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Soldier In Charge: Ripped!
JENNIFER LABRECQUE
Protecting her is his duty and his downfall!Gorgeous paratrooper Mitch is about to take on the assignment of his life. He’s fought in some of the most dangerous places on earth. But it’s not prepared him for his new mission safeguarding commander’s daughter Eden. Especially when the stubborn beauty sets his pulse racing…Mitch is a proud military man and former army brat Eden has vowed never to date a soldier. Now Mitch must make the toughest choice of his life: is he ready to give up fighting for the cause he believes in to win the girl who ignites his deepest desires?Includes bonus story Triple Threat.



Soldier in Charge
By

Jennifer Labrecque

Triple Threat
By

Jennifer Labrecque



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

I’ve written many heroes in the course of my career, but I don’t know that any of them deserve that description more than Lieutenant Colonel Mitch Dugan. There’s just something about a man in uniform, one whose purpose is to protect and defend, whose very code of conduct isn’t just a set of rules that he lives by, but is inherent in his makeup as a man—and makes a girl stand up and take notice. That sort of mentality sets him apart from your average guy and makes him more…everything. More sexy, more worthy, more noble. And that kind of guy needs a special kind of woman.

What he doesn’t need is a free-spirited woman who grabs him and kisses him the first time she sees him, who’s dedicated to her own career, who considers herself allergic to the military lifestyle. When photographer Eden Walters shows up to photograph a paratrooper calendar, Mitch discovers there’s one thing he hasn’t been trained to handle—her!

I love to hear from my readers, so be sure to pop by my website—www.jenniferlabrecque.com—or visit my group blog with fellow friends and authors Vicki Lewis Thompson and Rhonda Nelson at www.thesoapbox queens.com. There’s a party in our castle every day.
Happy reading,

Jennifer LaBrecque
After a varied career path that included barbecue-joint waitress, corporate numbers cruncher and bug-business maven, JENNIFER LABRECQUE has found her true calling writing contemporary romance. Named 2001 Notable New Author of the Year and 2002 winner of the prestigious Maggie Award for Excellence, she is also a two-time RITA® Award finalist. Jennifer lives in suburban Atlanta.
Twelve super-sexy books.

All the gorgeous military heroes you can handle.

One UNIFORMLY HOT! mini-series.

Don’t miss Mills & Boon® Blaze®’s first twelve-book
continuity series, featuring irresistible
soldiers from all branches of the armed forces.

Watch for:

THE SOLDIER by Rhonda Nelson (Special Forces) July 2010
STORM WATCH by Jill Shalvis (National Guard) August 2010
HER LAST LINE OF DEFENCE by Marie Donovan (Green Berets) September 2010
Soldier in Charge by Jennifer LaBrecque (Paratrooper) October 2010
SEALED AND DELIVERED by Jill Monroe (Navy SEALs) November 2010
CHRISTMAS MALE by Cara Summers (Military Police) December 2010
Uniformly Hot!
The Few. The Proud. The Sexy as Hell.

Soldier in Charge
This book is most gratefully and humbly dedicated to the men and women in our armed forces and to their families. Thank you so very much for your service.

Chapter One
“YOU’VE GOT TO DO IT,” Eden Walters’s best friend, Patti, said. “The calendar is for a good cause—all the proceeds will go to 82nd Airborne families who’ve lost loved ones in the line of duty. You’re the best photographer in the business and you know the military. You’ve got to do it,” she repeated.
This was a no-brainer. Eden settled back in the wrought-iron chair in her courtyard and laughed, “No, I don’t, Patti. Your wheedling isn’t going to get you anywhere this time, even if you are a professional at it.” She was not being talked into photographing a calendar of Army jumpers. Nope. Not her kind of assignment. Just the thought made her tense up. She took a deep breath and consciously relaxed. Patti could find another professional photographer to rope into this one.
Patti added her signature snort to the attendant sounds of a late-summer evening in New Orleans’ French Quarter—the burble of Eden’s fountain to the left of the table, the restless whisper of a breeze through the potted palm fronds and bougainvillea, the distant float of laughter and music, the occasional whine of mosquitoes punctuating the cicadas endless chorus.
“A professional.” Another snort. “You certainly know how to add a touch of glamour to my job, don’t you?” They both knew Eden had the utmost respect for Patti’s job as a volunteer recruiter for a nonprofit agency. “It’s a good thing I love you like the sister I never had…” Patti trailed off, her good humor evident despite her grousing tone, to sip at the pale yellow limoncello, “You made this?”
“Yep. From my very own lemon tree,” Eden nodded toward her pride and joy in the corner of the courtyard’s brick wall confines, barely discernable in dusk’s shadows.
“Delicious. And I can’t believe it took me so long to get down here to see you.” Patti leaned her head back against the wrought iron chair and offered an approving smile. “This place is so totally you.”
Eden grinned. She’d known Patti would love her home. They’d met in sixth grade at the base’s middle school in Hawaii, where both their fathers had been stationed and the two girls had become firm, fast friends. They talked once a month and had long ago fallen into the habit of not answering the phone unless they both had at least an hour at their disposal to yak. Eden had e-mailed pictures but it had taken Patti three years to manage a visit. Her money had been as tight as Eden’s.
Eden had fallen in love with the vintage Creole town house, circa 1842, from the moment she’d seen its twostory pink façade faced with turquoise shutters and a second-floor iron balcony. It had spoken to her artist’s soul, murmured this is where you belong. The first-floor parlor had provided the perfect gallery setting for her photographs, with the upstairs serving as her private living quarters. But it was the lemon tree, laden with the most spectacularly large, yellow fruit she’d ever seen, tucked into the back corner of the foun-tained brick courtyard that had sealed the deal for her.
The place was outside her budgeted price range. And even though a building report came back that the place was structurally sound and the wiring and plumbing had been updated post-Katrina, it needed some serious TLC. Her parents, particularly her Brigadier General father, would have a friggin heart attack—they considered New Orleans lawless and vulnerable to another disaster.
She’d made an offer the next day.
Once again her parents had tagged her as impulsive. She preferred to think of it as instinctive. And yeah, sometimes it got her into trouble—well, maybe a lot of times—and granted she’d had to eat red beans and rice damn near every meal for a year, but it was finally paying off. She and her photography business had blossomed and grown beyond her wildest imagination. It was as if, after years of growing up in the stifling military environment, she’d finally found a rich, nurturing place to plant her roots. Granted her photography took her all over the world, but she always came home to here.
“Want to play with the tarot cards?” Patti asked half an hour later when they’d finished their lemon-infused vodka. Eden wasn’t drunk, she didn’t even qualify as bonafide tipsy, but she was definitely relaxed. And tarot cards were the kind of thing you did with a longstanding friend on a summer night in Nawlin’s. Plus, Patti seemed to have a gift with the cards. Tomorrow night they were going out for zydeco dancing, but today they’d strolled through all the French Quarter shops and tonight was for catching up.
“Sure. You grab the cards and I’ll light the candles.” Dusk had yielded to night while they’d talked.
Patti disappeared into the house for the tarot pack she’d bought that afternoon and Eden padded barefoot across the bricks. She always risked stepping on an insect, and she had run across the occasional snake, but it was worth it to feel the sun-warmed bricks against her bare feet. She retrieved the lighter from a waterproof container she kept in the palm’s pot and moved around the small courtyard lighting the tiki torches. She paused in the far corner of the yard, across from the lemon tree. For all that she loved the bright sunny spot and the happy yellow fruit, she was equally enamored with the opposite corner, where the sun only reached briefly.
She brushed her toes over the soft moss that carpeted the bricks in this spot. “Hello, handsome,” she said softly as she lit the torch, illuminating the worn statue nestled amongst ferns and fragrant banana shrubs.
“Uh, is there someone else here that I don’t know about?” Patti asked from behind her.
Eden laughed. “Patti, meet Mercury, Roman messenger of the gods,” she said, gesturing toward the moss-covered life-size concrete casting of the nude god with winged feet. For the most part he blended in with his verdant surroundings. “Mercury, meet Patti, who knows and loves me best.”
“All righty, then. Hi, Mercury.” Patti shook her head. “You know this is just damn weird that we’re talking to a statue.”
“Hey, he spoke to me first. I found him one day when I was knocking around an antique shop. I turned the corner and there he stood, stopping me in my tracks.” Lean face, chiseled lips, sculpted muscles—she’d had to have him.
“I’m guessing you didn’t just toss him in your backseat and haul him home.”
Laughing again, Eden shook her head. “Two guys, a dolly, and a lift truck and it was still a bitch to get him back here. Isn’t he beautiful?”
“How many times have you photographed him?”
Patti knew her too well. “Lots.” She’d fired off hundreds of shots. “He’s paid for himself many times over. I did a numbered series of him and it sold phenomenally well.”
“Good deal.” Patti grabbed the lighter and flicked it on. Holding it lower, she cocked her head to one side and peered closer. “His schwing could be a little bigger.”
Eden had thought the same thing—all those nicely defined muscles in the arms, chest, abs, ass and legs, but the penis was on the pretty-damn-small side, even for an unaroused state. She’d told herself it was simply a matter of the artist in her objecting to the lack of physical symmetry. Still, she had to tease Patti. “You know, you have an obsession with male genitalia.”
“As if you don’t. Please tell me when you’re fantasizing you give him a better package.”
Eden grinned. “Well, yeah.” The sixteenth century sculptor could’ve been way more generous.
Reclaiming the lighter, Eden finished lighting the garden torches. Patti followed. “You know you seriously need to get out more if you’re fantasizing about a statue.”
“Says you. He’s got a better personality than the last couple of guys I met.”
Patti giggled. “Idiot.”
“For real. Pickings are pretty slim in the man pool.” Eden sat back down in the wrought-iron chair and tucked her heels on the edge, bringing her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around her legs.
“Maybe you’re fishing in the wrong pond.” Patti began to shuffle the tarot deck.
“Pond? I’ve fished in every friggin’ ocean I’ve crossed. There was the local guy here who wanted to wear my panties. No thanks. Then there was the guy I met in Canada who turned out to be married. The Asian guy who wanted us to meditate to an orgasm without touching one another.” She paused to draw a breath and Patti held up a staying hand.
“Okay. Okay. I gotcha.” She cut her eyes in a sly way. “I just offered you a new pond to fish in. Hot paratroopers.”
“I’d rather sign up for a lobotomy. Wait. Getting involved with a military guy would be the same thing. I don’t think so. Actually, I believe you’ve lost your mind.”
“Far from it. You’ve just got such a rigid mind-set—guess you get that from your father.”
“Kiss my ass.” Okay, so Patti had struck a chord. Her career military father only saw things in black and white. It drove Eden crazy. Had always driven her crazy because she was all about shades of gray and Technicolor.
“Think compromise, liebling. Think about hard bodies, males in their prime in top-notch condition. Think of hot, sweaty sex. Think about you wrapping up the assignment, and then spending your time anyway you please. I get what I want, which is the best damn photographer in the business shooting my calendar, and you get what you want, a little mattress time with a real-life hottie instead of a concrete fantasy.” She put one finger on her cheek and pretended to ponder. “And didn’t your assistant text you this afternoon about a job rescheduling?”
Patti had had Eden wriggling in her seat with her talk of all that hot, sweaty sex. It had been too long. But she didn’t want a soldier. That was just…she wasn’t going there. “You’re manipulating me.”
“You’re all black and white.”
And Patti had just moved from manipulation to outright psychological warfare. She knew that was Eden’s Achilles’ heel. Eden would rather do something impulsive and stupid than be rigid and uncompromising like her father. Actually, it didn’t take a psych degree to know that her upbringing probably drove her impulsive tendencies. “Remind me again why we’re friends.”
Patti remained unrepentant. “I tell you what—let’s consult the cards. I’ll do a reading for you.”
“Fine. And if the cards say no, you won’t mention the calendar job again.” And Patti’d better not mention Eden being rigid like her father. Her father’s unyielding mind-set had always been a point of contention.
Her BFF handed over the deck. “You know the deal. Shuffle. And if the cards say yes, you’ll shoot my calendar. Ask the question and seal your destiny.”
“Should I shoot the paratrooper calendar?” Eden carefully divvied the cards into three piles in a classic three-card spread—the past, the present and the outcome.
Patti took over from there. “The past,” she intoned, turning over the top card. A shiver slid down Eden’s spine and she could swear the breeze blew just a tad cooler for a second.
Then Patti spoke. “The King of Swords. An au thority figure. The sword could indicate the military, which all fits with your father. And it is, after all, your dad’s career that makes your past what it is.”
“It fits,” Eden said.
“Okay. Now, the present.” Patti moved on to the second deck, and flipped over the card to reveal The Star card. Her wide smile revealed the slight gap in her front teeth. “You know the star portends a new beginning, a move to hope after a bad period. Maybe in your case a new way of seeing the military.”
The hair on the back of Eden’s neck stood up. Sometimes the message in the cards was vague but there certainly didn’t seem to be any ambiguity here. Without saying anything she nodded for Patti to reveal the third card, the future.
One deft flick of her friend’s wrist and they were both faced with The Knight of Swords.
“I’m screwed,” Eden said.
“I guess it depends on your perspective.” Patti grabbed the interpretation book that came with the cards and started flipping through it. “Let’s make sure we get this absolutely right.” She stopped. “Here we are. The Knight of Swords is bold and enthusiastic, but also imaginative and clever like his Queen. He’s a great champion of good causes and inspires others by his idealism and dedication to any cause he adopts. He is decisive and, while others dither over a course of action, he will just plunge headlong into it, generally winning the day. He is a symbol of creative upheaval, usually leading to success.” Patti smirked. “Yeah, if you were looking to turn the assignment down, you’re definitely screwed.”
“Okay. I’ll shoot the calendar.” It looked as if Eden would be spending a couple of days exactly where she didn’t want to be—an Army base.
Tarot cards or no, however, she would not be having hot, sweaty sex with anyone. There was impulsiveness and then there was insanity. And she wasn’t crazy yet.

LIEUTENANT COLONEL MITCH DUGAN, 82nd Airborne paratrooper, Special Forces, threw himself into the trench at a dead run. Thwump. He hit the hard ground and immediately began to wriggle on his belly beneath the razor-sharp barbed wire, as the bullets whizzed just above him. Faster. Lives depended on it. His and his men’s. Failure was not an option.
He came to the end of the barbed-wire trench, maneuvered himself free and in one powerful motion pushed to his feet. Without pause, he sprinted in a zigzag pattern toward the sand-bag-rimmed bunker fifteen meters away. Putting on a final burst of speed, he finished the last five meters—shoulder rolling into the hole in the ground that provided his only protection. Thirty seconds later Captain Eli Murdoch dove into the hole, as well. Without a word, each man performed a quick, thorough visual scan of the surrounding area. Mitch nodded brusquely. Murdoch acknowledged it with his own nod.
“Alpha Company, clear,” Murdoch, as detachment leader, reported the area safe. “Repeat, Alpha Company clear.”
“Alpha Company, clear,” the training instructor, Jenners, called back.
Mitch and Murdoch climbed out of the bunker, as did the rest of the twelve-man squad from the surrounding bunkers on the training ground. The “bullets” whizzing overhead had been simulated but Mitch never, ever, allowed himself to think of them as anything other than live fire and he’d cautioned the men to think the same. It kept them sharp, fast and careful.
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.

Chapter Two
EDEN’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 open-mouthed 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.

“LUCKY BASTARD,” MCELHANEY 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.
“If you or one of your men is approached, participation is strictly voluntary. However, remember it’s in support of fallen comrades.”
Mitch had a mental snapshot of Eden out at the barren Drop Zone in those ridiculous, impractical heels and tight skirt. For one crazy second he imagined the rush of the jump followed by the feel of her against him. That was it, that was what he hadn’t been able to nail all morning. That instant, crazy rush when he was free-falling and then ripped the cord to open his chute—that was the same damn way he’d felt this morning when she’d kissed him in the hall. One single kiss from her and he’d had that ripped sensation. It was really kind of crazy. Mitch shifted in his seat. He didn’t need to remember that kiss, the feel of her body against his, especially not now in the middle of a damn meeting.
“Keeping that in mind,” Hardwick stared a hole into Dugan, “I need a volunteer to oversee the logistics of the project, to escort Ms. Walters around the base and coordinate the schedules between training and the photo shoots.”
Great. Mitch shook his head slightly.
“Ah, Dugan. I knew I could count on you.”
Damn.
At the same time, McElhaney raised his hand. “I can handle that assignment, sir.”
“Thanks, McElhaney, but Dugan beat you to it and you’ve got some training issues you need to address.” Hardwick looked back to Mitch. “You seem to have a rapport with our visitor so I’m sure you’ll handle this with your usual efficiency.”
Volunteer his ass. This was obviously a we-expect-more-from-you-than-base-gossip reprimand. It sure as hell wasn’t anything he would’ve truly volunteered for but it was obvious the woman needed a keeper. That much had been apparent when she’d kissed him in the hall. He was going to take a boatload of shit for this, but it was also sweet to knock McElhaney out of what he’d wanted. “Yes, sir.”
“You’ll report immediately to Public Affairs following this briefing. Consider yourself on-task.”
“Yes, sir.”
He’d had some ball-busting, gut-clenching assignments since he’d been in the Army and certainly since he’d earned his green beret. This, however, had all the makings of a clusterfuck.

Chapter Three
EDEN SAT IN AN OFFICE SIMILAR to other military offices around the globe—she should know, she’d been in enough of them. Her nose twitched in recognition. There was a smell particular to a U.S. military installation, whether it was Hawaii or Germany or North Carolina.
“So, you want to locate the candidates yourself?” Sergeant Sanchez said, after glancing down at a file.
“That’s right.” It wasn’t as if this was new information. Eden had reviewed the process on the phone with the Public Affairs liaison and then again when she’d met with them after her late courtesy call to battalion headquarters. Despite that conversation, they’d insisted they’d present her with calendar candidates. She’d been equally adamant she’d select her own. Because her way wasn’t Army protocol, she’d been shifted to someone else. And then someone else again. Now, it was Sergeant Sanchez’s turn to deal with her. Surely the third time was a charm—and they were burning daylight.
“Sergeant, I’m a professional photographer by trade. I specialize in people—in knowing who and when to take a photo. It’s what I’m trained to do.”
Sanchez looked up from his paperwork, his brown eyes crinkling at the corners. “So, I don’t tell you how to take a picture, and you don’t tell me how to run my mission.”
Yes! Finally, someone who understood something other than protocol. “That’s pretty much it.”
“How about we coordinate a schedule?”
It’d probably unnerve him if she broke into the Hallelujah chorus so she contented herself with saying, “You are a god among mere mortals.”
On the other side of the green metal desk, Sanchez grinned. “I just need to fill out a couple of forms.” He checked his watch. “And we had an escort lined up for you, a Captain Gibbens. Unfortunately, she went into early labor last night. We’re waiting on her replacement.”
Her hopes of getting this wrapped up in three days were becoming slimmer by the minute. She bit back a sigh and pasted on a smile.
“Oh. I hope everything turns out well with the baby.” And with luck, they wouldn’t send her another nine-month pregnant escort. Eden’s neighbor had given birth last year and the woman hadn’t been exactly full of energy in her eighth and ninth month. Eden couldn’t imagine that Captain Gibbens had been looking forward to hunting down subjects and then working through photo shoots. Eden supposed it was too much to ask that they simply turn her loose unattended on base.
She noticed a framed snapshot of a dark-haired, dark-eyed toddler and a blond woman on Sergeant Sanchez’s desk. “Your family?”
He nodded, practically beaming with pride. “My wife, Liz, and Cassie, my little monster. She just turned two.”
“She looks just like you.” While Sanchez’s hair was close-cropped and the little girl boasted a head full of dark ringlets, her face was a mirror image of his.
“I know. Poor kid. She was born while I was on my last tour in Iraq.”
“I’m sure you couldn’t wait to get home to see her.”
He grimaced. “I wanted to see her but I got sent home a little sooner than I expected.” He lifted his left arm and for the first time Eden noticed a prosthetic hand. “Compliments of an insurgent IED, uh, that’s improvised explosive device in civilian terms, also commonly known as a homemade bomb.”
She knew exactly what an IED was and she hated it that he’d had firsthand experience with one. “I’m so sorry.”
“Hey, I’m lucky. At least I made it home and I get to see my kid every day. I think this calendar…well, some of the guys in our unit who didn’t make it home…they had kids, too.” His eyes were somber. “Thank you.”
She liked his spirit. Even in the face of having lost a limb, he saw his cup as half full. She felt both humble and grateful in the face of his sacrifice on behalf of his country. She wanted to offer something in return, even though it didn’t begin to compare. “I’m going to be here for a few days. If you’d like, I could photograph your family.”
“For real?”
“For real.”
“They’re in New Mexico now—Liz’s sister just had a baby—but they’ll be back in a couple of days. Liz would be thrilled. Thank you.”
“We’ll do it maybe Thursday or Friday. I’ll be free in the evenings.”
She felt like an utter heel that she’d ever been resistant to shooting the calendar in the first place. This guy had lost a hand in service to his country and she’d whined about having to be on a military base for a handful of days? And now he was thanking her. “And you’re very welcome.”
The sergeant continued filling out one of the myriad forms but looked up with a grin, as if he was eager to move on to lighter conversation. “Spotted any calendar candidates yet?”
“I haven’t really had a chance to scope things out. I’ve spent my entire morning being shuffled from one office to the next.”
“That’s the military for you—hurry up and wait.”
Sanchez was friendly and outgoing. Now seemed the perfect time to inquire about the man who’d knocked her off her feet earlier. “Do you know a Lieutenant Colonel Dugan?”
“Yes, ma’am.” A ready grin spread over his face. “I heard you met him earlier.”
On base, gossip traveled faster than a speeding bullet. “We ran into one another.” She answered his grin with one of her own.
“You’ve got guts. The Lieutenant Colonel can be sort of intimidating.”
Dugan was hard, but not unkind. She’d seen enough of both kinds of people to recognize the difference.
“Is he married?” She shifted back in her chair and brushed a speck off of her skirt, her heart thumping like mad in her chest. She hadn’t noticed a ring but lots of married guys didn’t wear them—especially guys who went through combat training where a ring could prove to be a hazard.
Sanchez grinned. He so had her number. “Not married. I don’t know about a girlfriend though.”
Relief rolled through her and she realized just how tense she’d been, waiting on his answer. “At least I won’t have an angry wife looking me up.”
“That’s always a plus. My wife would go ballistic.” He shook his head as if it was a scary thought but the affection in his voice spoke volumes. “And I take it you’re not married?”
“No. No husband at home.” Ha. She couldn’t even find a guy she wanted to date on a regular basis. Unlike a lot of the women she knew, she wasn’t husband hunting. She liked her house, her job and her own company. And most of all, she liked her independence.
“There are lots of guys who’ll be glad to—”
A sharp rap on the door interrupted Sanchez.
In one of those real-life-was-stranger-than-fiction moments, Lieutenant Colonel Dugan himself entered the office.

SERGEANT SANCHEZ SHOT TO HIS feet. “Can I help you, sir?”
Dugan waved him back down. “As you were, Sergeant. I’m here to pick up Ms. Walters.” Mitch continued to maintain eye contact with the soldier behind the desk but every other part of him was fully tuned into the woman in the room. He heard her sharp intake of breath at his announcement.
His body tightened in a totally involuntary response to her scent, the memory of that quick, but oh-so-sensual, slide of her curves against him, the taste of her kiss. “I’m Ms. Walters’s escort for this project.”
He glanced at her, judging her reaction. Her amazing midnight-blue eyes widened with surprise and a flicker of something indefinable. There was something in the way she’d looked at him when she lay sprawled at his feet, a slight recognition, a touch of familiarity. Mitch, however, was sure he’d never met her before. Given the way he responded to her, he’d have definitely remembered. She wasn’t a woman a man easily forgot.
“You’re Captain Gibbens replacement?” Sanchez said.
The disbelief in the sergeant’s voice didn’t surprise Mitch. This certainly wasn’t Mitch’s typical assignment but then again, Hardwick was making an example of Mitch and having a little sadistic fun at Mitch’s expense. Hardwick was that kind of fun-loving guy.
Mitch offered a short laugh, mocking himself. “Do you think I can’t handle the assignment, Sergeant?”
For a split second Sanchez looked as if he couldn’t decide whether to laugh along with him or not. Sanchez opted for the not. “No, sir,” he said. “I’m one-hundred percent sure you can handle any assignment, sir.”
Sitting in the chair to Dugan’s left, Eden Walters made a choking sound.
Mitch turned to her and felt a tightening inside him. “Are you okay, Ms. Walters?”
She had a way of smiling with her eyes. It was like the sun coming out. He’d noticed it this morning in the hallway. “I’m fine.” She brushed her fingers against her throat and he found himself fascinated by the pale column of flesh. Would it taste the same as her mouth? Would her pulse throb against his tongue if he licked just the right spot? “Just something stuck for a moment.”
Right. Like maybe a laugh.
“Okay. Paperwork completed,” Sanchez said. “You’ve got a guide. You’re on your way.” Sanchez rounded the desk and nodded.
Eden rose to her feet and Mitch automatically glanced down at her red heels and the shapely curve of her calf. Those shoes were going to have to go before they went out to Sicily, today’s jump site. They were sexy as hell, but totally impractical. And every guy there would be thinking about stripping her down to nothing but those heels…well, and maybe a pair of panties. That’s sure as hell what he was thinking about right now and he was damn certain every other man at Sicily would be doing the same. The heels had to go.
“Thank you…for everything,” she said, giving Sanchez a quick hug and a smile. “You’ve got my number. Call me when you want to get together. I’m serious.”
“I’m going to take you up on that.”
“Good. I’m really looking forward to it.”
She was friendly, Mitch would give her that. She’d kissed him a couple of hours ago and now Sanchez was her new best friend.
Mitch held the office door for her. Fixing her oversize purse more firmly on her shoulder, she brushed past him into the hallway. Her perfume teased his nostrils with its light, flirty aroma. The image of her in those heels, her arms twined around him, that scent surrounding him suddenly flashed through his mind.
He determinedly dragged his thoughts elsewhere. What was it about this particular woman that slid in beneath his radar? It didn’t matter, he just better get the hell over it—walking down the hall with a hard-on struck him as a piss-poor idea.
Was she setting up a “get together” with Sanchez now, even though the guy was married? It was absolutely, totally none of his business…except for the fact that she was his mission for the next few days.
“Sanchez has a wife,” he said, as they walked down the hall.
For a stretch of thirty seconds or so, the only sound between them was the tap-tap-tap of those ridiculously high heels of hers against the tile floor. And then she laughed—a rich, full vibration of genuine mirth. “You thought…I know he’s married. We discussed his wife and daughter. He was so nice and helpful I offered to shoot his family when they get back in town. Shoot as in photograph.”
“Right. Just making sure.” Dammit, for the second time in less than six hours she had thrown him for a loop, and he didn’t do loops. He moved on to the day’s events. “You’re scheduled to observe a training jump at 1500 hours today.” Fantasies would be flying and especially after the conversation between McElhaney and Carter. The thought of watching her choose other men didn’t sit well with Mitch. “You need to change your shoes.”
She arched an amused brow in his direction. He was glad she found him entertaining. “I have shoes.”
“I’m aware of that, but they’re not practical.”
Her nose tilted up slightly at the end with the faintest sprinkling of freckles across the bridge. “Lieutenant Colonel, I have a pair of flats in my car, along with a pair of slacks. I know I can’t go to a jump dressed like this. Despite the impression I might’ve given you earlier, I’m not a total idiot.”
Regardless of the fact that they were in the Public Affairs building, and that a small knot of soldiers stood at one end of the hall chatting, that kiss loomed suddenly between them, binding them as firmly as the silk cords on a parachute. Her gaze dropped to his mouth and she moistened her plump lower lip with the tip of her tongue. Heat charged through him and for a second his only thought was to pull her to him and thoroughly explore her mouth. And then sanity returned, yanking him back on-task. He was never off-task. “Idiot wasn’t exactly the term that came to mind, Ms. Walters.”
He held the door and she preceded him out into the parking lot and the warm, October sun. “If you say so.” She nodded her thanks as he held the door for her, then shot him an infectious smile he found himself wanting to return. “Give me a few minutes to change and I’ll be ready. I’m quick.”
Once again, same as this morning, he watched her walk, the sway of her hips capturing his attention. Deliberately he looked away. The last thing he wanted or needed was to be caught ogling Brigadier General Max Walters’s daughter’s ass in the parking lot—even though it was ogle-worthy.
He checked out the horizon. Clear skies, moderate wind in from the northeast. It’d be a nice day for the training jump.
Only someone who’d ever jumped understood the rush of adrenaline, that roar of the wind as your body hurtled toward the ground and then the yank and glide as your parachute unfurled and you rode the air currents once more back to terra firma. Unfortunately, his ass was grounded this time around by a woman with an infectious smile, midnight-blue eyes and a helluva kiss.

EDEN SAT IN THE PASSENGER SEAT of Lieutenant Colonel Dugan’s immaculately restored red-and-white Ford Bronco.
“What year is this?” she asked, rubbing her hand over the seat.
“Sixty-nine,” he said.
She swallowed hard and redirected her mind from the very sexual place it had just jumped to and back to his truck. “Very nice.”
“Thanks. It was a two-year project. Just a hobby of mine.”
She suspected nothing was “just” with him. He struck her as very focused, very intense. “When you’re not deployed?”
“Right.”
Eden knew better than to ask where he’d been, what he’d done. She’d been nine years old when her father had been in the First Gulf War. When he’d come home, it had never been talked about. What happened on a deployment wasn’t up for conversation in the Walters household. Training, however, frequently popped up.
“So, how hard will it be to show up and not jump today?”
After an initial moment of surprise, he laughed. “It’s pretty dam—I mean darn hard.”
His changing the damn to darn struck her as sweet. And she’d bet Lieutenant Colonel Special Ops Hard-ass would just love to be thought of as sweet. She smiled at the thought.
“It’s okay. I’ve heard curse words before.”
“I guess I better work on my poker face,” he said, with an unexpected self-deprecating sense of humor.
“Not necessarily.” She shrugged. It wasn’t his expression. It was more as if she were picking up vibes from him, which would just sound beyond strange if she shared that. Instead, she reasoned, “Most jumpers love to jump.”
“Have you ever done it?”
She absolutely couldn’t stop thinking about sex around him. She knew good and well he was asking if she’d ever parachuted, but all she could think about when he said done it was, well, doing it. She’d been in some jacked up hormonal state ever since she’d found herself at his feet this morning.
The close confines of his truck didn’t help, either. She was achingly aware of everything about him. He smelled good—a mixture of faint aftershave, uniform starch and yummy man. She’d grown up around men in uniform and they’d never done a thing for her. But Mitch Dugan was smokin’ hot in his…and she’d bet he was even hotter out of it.
“How can you know you won’t like it if you’ve never tried it?” The timbre of his voice rippled over her.
In a flash she was imagining the two of them, naked in her courtyard, surrounded by the sultry New Orleans heat and the inky dark night. The brush of his skin against hers, his breath warm against her neck, his arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her tighter against him…
She drew a slightly unsteady breath. “I’m open to trying lots of things—” If he only knew. “But some experiences are better left untried. The only way I’m jumping out of a plane is if someone throws me out the door.”
“Then it’s probably better that you don’t get on a jump plane. It’s been known to happen.” His grin held a wicked edge. “And here I’d pegged you to be the daring type, Ms. Walters.” There was no mistaking his challenge. The air between them felt fraught with sexual energy. When was the last time she’d felt so engaged by someone?
“Really? Does a woman have to be daring to kiss you, Lieutenant Colonel?”
The look he shot her set her nipples tingling. Sweet mercy. “I was talking about the red heels. They send a message.”
“Really? Is that your specialty? Decoding intelligence?”
“Red heels don’t require a specialization.”
“So, exactly what message do you think they send, Lieutenant Colonel?”
He made an efficient left turn. “They say ‘I’m bold. I’m not like everyone else here.’ And that kiss, that was all about telling everyone they might do what they’re told, but you’ll do what you want to do.”
“Maybe you’re partially right.”
“I’m always right.”
“Not this time, soldier. Do you ever do something just because the impulse strikes you?”
“No.” Unequivocal.
No surprise there. Her question had mostly been rhetorical. Lieutenant colonels, especially one his age, were not men of impulse.
She shifted in her seat, turning toward him. “That kiss was pure impulse. The only message there was I wanted to kiss you, so I did.” She did feel a tad remorseful although she couldn’t bring herself to regret it. “I know that’s why you wound up assigned to this. You no more volunteered for this assignment than I did.” He slanted her a quick glance. “Colonel Hardwick’s warped sense of humor is almost legendary. I’ve heard my dad talk about him more than once. He obviously thought you needed slapping down for being indiscreet.” She shook her head. “Trust me, I’m fairly familiar with soldiers and how they think.”
“I guess that happens when your father is a Brigadier General.”
Was he reminding himself or her? “This is what happens when your father is a Brigadier General—I’ll get a phone call tonight from my mother and in the conversation she’ll manage to work in my father’s disappointment in my behavior. It’s yet another reason I avoid Army bases,” she said, looking out the window. A group of soldiers stood at attention on a bare expanse of ground, obviously some review or another. They were all alike. There was no room for any individuality. Everything here was all the same Army-issue green or tan. She suppressed a faint shudder and looked back at Dugan. “It’s like living in a glass house and every action and reaction reflects back on my father. Believe me, I know.” She’d been reminded often enough in the past. Damn straight she knew now. Reminders weren’t necessary. “Growing up, our household was run with military precision and structure.”
“It beats the hell out of the alternate. Without structure you have chaos. No one thrives in chaos.”
He hadn’t glanced at her but there was a slight change in his tone, his inflection that said more than the mere words. Authenticity. Authority. That’s what it was. His tone bespoke firsthand knowledge.
“Something in between would be nice.” He merely quirked an eyebrow at that. The sun slanted through the windshield, etching his profile against the backdrop of blue sky outside his window. Gooseflesh prickled her. Good Lord but he was beautiful. She could look at the sharp slant of his nose, the slope of his forehead, the cut of his cheekbones, and the clean-shaven jaw that gave way to that faintly clefted chin all day long. “It doesn’t have to be one or the other.”
“Things are almost never fifty-fifty. They usually tend to sway one direction or the other. I’ll take structure and precision any day.”
Why did she have this sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, as if she’d been handed a treat and then told she couldn’t have it? “Obviously,” she said in a crisp tone, “or the Army would be an impossible career choice for you. But it’s not for everyone. Take this morning, for example. Public Affairs wanted to give me a list of calendar candidates.”
His look clearly questioned why that was a problem. “It does seem more efficient considering the size of this base.”
“But it’s not efficient if they’re not the right candidates. That’s part of my specialization. I’ve got an eye for people. And that’s the reason I’m here. See, a little flexibility would’ve actually made this morning much more efficient.”
“What makes one candidate better than another? Don’t you just need twelve well-built, easy-on-the-eyes guys?”
“It’s not that straightforward. There’s something, and I don’t know exactly how to describe it, that sets people apart in a photo. You would be perfect to photograph.”

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