his shit out into the yard and set it on fire with charcoal starter and a flame thrower? Jack frowned.

In retrospect she’d been a little unbalanced—brought a whole new meaning to the phrase “crazy sex”—but the lesson had been learned all the same. He liked his own space. He liked his own bed. He liked making his own rules. As such, he didn’t do sleepovers. When the goal was met—typically a little mutually satisfying sex with no strings or expectations—he ultimately retreated to his own place.

And planned to always retreat to his own space.

Jack didn’t know when he’d made the conscious decision to never marry, but when his mother had concluded her I’m-so-glad-you’re-home speech with a succinct nod and a “Now you can settle down and get married,” he’d mentally recoiled at the thought.

The reaction had been jarring and, even more so, unexpected.

In all truth, he’d never really given much thought to the idea of marriage. He’d been busy building a career he loved, distilling the values he’d always appreciated—courage, honor, love of country, being a man who didn’t just give his word, but kept it, one who followed through and always got the job done. He worked hard on the battlefield and played hard off it.

Life, full friggin’ throttle, unencumbered by any other ties.

And he’d liked it that way.

He hadn’t realized exactly how much until after the accident, when everything in his world had shifted.

Losing Fulmer and Johnson had certainly changed him—death had a way of doing that to a person—and the hearing loss had ultimately cost him a career he’d loved, but he’d be damned before he’d give up the only part of himself he’d managed to hold on to. He was still Jackson Oak Martin and, though this life was a stark departure from the one he left behind, he’d figure out a way to make it work.

Because that’s what he did.

And the alternative was simply unacceptable.

And, friend of Ranger Security or not, this Mariette person was just going to have to deal with it because he had a damned butter thief to find.

PAYNE WATCHED THEIR newest recruit leave the boardroom and then turned to his partners and quirked a brow. “That went better than I expected,” he said. “A lesser man might have balked at catching a butter bandit.”

Guy pushed up from the leather recliner he’d been slouched in and grabbed a pool stick. He carefully lined up his shot and sent the number three into the corner pocket. “He’s certainly the most determined man we’ve ever brought on board, I’ll say that.” He frowned thoughtfully. “And not twitchy, but … barely contained.”

Payne had noted that, as well. Jack Martin didn’t shift in his seat, avoid eye contact, tap his fingers or his feet—didn’t fidget at all, actually—and yet, like a thoroughbred waiting behind the gate, the energy was there. Banked anticipation. Bridled action.

Having joined Guy, Jamie took a shot at the nine and missed. He swore and absently chalked his cue. “Charlie said that the only thing that made leaving the military bearable for him was the job he knew would be waiting here.”

Payne could definitely see where that would be the case and Colonel Carl Garrett had seconded Charlie’s opinion. According to the Colonel, before the incident in Baghdad, Jack Martin had been rapidly rising through the ranks, on the verge of lieutenant-colonel status. He was well-favored, determined and dedicated. He was a man who had been in love with his career and, though he could have stayed on in another capacity within the military, he couldn’t have continued along the same path.

It said a lot about his character that he was willing to blaze a new one.

“You can barely see the hearing aid,” Jamie remarked. “I wouldn’t have noticed it at all if I hadn’t been looking for it.”

The blast that had killed two of his men and injured two others had shattered Jack’s eardrum so thoroughly that he’d needed multiple surgeries to repair it. As injuries went, he was damned lucky, but it had to have been an adjustment, all the same.

“Has Charlie found out why he’s taking the lip-reading classes yet?” Guy asked.

“No.” And he wished their curious, master hacker would leave that well enough alone. Everyone was entitled to a few secrets and, for whatever reason, Payne got the impression that the one Jack was trying to keep was as painful as it was significant.

Charlie digging around in something her brother had decided was private wasn’t going to endear her to him if he found out. Of course, Jack probably knew Charlie well enough to know that she couldn’t resist a mystery and considered very little privileged information sacred. He almost grinned.

It was part of the reason they’d hired her, after all.

“It doesn’t make sense,” Jamie chimed in. “He can hear. Why would he need to know how to read lips?”

Payne shrugged. “I’m sure he has his reasons.”

Jamie took another pull from his drink and settled a hip against the pool table. “I just hope that Mariette doesn’t make things too difficult for him. We’re helping her, for heaven’s sake.” He shook his head. “Why is being grateful a concept women struggle with?”

Payne felt his lips twist. “She didn’t ask for our help.”

Jamie blinked. “That’s my point exactly. She didn’t have to ask.”

“I don’t think it’s the help that she objects to, per se,” Guy remarked, his lips sliding into a smile. “It’s the us not leaving her a choice that’s got her back up.”

“Charlie said we could have handled it better,” Jamie said. He paused thoughtfully and grimaced. “Actually, what she really said is that we were all a bunch of high-handed, knuckle-dragging idiots with the tact of a herd of stampeding elephants. Or something like that.”

Payne chuckled. That sounded about right. And he’d never met a woman who liked being told what to do. He frowned thoughtfully.

Mariette certainly wasn’t going to be the exception there.

He hoped Jack realized that sooner rather than later.




2


MARIETTE LEVINE WAS IN the process of pulling a red-velvet cupcake from the display case when she heard the bell over the door jingle and saw a pair of impossibly long, jeans-clad legs come into view. They sidled forward in a walk that was so blatantly sexy and loose hipped that she momentarily forgot what she was doing.

A flash of pure sexual heat instantly blazed through her, the sensation so unexpected and shocking she felt her eyes round and her breath catch.

Instead of standing up—which would have been the logical thing to do—for reasons that escaped her, Mariette dropped into a deeper crouch so that she could get a better look at the rest of him. She was not hiding, Mariette told herself. She had no reason to hide, even if she would admit to being curiously … alarmed.

How singularly odd.

She had no reason to be alarmed, either, and yet something about the stranger—whose face she hadn’t even seen yet—triggered an imminent sense of danger. Not of the axe-murderer variety, but something else … something much more personal. Her racing heart stupidly skipped a beat and her mouth went dry.

Intrigued, her gaze drifted up over his crotch—it had to, dammit, to get to the rest of him—and took a more thorough inventory. He wore an oatmeal-colored cable-knit sweater—oh, how she loved a cable-knit sweater on a man—and a leather bomber jacket that had seen better days. His hands were stuffed into the pockets, his broad shoulders still a bit hunched beneath the cold. He was impossibly … big. Not apish or fat, but tall and lean hipped and muscled in all the right places.

And if his architecture was magnificent, it was nothing compared to the perfect harmony of his face.

Sweet heaven …

High cheekbones, intriguing hollows, an especially angular, squared-off jaw. His nose was perfectly proportioned and straight, his mouth a little wide and over full. Sleek brows winged over a pair of heavy-lidded, sleepy-looking light eyes—either green or blue, she couldn’t tell from this distance, though instinct told her blue.

His hair was a pale golden-blond, parted to the side, almost all one length and hung to just above his collar. He exuded confidence, fearlessness and moved with a casual deliberateness that suggested he was a man who was well aware of his own strength and ability. He didn’t merely inhabit a space—he owned it.

And she wasn’t the only one who’d noticed. Several of her patrons had stopped to look at him—mouths hanging open, forks suspended in midair—and a quick look to her right revealed that her helper, Livvie, had gone stock-still.

“Wow,” she heard Livvie breathe, her eyes rounded in wonder. “You’re tall. Like the corn man, but not green.”

Charlie Martin Weatherford, her assigned daytime bodyguard working under the guise of helping out, exited the kitchen and her step momentarily faltered, then a brilliant smile bloomed over her mouth. “‘Bout time you got here,” she said to the mystery man with a good-natured snort of impatience. “You get lost, big brother?”

Big brother? Mariette felt her eyes widen and the original irrational panic that had sent her pulse racing only a minute before was minimal to the arrhythmia that had set in now. This was Charlie’s brother? This air-breathing Greek god in a bomber jacket was the man who was going to be spending the night with her until this ignorant dairy thief was caught?

Oh, no. No, no, no …

She didn’t know why oh-no, but she knew it all the same. Could feel some sort of impending doom with every particle of her being.

She’d been right to be alarmed.

It was self-preservation in its purest form. He was disaster with a tight-assed swagger and she knew herself too well to think he’d be anything other than irresistible. Why couldn’t he have been the aging-detective type her too-vivid imagination had conjured up? She peered up at him again and resisted the urge to whimper. No paunch, jowls or receding hairline in sight.

Just six and a half feet of pure masculine temptation.

Livvie looked down at her and smiled. “Look at him, Mariette,” she said in a stage whisper, her small, almond-shaped blue eyes alight with wonder. “There’s a giant in the shop.”

Following Livvie’s gaze Charlie looked down at her, as well, and her lips twitched with knowing humor, as though she knew exactly why Mariette was hiding.

“He’s not a giant, Livvie,” Charlie told her, slinging an arm around the younger girl. “He’s just a very tall man.”

She looked at Mariette, arched a questioning brow and mouthed, “Corn man?”

Very reluctantly, Mariette rose, mentally braced herself and turned to meet Charlie’s brother. She could hear her heart thundering in her ears and her mouth had yet to recover any of its lost moisture. A breathless sort of anticipation gripped her as she looked up.

She’d been right, she discovered—his eyes were blue. And not just any shade of blue. French blue.

Her favorite, naturally.

Though she was utterly certain the earth hadn’t moved, Mariette felt it all the same. The soles of her feet practically vibrated from the imaginary vibration. The entire room, with the exception of the space he occupied, seemed to shimmy and shake. Her lungs went on temporary strike and a hot flush rushed over her skin, as though she’d been hit with an invisible blowtorch from one end of her body to the other. Her toes actually curled in her shoes.

Remarkable.

At twenty-seven, Mariette had met many good-looking men and knew enough about sexual attraction to recognize it. But this was unmistakably different. It wasn’t a dawning awareness of an attractive man.

This was a bare-knuckle sucker punch of lust—purely visceral—and undeniably the most potent reaction she’d ever had to a man. It was the sort of attraction that was rhapsodized in lyric and verse, secured the human race, rendered reason and logic useless, made one stupid.

It was the sort that could ruin a person.

But not her, dammit. Geez Lord, hadn’t she just learned her lesson? What had Nathanial been if not a warning? Aside from a cheating, dishonest little bastard, anyway? To think that she’d been seriously considering marrying him.

Just like all the other men she’d misjudged—and, lamentably, there’d been many—on the surface Nathaniel had seemed like a perfect catch. He was a successful architect working for a local, prestigious firm. He’d stopped by her shop for three solid months, asking her out every single time he came through the door until she said yes. She’d been flattered and she’d liked the fact that he hadn’t been a quitter, that he’d been persistent. She’d thought that, in him, she’d finally found the one. A real, stand-up guy who genuinely loved her the same way that her mother always had—unconditionally.

In reality he just hadn’t been used to anyone telling him no. Come to find out she hadn’t been the only person he’d been pursuing relentlessly—there’d been several others.

And when she’d caught him getting blown by the plant-watering girl—whose dirty feet still haunted her—at his office, she’d been shocked, humiliated, angry and hurt. The pain hadn’t come just from the betrayal, which had been devastating enough—it had come from not being able to trust her own judgment. With previous guys she’d had an inkling of disquiet, an intuitive niggle of doubt that she’d ultimately ignored. Smooth-talking, greasy Nathaniel had slipped completely under her radar. And he’d had a crooked dick, too, Mariette thought. If nothing else, that should have clued her in.

Note to self: Never trust a man with a crooked dick.

To complicate matters, despite her telling him to go play in traffic, he still hadn’t learned to accept no for an answer and continued to drop by in the slower hours and try to convince her to take him back. She mentally snorted.

As if.

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. She might not always get things right, but she was a firm believer in education by experience … and that was one she didn’t want to repeat.

Mariette steeled herself against her newest battle of temptation. “Are you in any way related to the Jolly Green Giant, Mr. Martin?” Mariette asked him, determined to get control of herself. He was only a man, after all. A mouthwatering, bone-melting, sigh-inducing, lady-bits-quivering specimen of one, yes.

But still just a man. And those were supposed to be off-limits, at least until she figured out just what it was exactly she wanted in one and how to recognize it.

He chewed the inside of his cheek as if to hide a smile. “Not that I’m aware of, no.”

“Sorry, Livvie,” Mariette told her with a wince. “He’s not a giant.”

Livvie looked unconvinced, but beamed up at him regardless. “It’s all right,” she said, smiling shyly. “I like him anyway.”

Seemingly charmed, he extended his hand to her. “I’m Jack,” he said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Livvie giggled delightedly and fingered the Hello Kitty necklace around her throat. “You’re nice.” She leaned over to Mariette and whispered loudly in her ear—loud was Livvie’s only volume—”He’s a gold.”

Jack’s expression became puzzled, but he didn’t question it. Livvie said she saw people in colors and was forever telling Mariette which color various people were. She even kept a small color wheel in her apron pocket so that she could easily locate the right shade. Mariette, she’d said, was a lavender. Charlie, a fuchsia. If memory served, Jack was her first gold. Interesting …

Mariette wasn’t surprised that Livvie could so clearly see auras. She was as pure of heart as it was possible to be and Mariette liked to think that the gift had been given to her as a means of protection, a way to recognize the good from the bad, and had even seen the girl retreat away from those whose “color” wasn’t right.

Would that her mother had had the same sort of gift.

At any rate, Jack Martin had passed her “Livvie test” and that said something about him. You could tell a lot about a person by the way they reacted to someone different from themselves and Livvie was about as different from Jack Martin as it was possible to be. She was small and round-faced with the short fingers and lower IQ that marked her as a person with Down syndrome.

The majority of Mariette’s customers treated Livvie with the sort of care and respect someone with the purest heart deserved—children, in particular, were drawn to her—and anyone who didn’t treat her well wasn’t anyone who was welcome in her shop.

Born to a mother with Down’s who’d been taken advantage of by a male caregiver, Mariette had a unique connection to the condition and had been employing workers with Down’s since she first opened her doors four years ago.

If she’d learned anything from her mother it had been that everyone—no matter how different—wanted to be needed, to be useful, to have a bit of independence. There wasn’t a day that went by that she didn’t miss her and not a day that went by that she didn’t want to hurt the father who’d abused her trusting spirit.

Bastard.

He’d served eighteen months for what he’d done to her mother and then promptly fled the state. Mariette kept tabs on him, though, and directed every new employer to his sex-offender status. She inwardly grinned. He never kept a job for very long. He struggled and, though it might be small of her, she thought it was fitting. He deserved that and a lot worse if you asked her.

The idea that his evil blood actually ran in her veins was something she’d struggled with for years, at times even making her physically ill. But her mother’s was there, too, and Mariette liked to think that her mom’s especially good blood had somehow canceled out that of her father’s. Weird? Yes. But she’d never been destined for normal.

Normal was boring.

Her gaze drifted fondly over her dear helper and she smiled. Livvie had been with her for several months now and was doing remarkably well. She loved manning the case and adored sweeping. She helped with the birthday parties and refilled drinks and every tip that went into the jar was hers to keep. Which was just as well since the bulk of her check went to fund her Hello Kitty obsession. Her most recent purchase was the watch that encircled her wrist.

“Can I get you something?” Mariette asked Jack, gesturing to the display case.

He hesitated.

“He has a fondness for carrot cake,” Charlie interjected slyly.

Mariette shot him a droll look and selected the cupcake in question. It had been her aunt’s recipe—and was one of her favorites, as well. Oh, hell. Who was she kidding? Everything in this shop was her favorite, otherwise she didn’t take the time to make or stock it. Food was a passionate business and if she couldn’t get excited about it—if it didn’t make her palate sing—then she didn’t bother. Better to have fewer phenomenal items on her menu than dozens of mediocre ones.

Also something she’d learned from her Aunt Marianne, who’d not only helped raise her, but had taught her to bake, as well. Some of her fondest memories were in the kitchen with her aunt and her mom, cracking eggs, stirring batter, the scent of vanilla in the air.

She popped the dessert onto a little antique plate along with a linen napkin and handed it to him. Seconds later Livvie had put a glass of tea in his hand. She’d added two lemons and a cherry, which told Mariette just how much Livvie thought of him. She only put cherries in the drinks of her favorite people. He nodded approvingly at her and shot her a wink, making her giggle with pleasure once more.

His blue gaze shifted to Mariette and that direct regard made her more than a little light-headed. “Is there somewhere we can talk?” he asked, lifting a golden brow. “I’ve got a few questions.”

Mariette took a bracing breath and prepared herself for imminent humiliation. She couldn’t imagine anything more mortifying than telling this man about her butter problems.

MARIETTE LEVINE WAS NOT at all what he’d expected, Jack thought broodingly as he followed her back to the kitchen. Actually, he hadn’t really given any thought to what she might be like, so that wasn’t precisely true. But—his gaze drifted over her petite curvy frame, lingering on her especially ripe heart-shaped ass—this woman wouldn’t have been it.

In the first place, Mariette sounded like an old-fashioned name, so he’d imagined a more mature woman. Oh, hell, who was he kidding? He’d thought she’d be old. Which was ridiculous, really. Not all bakeries were owned by plump grandmas in floral aprons, though for reasons that escaped him that was the image that had leapt immediately to mind.

He estimated this particular baker to be in her mid- to late-twenties. In the second place … Well, there wasn’t really a second place, though logic told him there should have been. And a third and a fourth and a fifth, for that matter. Furthermore, he felt as though he should have been warned, but couldn’t come up with a logical reason for that, either.

What would they have said? Oh, by the way, Mariette’s young and hot with the most unusual gray eyes you’ll ever see? That long mink-colored hair will incite the urge to wrap it around your fist and drag her up against you? And her mouth … Jack swallowed thickly. A much fuller lower lip, a distinct bow in the upper and a perpetual tilt at the corner that suggested she was always enjoying a private joke. It was sinfully sensual nestled between her pert little nose and small pointy chin.

She wasn’t merely pretty or beautiful—though those adjectives would apply, as well—but there was something more there. Something much more substantial and compelling, and the bizarre tightening in his chest that had occurred when her gaze had met his had been nothing short of terrifying.

Jack wasn’t accustomed to being afraid of anything other than failure, so discovering that a woman could incite the feeling was a bit unsettling.

Honestly, when she’d risen up from behind that counter he couldn’t have been more surprised if he’d been hit between the eyes with a two-by-four. He’d damned-near staggered.

From a single look.

Like a tsunami running headlong into a hurricane.

If he had any brains at all he’d turn around and leave, Jack thought. He’d walk right back up the block to Ranger Security and tell them that they needed to put someone else on this particular case, to give him another one. But short of a natural disaster metaphor, how in the hell could he explain his reasoning?

How could he tell them that she made his gut clench and his dick hard? That intuition told him he was headed into uncharted emotional and sexual territory and, weak as it might sound, he wasn’t altogether certain he’d be able to control himself? That something about her scared the hell out of him? A girl?

How galling.

He couldn’t tell them that, dammit. He needed this job, had to make it work. He couldn’t bail on the first damned assignment.

And as much as he was compelled to flee, there was an opposite force equally as strong that was drawing him toward her, intriguing him, transfixing him, and between the two he was stuck, immobile and powerless.

Another punch of fear landed in his gut.

Mariette gestured toward a small table, indicating a seat and she took the one opposite. A couple of women worked at a large stainless-steel table drizzling icing over pastries and the scent of yeast and sugar hung in the air, reminding him of Christmastime at home, when his mother made her famous cinnamon rolls. Every surface gleamed beneath the large, overhead lights. An old wooden ladder outfitted with metal hooks was suspended from the ceiling and held a variety of pots and tongs of varying degrees and sizes.

A peg board had been anchored to one long wall and held dozens of bowls, measuring cups, couplings and icing tips. Fresh flowers sat in old, blue Mason jars on the back windowsill and yet another board—this one a dry erase with what he could only assume were orders—took up another wall. The space was small—narrow like the building—but had been maximized with state-of-the-art appliances and sheer ingenuity.

He was impressed and said as much. “This is a great setup,” he told her.

Seemingly pleased, she smiled and tucked a long strand of hair behind her ear. “It was a lot of trial and error in the beginning, but I think I’ve finally got everything organized in the most efficient manner.”

He took a bite of his cupcake and savored the spices against his tongue. It was moist and flavorful, and the icing was perfect—not too sweet, with just the right cream cheese to sugar ratio. Not everyone got that part right, but she’d mastered it.

“And you live upstairs?”

She nodded, swept an imaginary crumb from the table. “I do. I keep long hours and economically, it just made more sense.” A wry grin curled her lips. “I’ve got one mortgage as opposed to two.”

Definitely savvy. Sexy, smart and she could cook, too. He hoped to hell he discovered a flaw soon. A hairy mole or a snorting laugh. Anything to derail this horribly inconvenient attraction.

“And when did you notice that someone was stealing your butter? When did the Butter Bandit first strike?”

Looking adorably mortified, she blushed prettily, a wash of bright pink beneath creamy skin. “Three days ago,” she said. “At first I just thought one of the girls—possibly Livvie—had moved it from one part of the walk-in to the other. It’s a big space and I keep it well stocked. I only use organic products and everything has to be fresh, otherwise the quality isn’t up to par.”

He could certainly taste the difference. “But it hadn’t been moved?”

She shook her head. “No. And more than half of it had been taken.”

“And how much is half?”

She chewed the inside of her cheek, speculating. “Roughly thirty pounds.”

Jack felt his eyes widen. “Thirty pounds?”

She laughed, the sound husky and melodic. Definitely not a snorter, then. Damn.

“I typically use between sixty and seventy pounds of butter a week.” She gestured to five-gallon lidded buckets beneath the main work station. “That’s flour and sugar. And that smaller fridge against the wall? That one holds nothing but eggs.”

Good Lord. He’d had no idea. Of course, since he’d never made any sort of dessert in his life that didn’t come out of a box and require that he add only water, why would he?

But thirty pounds of butter? Who in the hell would steal thirty pounds of butter? To what purpose? For what possible use?

And they’d come back for more and attacked her for it.

“Who supplies your butter?” Jack wanted to know. It seemed like the best place to start. Perhaps there was something special about Mariette’s butter. Maybe it was made from goat’s milk or only harvested during the full moon. Maybe it was intentional butter, much like that Intentional Chocolate he’d gotten in a care package from his mother last year. Supposedly, it had been infused with good intentions by experienced meditators. Enchanted butter, he thought, tamping down the absurdity of the situation. He’d be damned if he knew.

But it was his job to find out, he reminded himself.

“Jefferson’s Dairy just north of Marietta,” she told him. “They furnish my eggs and milk, as well.”

Jack nodded and pushed up from his chair, determined to get started. The sooner he figured this out the better. Besides, one of the ladies had fired up a mixer and the whine was wreaking hell with his hearing aid. For the most part, the little miracle piece could almost make him forget that he needed it at all, but then a certain sound would set it off and he’d be reminded all over again. For the most part, he’d learned to cope with the “disability”—and knew that he’d gotten off easy in comparison to most other war-sustained injuries—but it was still jarring, nonetheless. An instant reminder of what he’d lost, an automatic, haunting flashback to Johnson’s desperate face. He gave himself a mental shake, forcing himself to focus on the task at hand.

The bleeding, bedamned Butter Bandit.

The dairy sounded as good as any place to begin. “I’m sure that Payne has called them already, but I want to go out there and do a little poking around.”

She stood, as well. “Of course.”

“What time do you close?”

“Six.”

He nodded once. “Then I’ll be back at six.”

A fleeting look of irritation and panic raced across her fine features so fast he was almost inclined to believe he’d imagined it.

But he hadn’t. For whatever reason—insanity, probably—that gave him an irrational burst of pleasure. The whole misery-loved-company bit? he wondered. Or was it something else? Was the idea of rattling her cage the way she was rattling his the culprit? He inwardly smiled.

It was fair, if nothing else, Jack decided.

A thought struck. “Did you get any sort of look at the guy at all before he threw the dough roller?”

The mere thought of it—of her being hurt—brought on the instant urge to hit something. Preferably the asshole who threw the dough roller at her.

What the hell was wrong with people anyway? Jack thought.

She smiled sadly and shook her head. “He was tall and skinny,” she said. “He was wearing a hoodie and it was dark. I—”

“No worries,” he told her. “I’ll get him.”

And when he did he was going to think of new and unusual ways to use that damned dough roller on him.




3


BOBBY RAY BISHOP KEPT his head down and his ball cap pulled low as he made his way past Mariette Levine’s bakery, but darted a quick look through the shop window all the same. The little slow girl was there, as usual. She never failed to give him a hug when he came by with a delivery—he relished those hugs because they were the only ones he ever got. He hadn’t been given a pat on the head, much less a hug, since he was eight, so it had been a shock at first, but a pleasant one. No sign of Mariette, but another woman with shoulder-length dark hair whom he’d never seen before was behind the counter. His heart kicked into a faster rhythm.

A new person working in Mariette’s place?

Shit, shit, shit. His hands began to shake. He must have hurt her bad, Bobby Ray thought. Could have even killed her.

He hurried past and rounded the corner, then leaned against the wall of the next building and pulled long, deep breaths into his seizing lungs. Panic and nausea clawed their way up his throat and his nose poured snot, which he dashed away with the back of his hand. He felt tears burn the backs of his lids and blinked them away, determined not to cry. When had crying ever done him any good anyway? Just earned him a backhand against the face or a knock upside the head.

Or worse.

I ain’t raisin’ no sissy boy, his father had always said. You gonna cry, then I’ll give you something to cry about.

And he had.

God help him, what was he going to do? He’d been sleeping in his car for days, moving from one place to another to stay at least a step ahead of Uncle Mackie. He snorted. Uncle Mackie wasn’t his real uncle, of course. He probably wasn’t anyone’s uncle at all, but the name had come up at some point or another and stuck, and now it had the power to make him quiver with fear and practically piss himself.

Bobby Ray had lived in fear most of his life and he was sick to death of it.

Uncle Mackie was a bookie and, after a few ill-advised bets plus interest plus whatever “fee” Mackie decided he owed, Bobby Ray was into him for four grand.

It might as well be a million.

He didn’t make enough at the dairy to come anywhere near that amount and didn’t have anything of value to sell. At nineteen he had a beat-up fifteen-year-old Buick with a salvage title, and lived in a pay-by-the-week motel room. Better than foster care, which he’d ultimately aged out of, thank God, but certainly not the high life, either.

He wiped his nose on the sleeve of his shirt and looked enviously at passersby with their fancy clothes, smartphones and gold watches. He’d bet none of these people had a clue about how people like him lived. Eating microwave mac and cheese every night for dinner, waiting for an empty dryer with a few minutes left on the timer at the Laundromat so that he could afford clean clothes.

He’d always heard that hard work was supposed to pay off, but all Bobby Ray could see in his future was more hard work and a constant, never-ending struggle. He supposed that’s why he’d turned to betting. When one five-dollar bet on the dogs had made him more money than he earned in a month, he’d imagined himself a professional gambler. His lips twisted with bitter humor.

And that was exactly what Uncle Mackie had wanted him to think.

Within two weeks he was down two grand and panicking. Mackie’s boys had roughed him up pretty good and had told him the next time they came back they wouldn’t be so “gentle.”

Bobby Ray had never been a saint and wouldn’t pretend otherwise. He’d spent more time kicked out of all the various schools he attended than in them, mostly for fighting. Kids were smarter than people typically gave them credit for and they had a talent for sniffing out the kind that was different from them.

Bobby Ray had always been different.

For starters, his eyes were two different colors. Add the Glasgow smile—twin scars that ran from his ears to the corners of his mouth and made him look as if he was always wearing an unnaturally wide grin—compliments of one of his father’s drunken rages, and he’d been an easy target. Life would have been a whole lot easier for him if he’d simply accepted the taunts and moved on, but Bobby Ray had never been able to do that.

He always fought. And he lost more often than he won.

Taking the first coin from Audwin Jefferson had been the most difficult thing Bobby Ray had ever done. Audwin hadn’t stared at his scars or his mismatched eyes and hadn’t cared if Bobby Ray hadn’t graduated high school. He’d looked at him and saw an able-bodied man willing to work and the pride that had come with that knowledge had been damned near indescribable.

He bitterly wished he’d never known about the coins, wished Audwin had never taken the little black pouch out of the drawer and laughingly called it his retirement fund. He’d shown him a variety of different coins—buffalo nickels, Confederate money, various pennies and silver dollars, even a gold piece from Nazi Germany that his grandfather had brought back from WWII.

Sweating with dread and sick to his stomach, Bobby Ray had snatched the first coin his fingers had come in contact with and, feeling more miserable by the minute, had taken it to a pawn shop on the other side of town. The broker had given him a thousand dollars for the coin and Bobby Ray had promptly turned it over to Uncle Mackie, but by that point his debt had quadrupled.

And Uncle Mackie had found another way to earn a buck.

Because he’d become irrationally terrified of getting caught, Bobby Ray had started slipping the coins into the butter molds so that they were never actually on his body and then marking the molds with a small X so he knew where to find them. When he left the dairy to make the deliveries, he’d simply pull over and retrieve the coin, then head directly to the pawn shop and then to Uncle Mackie. Every time he thought he was close to paying off his debt, Mackie would fabricate another “fee” and get him on the hook again.

Because a couple of customers had complained that he was delayed, Bobby Ray had been forced to alter his system and start making his deliveries first. And that’s when things had gone wrong. He’d set aside the mold he was certain held the coin, then belatedly discovered at the end of the day that it had somehow gotten swapped with a dud. By process of elimination he’d deduced that his coin had gone into Mariette’s shop and he’d been desperately trying to retrieve it ever since.

She’d caught him last night and he’d panicked and picked up the dough roller. He hadn’t meant to hit her with it—had only wanted to scare her away so that he could make a run for it—but she’d zigged when she should have zagged and it caught her on the back of the head.

She’d crumpled like a rag doll and he’d nearly been sick with fear. He’d dialed 911 from the shop phone, left the receiver on the kitchen counter and ran for it.

Because he needed to know how she was, Bobby Ray decided that he’d find a pay phone and start calling the local hospitals. The idea that he could have seriously wounded her—or worse—was eating him up inside. How had this happened? he wondered again, feeling the hopelessness close in around him. How had things gotten so completely out of his control? It was only a matter of time before Uncle Mackie turned up at the dairy, Bobby Ray thought.

And Audwin would fire him for sure then.

Dammit, he had to get that coin back. He had to.

“LISTEN, MARIETTE, I know that the guys have stomped in and taken over your protection and this case, but they mean well,” Charlie told her once the afternoon crowd thinned a bit. “They consider you a friend. In their own weird way they genuinely believe that they’re doing what’s best for you.”

“I know that,” Mariette said, feeling trapped and exasperated. With herself more than anyone. “And it’s not that I don’t appreciate it because I do.”

And that was true. She’d never had a father, or even a big brother for that matter, who’d had her back. It was odd having Payne insist on taking care of this problem because she’d always taken care of her own problems. Once she’d gotten over hearing so many orders fired at her regarding her house, her shop and her safety, she’d been able to stop and consider that and she’d found that, high-handedness aside, she rather liked that they wanted to protect her. That they thought enough of her to do that.

She’d just been so rattled this morning after the attack that she hadn’t been able to think clearly. Mariette had never been afraid before, especially here in her own space. To find that she was vulnerable had been more than a bit disconcerting. She’d spent three hours in the E.R. and, despite various protests from all sides, had come back to the shop to start work. She’d had to—she wasn’t just her own boss, she was also the boss of four employees and she did the bulk of the work.

If something got ruined or didn’t turn out right, it had an immediate impact on her bottom line. She couldn’t afford to just take off, not with dozens of pastries, cupcakes and cakes to make. Furthermore, if she’d gone upstairs and crawled into bed instead of continuing in her own routine … It felt too much like letting him win.

And that was simply unacceptable.

That said, despite the fact that she was equally dreading and anticipating Jack Martin taking over as her security guard tonight, Mariette had to admit that she was looking forward to being able to turn the watch over to him. She was dead on her feet and she could feel the hooks of exhaustion sinking in and tugging at her from all sides. She had a no-sleep headache on top of the headache the intruder had given her and would like nothing more than a warm cookie, a glass of milk and her bed.

With any luck, she’d be too tired by six o’clock to worry about lusting after Jack Martin.

Somehow, she doubted it.

Merely the thought of him made her nipples tingle and a heavy heat build low in her belly. She’d like to tell herself that the only reason she found him so irresistible was because she’d sworn off men for a while—sort of like the everything-looks-more-delicious-on-a-diet mentality—but she knew better.

Jack Martin was … different.

She’d felt it from the instant he’d walked into her store. A quickening, an awareness of sorts, that had tripped some sort of internal trigger, made her more conscious of him. She was equally unnerved and transfixed. Not a recipe for contentment.

“This is my brother’s first case for Ranger Security,” Charlie remarked as she straightened a tablecloth. “Since coming out of the military.” There was a strange undertone to her voice that Mariette couldn’t readily identify. Sadness, maybe? Regret, definitely.

Intrigued, she turned to look at her. “Oh?”

Charlie bit her lip. “I know that we’re not as close as you and Emma Payne are, and I really have no right to ask you this, but …” She hesitated, clearly torn.

“But what, Charlie?” Mariette wanted to know, genuinely curious.

“But could you take it easy on him, please?” she asked, her eyes softening with entreaty. “Don’t make Jack pay for Payne’s methods. My big brother has been through sheer hell the past six months and he needs to do this. He needs to help you. He needs to prove to them—and to himself—that he can.”

Wow. Mariette didn’t know what she’d expected Charlie to say, but that certainly wasn’t anything she would have imagined. Jack had been through hell? What sort of hell? What did she mean by that? Her heart immediately swelled with compassion and a matching lump inexplicably formed in her throat.

She knew from Emma that Payne, Flanagan and McCann had all come out of the military after the death of a good friend and formed their security company. Was that the sort of hell Charlie was referring to? Had Jack lost someone? A friend? Had he been injured? Had he come out because he’d wanted to? Or because he hadn’t had a choice?

Ultimately none of those questions were any of her business and yet she found herself desperately wanting to know the answers to them and so much more. It was hard to imagine a man as big and vital and alive as Jack Martin being anything other than formidable.




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