“Captain Zachariah Clark at your service, ma’am.”

Becky licked her luscious lips with that sinful tongue in an assessing, appreciative look that made his entire body lurch.

“I’ve never seen you in uniform before,” she said. “You wear it well.” She scanned him from shoulder to shoulder, from head to toe. “Take it off, Captain.”

In a single beat of time, the atmosphere in the room thickened.

“The hotel cleaners just sent it up, starched and pressed,” he tried to argue.

“So we’ll make it a point not to wrinkle it,” she said, grinning wickedly. “Come on, soldier. Take it off and come over here.” Becky reached for the knot of terry cloth between her breasts and dropped her towel.

She was naked.

Damn. Zachariah’s penis throbbed to shameless attention as he stood, transfixed, by all her abundant glory. His body knew he was fighting a losing battle. He might as well go with it.

“At your command…”

JULIE MILLER

is an award-winning author – with a National Readers Choice Award, a Daphne du Maurier Award and a PRISM Award, among other prizes. She’s been a finalist in several other venues, including the Golden Heart contest. She has been a multiple nominee for Romantic Times BOOKreviews awards, including Best Blaze®, Best Contemporary Paranormal and Romantic Times BOOKreviews’ Career Achievement Award for Series Romantic Suspense. Some of her thirty-plus books have appeared on the USA TODAY and Waldenbooks bestseller lists. Born in Missouri and now living in Nebraska, julie gets support from her small but mighty writing group, the Prairieland Romance Writers, as well as her husband, son and smiling guard dog, Maxie. Find out more about the author at www. juliemiller. org. You can e-mail her through her website or write to her at PO Box 5162, Grand Island, NE 68802-5162, USA.

Dear Reader,

It’s hard to believe that At Your Command is my thirtieth book! Many of my stories are still so fresh in my mind that it feels as though I could find a town on a map, walk up to a door, knock – and one of my characters would answer.

At Your Command features one such character, a man who jumped off the pages. Captain Zachariah Clark was Travis’s e-mail buddy in my Mills & Boon® Blaze® novel, Basic Training. By the time we met him in person in that story, Clarksie had created a rather large presence for himself. Now this big, sexy marine has come home after serving in a war zone. But his reunion with a wife he barely knows may not go as smoothly as he hopes. Being apart for eighteen months is hard. But sometimes, coming home can be even harder.

Do you have a favourite fictional character you’d like to meet in person? I’ve always thought hanging out with Miss Marple or Atticus Finch would be cool. You can visit me online at www.juliemiller.org and share your thoughts.

Enjoy,

Julie Miller

AT YOUR
COMMAND

BY

JULIE MILLER

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For my Mizzou buddy, jas.

I remember brainstorming behind the dorm (while we sunned ourselves without a thought about skin cancer and wrinkles…er, pardon me, laugh lines!) to create wonderful stories that I wrote in all my notebooks. Eventually I took bits and pieces of those ideas and put them into my computer years later when I decided to seriously pursue this writing thing. You didn’t think I was crazy for having such an imagination – instead, you joined in the adventure with me. You even gave me a “writing kit,” full of paper and folders, properly marked with all my working titles. I still have it.

What support. What encouragement.

What a friend.

1

Eighteen months ago

MARINE CORPS CAPTAIN Zachariah Clark was so tuckered out he could barely put on his uniform, much less speed up the process.

But, oh, man, what a way to go.

He had only five hours until he had to report for duty at the training base in Quantico, Virginia—forty miles away. Against city traffic. Through the mushy dregs of the snowstorm that had blanketed Washington, D.C. He should be kickin’ his ass into gear and bookin’ it out of this hotel.

But as he tied off his boots, all he could think about was the naked woman in the shower, singing a bluesy rendition of “Too Darn Hot” that danced against his eardrums like a seductive whisper and heated his groin like the touch of a slow, firm hand.

“Keep dressin’, Clarksie,” he chided himself as he carefully buttoned the fly of his camouflage pants.

After nearly a week in this room with Becky Owens, he thought he would have gotten the woman out of his system. He’d already had her six ways to Sunday, and she’d had him back.

Enough, man! Duty calls.

But she was in there.

Naked.

Absolutely his favorite version of the Beckster. He’d seen her in every role from buttoned-up exec in a chaste gray suit to adorable sex kitten in her funky flannel pajamas. He’d had fun with them all. But naked? He swallowed hard, doing his damnedest to blank out the image of soft, decadent curves, flexing and bouncing with each precise movement she made. The pale, perfect skin, the result of her Scandinavian heritage, would be steaming beneath the spray of the water.

Naked.

Zachariah reached for the khaki T-shirt he’d pulled from his duffel bag. Maybe if he kept puttin’ his clothes on, he’d quit obsessing about takin’ hers off.

Of course, he wouldn’t have to take off anything because she was already…

Naked.

Shit. His dick stirred in response.

“Helluva pep talk, Clarksie.”

He pulled the T-shirt over his head, stretching the cotton over his chest and arms until the Corps tattoo of eagle, globe and anchor peeked out beneath the sleeve on his left bicep. Yeah. Focus on that. Think Semper Fi. Think duty. Honor. His responsibility to his men and country. Neutralizing threats around the world. An eleven-year career.

Naked.

“Geez.”

Zachariah’s pants tightened.

He resolutely tucked in his T and pulled his camo overshirt off its hanger as Becky’s husky serenade ended. The pulse of beating water dwindled to a few noisy drips and then silence. Lordy. If she walked out here naked…

Zachariah inhaled a deep, steadying breath and buttoned his shirt. He was a Marine, damn it, not some lovesick puppy. Though, with his mug, he hadn’t had the same success as some of his poster-boy comrades; this wasn’t the first time he’d come home on leave, picked up a woman at a bar and spent the night with her. It was the first time he’d spent six nights with the same woman. The first time he’d ever had any trouble kissing her goodbye, thanking her and walking away.

Hell. He was beginning to feel like he was never going to get enough of her. The cool, conservative attorney with the secretly sinful alter ego wasn’t intimidated by his crew cut or brawn or bad-ass bravado. If anything, the challenge of going head-to-head with him seemed to excite her. It excited him. From the moment she’d walked into Groucho’s Pub in the heart of D.C. nearly a week ago, and refused to let him buy her a drink, the game between them had been on.

How could he leave before the game was finished?

The bathroom door creaked open.

Despite his best, self-preserving intentions, Zachariah’s gaze searched the mirror over the hotel room desk where he was dressing. He zeroed in on the cloud of steam filtering into the archway behind him, a tempting prelude to the Venus who’d follow.

The steam carried the exotic scent that was uniquely Becky’s—a heady fragrance that reminded him of long nights in the tropics. Everything in him tensed with anticipation. If she was naked…

“Whew! Now I’m awake.” The steam cleared and Becky appeared in the doorway.

Thank God. He’d be able to walk away.

Maybe.

She wore a white, fluffy towel, tucked around her breasts sarong-style, covering her from her armpits to her thighs. It was a demure enough look if he didn’t already know what was hidden underneath. The skin he could see was pink from the shower’s heat, and try as he might, he couldn’t look away from the tempting sight. She dried her hair with a second towel, then tossed it onto the marble vanity beside the bathroom sink.

Zachariah dropped his gaze to the glimpse of rounded butt cheek that appeared beneath the edge of the terry cloth as she leaned in closer to the mirror running the length of the vanity. He glanced back up as she finger-combed her hair. Damp from her shower, the white-gold waves had darkened to the color of wheat. One tendril stuck to her cheek, and before Zachariah could even identify the urge to do the job for her, she pulled it free and tucked it behind her ear. Only then did her deep cobalt eyes look up to meet his reflection in the mirror. “Good morning, big guy.”

I have to go, he meant to say.

“God, you’re gorgeous,” he said instead. That’s tellin’ her, Clarksie. Way to be large and in charge. How the hell was he supposed to begin this farewell conversation? Where was that hoo-yah drive to get the job done?

Twin dots of rosy color dotted her creamy cheeks—the ones up top. But she neither thanked him for the compliment nor made any effort to put him out of his ineloquent misery. Instead, Becky pulled a bottle from her toiletry bag and dabbed lotion onto her face. She worked and conversed as if this was any other morning. As if they had a thousand more mornings together instead of just hours.

“You wore me out last night. Again.” Her low, husky laugh danced across his skin. His dick stirred in a helpless response to the sound, as if she had caressed him there. “I don’t think I’ve ever had this much exercise on a vacation before.”

Setting aside his goodbye mission for a moment, Zachariah played the double-entendre game, too. “I’ve always enjoyed a good workout myself.”

“So…” She eyed his duffel bag on the bed. “Where will you be?”

The bantering mood broken, he returned his attention to adjusting his collar. “We talked about this last night.”

“I know you have to return to base to report for duty by noon—1200 hours, you said. I meant, where will you be stationed after that?”

She wasn’t game-playing. But he couldn’t give her the straight answer she wanted. “That information’s classified.”

Pulling out a comb, she made a job out of smoothing her hair into a sleek style before it dried into the loose tumble of waves he preferred. “Do we try to keep in touch? Write letters? Will you have access to a phone or e-mail?”

“Possibly. But I’d have to contact you first to let you know the when, where and how. Until then, you won’t be able to reach me.”

She nodded. “Will your mission be dangerous?”

Special Ops assignments always were. He wasn’t an idiot about his safety or the safety of his men, but the risk inherent in his work couldn’t be denied. “Yes.”

“Are you headed to the Middle East?”

“Can’t say.”

“Africa?”

“Classified, darlin’.”

“Are you staying stateside? Fighting the war on drugs?”

“I can’t tell you.”

Becky huffed what sounded like a curse, tossed the comb into the sink and spun around. “What can you tell me?”

Was it the lawyer in her, asking all these questions? Was she picking a fight to make sure there weren’t any lingering emotions or foolish expectations once he walked out the door? Or was this how she masked her concern? Sometimes, his parents got funny, too, over how secretive his work could be.

“I’m waiting.” She gripped the vanity on either side of her, thrusting her tits forward in a defiant posture that strained the confines of the towel.

Zachariah carefully considered her request. Even the Corps couldn’t control the way a man felt—but regulations were regulations. He held his hands up in mock surrender. “I can say that you may well have the most perfect set of breasts on the planet. Big enough that they can fill these hands without feelin’ like I’m gonna break something, yet soft and sassy enough that I know I’m dealin’ with the real thing.”

After a long pause, the stern lines around her mouth eased and she laughed. “You like these, hmm?”

“Oh, yeah.” Zachariah’s own mouth shifted into a cautious smile. “Are we okay?”

She nodded. “It’s been fun, hasn’t it? Certainly not how I was expecting to spend these last few days before starting my new job with the State.”

“Not what I had planned for my leave, either. But yeah, it was—” though the word felt inadequate, Zachariah felt stymied to come up with something better “—fun.”

“And you’re leaving in five hours?”

He’d better leave now. Or he’d have a unit of MPs on his tail to haul him back to base. Despite the desire drumming through his body, and the longing and guilt twisting him up deeper inside, Zachariah gathered his keys and billfold and stuffed them into his pockets. “I have to be at Quantico in five hours. I’m leaving sooner than that.” He picked up his duffel, but paused when he noted how her face had gone pale. This was what military life was like. She had to understand that. “I told you when this started it was gonna be short and sweet between us.”

“And I agreed to that. I have a new job to focus on. I’m fixing up my own place. I’m not looking to invest in a long-term relationship.” She pulled her lush bottom lip between her teeth as she slipped into deep thought. Zachariah fought to get past the need to taste that sweet lip himself, and listened to what she had to say. “Saying goodbye is tougher than I expected.”

“Yeah.” Wow. That was profound, buddy. He thumbed over his shoulder toward the door. “I need to go.”

Becky released her lip and straightened. She’d checked whatever emotion she’d been feeling, and now he could see the wheels churning behind those deep blue eyes. Zachariah braced himself to deal with whatever she was thinking up. “How long does it actually take you to get to the base from here?”

“About an hour. Unless I hit some freaky midmorning traffic out of D.C.”

Her lips curved into a serene smile. “I just realized—I’ve never seen you in uniform before.”

Pulling his shoulders back, Zachariah proudly gave her a good look at what 280 pounds of big, bad Marine looked like. “Captain Zachariah Clark at your service, ma’am.”

Becky lapped her sweet, pink tongue around her lips in an assessing, appreciative pout that made his entire body lurch. “You wear it well.”

“Thanks.”

She scanned him from shoulder to shoulder, from head to toe. Then she looked him straight in the eye. “Take it off, Captain.”

“Becky—”

“I said take it off.”

In a single beat of time, the atmosphere in the room had thickened.

“The hotel cleaners just sent it up, starched and pressed.”

“So we’ll make a point not to wrinkle it.” She reached for the knot of terry cloth between her breasts and dropped her towel.

Naked.

Damn. Zachariah’s cock throbbed to shameless attention as he stood transfixed by all her abundant glory.

“Take it off. And get over here.”

Zachariah tossed the duffel onto the bed. “At your command.”

He stripped in record time, never even considering the bed as he swapped his uniform for their box of condoms, and strode across the room with a single purpose. Her.

Becky’s kiss was waiting for him as he lifted her up onto the bathroom counter and spread her legs to move between them. She smoothed the friction between their lips with her tongue, then delved inside to toy with his. Every stroke kicked up the heat throbbing through him another impossible notch. She linked her arms behind his neck and pulled herself up against his body, teasing his chest with the brush of her nipples, teasing him down below with her fragrant, dampening heat. She was a decadent delight for each of his senses—from the contrasting reflection in the mirror of his suntanned hands moving over her fairer skin to the minty taste of her bold tongue in his mouth.

Zachariah tried to savor every moment, taking note of every sensation so he could replay the memories months from now when he was stuck in the middle of the desert or in some foreign jungle—far from letters and e-mails, farther still from kisses and touches like these.

But patience wasn’t his friend this morning. Becky’s mouth was pliant and eager, matching every foray he made. She trailed her fingers along his spine, sparking an electric impulse in every cell she touched. Still anchoring her atop the counter, Zachariah slipped his hand down between them, seeking her heat, testing her readiness. He stroked one finger along her slick crevice and she gasped, tearing her mouth from his and burying her face against his neck.

“Mmm.”

An answering groan from deep in his chest was all he could manage. He dipped one finger inside her, then two. She writhed against his hand. He found her responsive nub with his thumb and begged the cool, calm, controlled attorney to go wanton on him.

“Not fair,” she gasped, nipping at his collarbone. “You have to—” her hum vibrated against his skin “—come…too.” Her knees flexed convulsively around his hips as she neared her release. He knew the feeling. Understood the need. His aching dick poked her hip and thigh as he rocked helplessly against her. Zachariah was like a temperature trigger on a brick of C-4 explosive, rapidly heating up to the point of detonation.

Becky’s fingers dug into his back. “Zachariah?” She was breathing hard. “Zacha—” breathing deeply “—Zachari…?” Breathing quickly.

After seven days together, he recognized the sound. She was coming.

So was he.

“Not yet.” She kissed his neck. Kissed his chin. Grabbed his wrist and pulled his slick fingers from her before she climaxed. “Together,” she demanded. “This last time, we do it together.”

Their fingers tangled as they reached for the condoms he’d dropped beside her. There was laughter. Kisses. Fumbling hands.

“Enough.” He issued the order before he embarrassed himself right there on the counter. Taking charge of the race to their completion, he ripped open a package and turned his back on her to sheathe himself.

Not to be left out of the action for even a moment, she kissed his shoulder blade and reached around to tease his nipples into tortuous attention. “Beckster…” He groaned the warning, then went back on the offensive.

They were damn well going to finish this together. Zachariah turned and pulled her to the edge of the counter. She was more than a foot shorter than him. But tall enough that she was aligned perfectly with his straining, needy self. He pushed her thighs apart and nudged her entrance.

Wanton, indeed. With her hands clutching his biceps for balance, she arched her neck, thrusting her breasts up like an offering, her luscious globes bobbing beneath his hungry gaze. He studied the delicate red and blue veins engorging the hard tips, then squeezed one in his big hand and dipped his head to suckle her. Becky bucked against him as he pulled harder and harder. “Please. Please.”

He didn’t want to leave her. His conscience said he couldn’t just walk. They’d been pretty careful. But they’d also been pretty wild. Pretty intense. Pretty…frequent.

What if her pill or his condom had failed?

What if he came back and she’d moved on to someone else?

Couldn’t happen.

Wouldn’t happen.

“Zachariah…” she commanded, linking her heels behind his thighs and opening herself even wider. “Take me. Now.”

The order alone was enough to send him right to the edge.

Pinpricks of light danced behind his eyes as the inevitable countdown toward detonation began. “Marry me.”

“What?”

He slid his tip inside, barely an inch—denying for a moment what they both craved. They were breathing hard as he held himself on the brink and looked down into her blue eyes, locked onto his. The wheels were again spinning inside her head, evaluating the timing and motivations behind his impulsive—yet surprisingly serious—request.

“Don’t let this end. Marry me.”

His body nearly spasmed as he refused to indulge his need until she gave him an answer.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

Becky grabbed his ass and urged him in. With one deep thrust, Zachariah exploded inside her. She shattered around him and cried out, “Yes!”

2

“ZACHARIAH! HEY, BIG GUY! Welcome home!”

Becky snatched her hand out of the air and pulled it into a fist near her stomach, mortified by her blind enthusiasm. Thank God the crowd of families and friends surrounding her had cheered loudly enough to drown out her impulsive shout. Glancing quickly around, she wished she were tall enough to see over more of the men and women near her.

“Smooth one, Owens,” she muttered under her breath.

Had she flagged anyone’s attention? Not that she’d really expected her least favorite fan to follow her the eighty miles from Richmond, Virginia, to the Marine Corps base at Quantico. He hadn’t had the balls to use his own phone or leave a name or traceable address yet, so she doubted he’d really show his face. But the letters and phone calls—no doubt the vengeful enterprise of one of the ex-husbands she’d pursued on behalf of her clients—were coming more frequently now. And dead roses had been left on the windshield of her car and at the front door to her condo, kicking the anonymous stalking up another notch.

It started simply with I hate you clipped from random magazine letters and sent to her office, along with some heavy breathing on her phone at home. Then he had tried to show he was smart by switching to computer printouts and adding some big words: I bet you aren’t getting any, Princess Plump-ass, so you have to emasculate every man you meet to compensate. The latest note, delivered to her office five days ago with an illegible postmark, had contained a new twist on the usual insults and hurtful words: You think you’re all that, don’t you, bitch? I’m going to take back what you’ve stolen from me. Even if it has to come out of your hide. Included had been a photograph of her walking down the courthouse steps, taken from a distance. In the picture, her heart had been cut out.

Though she’d reported that last message to her supervisor at the State Attorney’s office, and the letter and photo had been subsequently filed with the Richmond PD, there was little they could do beyond monitoring the situation and working on identifying the culprit. It wasn’t as if Becky didn’t have plenty of candidates to choose from. With her work—taking deadbeat exes to court on behalf of those who couldn’t afford legal representation—she could name a dozen suspects who were less than thrilled by the settlements she’d won. Garnishment of wages. Termination or alteration of custody agreements. In one case, imprisonment. Of course, there was the whole public-humiliation factor of being exposed as a user or loser, in addition to the financial costs. Becky was good at her job. Damn good. Half-assed had never been the Owens way.

Still, though she’d like to think that someone was mouthing off because he’d gotten his wallet or pride hurt and that the need to strike back would eventually flicker and die, a smart woman wouldn’t take any chances. Becky breathed in deeply and curled her fingers through the chain-link fence blocking off the parking lot in front of her. She needed to purge the moment of panic and gather her wits.

Catching a glimpse of a pair of shoulders filling a bus window so completely that she could barely make out the square jaw and light-brown hair above them should not have her squealing like a schoolgirl who’d just been winked at by the senior boy on whom she had a crush. So what if Zachariah Clark’s impressive body and effortless strength had plagued her most erotic dreams these past eighteen months?

Eighteen months since she’d thrown Owens expectations to the wind and done exactly what she wanted.

She’d defied her father in order to land a job that allowed her to actually make a difference in the world.

She’d shared a blistering affair with a man she’d met in a bar—an unpedigreed soldier who worked with his hands instead of his family’s money.

She’d married him.

Becky exhaled that deep breath between tightly compressed lips. Her conscience had been paying a heavy price for her impetuousness ever since. She wasn’t sure she could handle it if her mother or father, or any one of her clients, got hurt because she was distracted and failed to live up to her promises. Their safety and well-being came first. That stalker toad and her own desires had to come in at a self-disciplined second.

She couldn’t allow a man’s being in her life again to give her a false sense of security, either. Zachariah wouldn’t be around for long. And people were depending on her, not him. She’d dealt with her problems while he was overseas, and she’d deal with them again after he was gone.

Cool, calm and collected was also the Owens way.

Ha! So why was she standing on tiptoe, trying to steal another glimpse through the windows of the approaching bus? Catching herself, Becky lowered her heels into her Italian leather sandals.

“You don’t do giddy,” she reminded herself on a muttered breath. She glanced from side to side once more, seeing nothing but eager children and anxious spouses and parents.

Nothing to fear.

No one who seemed interested in her at all.

She forced an angry breath from her lungs, hating that she’d given in to any degree of paranoia. She was here alone. Period. Get over it.

She focused her attention back on the bus.

As the only child of power broker Bertram Owens, “society”—meaning politicos in Richmond and D.C., the family tree and Bertram himself—demanded a certain degree of decorum from her. Whatever spontaneity that hadn’t been bred out of her by birth had been thoroughly reined in by years of training—except for six-and-a-half fabulous days with one certain Marine.

In the courtroom and at home, the restraint that she exercised almost daily served her well. She needed it now more than ever, knowing her father was home at the family estate outside of Richmond, waiting for her to fail. Waiting to pick up the pieces of what he considered her misguided adventure into independent living. Waiting to give her an I-told-you-so, let-me-take-care-of-this-for-you hug and steer her back onto the path an Owens heiress should be taking toward securing the family’s future. Namely, marrying one of the stuffy, upper-crust bores on her parents’ list of approved suitors, and settling down to expand the family dynasty like a good little girl.

Claiming she was seeing someone—who conveniently traveled a lot outside of the country so she wouldn’t have to produce him for family dinners or political receptions—had temporarily staved off her father’s obsession with marrying her off to make mergers and grandbabies. If push came to shove, she’d even pull out the marriage certificate. Though the deception would hurt at first, it was just the sort of crafty business maneuver her father might eventually respect.

However, Becky intended to save that revelation as an absolute last resort. Her mother, Lily, was still recovering from chemo and radiation treatments to forestall any recurrence of the breast cancer she’d conquered a year ago. Causing her mom stress by ruining her dreams for her only offspring wasn’t particularly appealing. And pissing off Bertram Owens wasn’t something that anyone—even his own daughter—did lightly.

It certainly wasn’t fair to Zachariah to thrust him into the midst of the secrets and lies that had become Becky’s life this past year.

In D.C., his proposal had seemed like the perfect out to get her father off her back about settling down with the right young man. Plus, she’d fallen victim to the foolish idea that saying yes would somehow prolong the wild and crazy freedom of their week together.

But then her mother’s condition had worsened. To be on hand for his wife’s treatment and recovery, Becky’s father had left his advisory appointment in Washington and moved back to Richmond full-time, working as a political consultant and party fund-raiser. Now he was close enough to check on Becky every day. Joy. In person if he wanted. Rapture. He played buddy-buddy with her superiors in the State Attorney’s office more often than she lunched with her girlfriends. She was a twenty-eight-year-old woman, for gosh sakes!

As much as she loved her parents, Becky refused to surrender her independence. She understood her father’s need to control and protect was rooted in love. She understood her mother’s dreams were equally altruistic. But Becky wanted to live, thrive—succeed—on her terms. She’d find a way to be her own person, a crackerjack attorney—and the Owenses’ daughter.

But none of it was easy.

Zachariah deserved to know what he was really getting into as her husband—what he probably wouldn’t want to get into if he did know.

And he should hear it from her—face-to-face.

But one look at those tanklike shoulders and her hormones had overridden every sensible intention. Swamped by emotions, she’d gotten carried away by the cheering crowd. There was something uniquely inspiring and heartwarming about welcoming home a busload of Marines returning from a war zone. Flags were flying. A band was playing. Her patriotism had kicked in, that was all.

She didn’t really expect that falling into Zachariah’s arms would make all her stresses go away. Not even for the night or two they’d have together.

Zachariah Clark was a man, not a myth. He was a good time. Okay, a very good time.

Be honest, girl.

He was the best time she’d ever had.

But he was a fallback plan, a welcome chapter in her life—not the whole book. He was a Marine who’d left her to do his job while she stayed at home and did hers. She suspected he was damn good at that job, or he wouldn’t be given assignments about which she knew so little and he told her even less. But he wasn’t a superhero. Okay, so Captain Clark might be built along superhuman proportions, but he was still just a man.

Becky breathed deeply—in through her nose, out through her mouth—steeling herself the same way she did each time she stepped up to argue a case before a judge. She could handle this. She could handle him.

That was the Owens way.

The bus pulled to a stop, and the liaison officer signaled the waiting families to enter through the gate onto the parking lot. But as the crowd carried Becky forward, an anxious anticipation buzzed across her skin, raising goose bumps. Despite her resolve to keep this reunion at arm’s length and impersonal until she could explain her situation and determine how Zachariah would fit into her life while he was home on leave, Becky found herself hurrying right along with everyone else, trying to spot him the instant he filed off the bus.

Was he as tall as she remembered? Had he been injured in any way? Would he still overlook the extra pounds that stress and genetics wouldn’t let her lose, and show that same lusty desire for her in his eyes?

Oh, my. Becky’s breath caught in her chest. Zachariah.

He was leaner and more tanned than she recalled. Harder somehow, through the squint of her eyes. Still, Zachariah Clark was impossible to miss. Standing a head taller than most of his comrades, he stepped off the bus with a wary alertness, already scanning the crowd.

“Zachariah!” Damn. Her hand shot into the air again and she waved.

Play it cool, Owens. Play it cool.

But his green eyes had already zeroed in on her. They widened with recognition. His rugged features softened with a lopsided grin. “Beckster!”

Screw decorum. Becky ran to greet him.

The people between them parted for those broad shoulders and captain’s bars as Zachariah pushed his way through the crowd. She met him halfway. He dropped his duffel bag, and his long, strong arms snaked around her as she leaped. He caught her and swung her around, squeezing her tightly and waking every feminine cell inside her with an instant reminder of just how powerfully built and masculine he was. His mouth crushed down over hers long before the world stopped spinning and her toes touched the asphalt beneath her again.

Who was she kidding? She wanted this. Talking could wait. Becky wound her arms around his neck and held on, kissing him, consuming him with a hunger that hadn’t abated one whit since D.C. She inhaled his clean, undoctored scent. Absorbed his heat. Clung to his hard strength. Reveled in the evidence of his desire for her, unabashedly swelling against her thigh.

Rational thought fled as embracing Zachariah reminded her how uncomplicated this was between them. Parts of her body that had lain dormant for eighteen long months roared to life with a frenzy that shook the Owens family tree. Her blood thickened and pulsed. Her breasts tingled with excitement. She lost track of the crowd, of curious eyes, of unpleasant realities—of everything except the desire to burrow beneath this soldier’s starched exterior and wrap herself up in the raw, sensual man inside the uniform.

She was still reaching for another kiss when his mouth withdrew beyond her reach. Zachariah had come to his senses sooner than she had. With his hands massaging circles at her waist, Becky braced her palms against the ragged rise and fall of his chest and tried to recover her own breath. “Wow.”

Bending to touch his forehead to hers, Zachariah’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “Now that’s what I call a welcome home.”

Beaming beneath the approval in his low, rumbly voice, Becky twisted her fingers beneath his collar. “You haven’t seen half of what I’ve got planned for you this weekend, soldier.”

“It’s Marine, darlin’.” He pulled her hips forward into his, reminding her that he was ready for action. “But as long as you’ve made plans, I won’t quibble over…”

He angled his face as if he intended to kiss her again. But he jerked back, halfway to his destination, leaving her lips puckered with anticipation. His grip pinched hard at her waist and her mouth rounded into a startled, “Ow!”

Becky twisted, trying to free herself. He’d never hurt her before. Not once. Not even in fun. So what was the deal?

“Zach…” But her protest died at the face frozen above her. Staring straight over the top of her head. Her own warning jets fired and she quickly glanced behind her. “What is it?”

Families. Marines. Flags. Laughing. Crying. Hugging. Nothing weird.

No one watching.

Becky turned back to the blankness chilling his eyes. “Big guy?”

Grooves deepened beside his eyes and mouth, twisting his features into a frown. His nostrils flared with a deep, stuttering breath. What was happening here?

Becky skipped curiosity and moved straight to concern. She nudged at his chest, then reached up and caught his jaw between her hands, giving him a little shake. She uttered his name with more force. “Zachariah!”

He blinked and his eyes blazed back into focus so suddenly she thought she might have imagined the whole weird disconnect.

Except Becky Owens wasn’t given to idle imaginings. “Where did you go?”

He shook his head as if confused by her question. “I’m right here.”

“A second ago, you were a million miles away.”

“Fatigue, I guess.” Zachariah seized her wrists and pulled her hands from his face. “I’m pretty wiped out, adjusting to the time differences and all.”

“Are you sure? It seemed like more than that.”

If it weren’t for the almost tentative restraint in his normally confident touch, she might have believed the cocky grin that slid back into place. “It’s good to see you again,” he said, without explaining anything to her satisfaction. “And to touch you.” He brushed the tip of her nose with his finger.

Okay. Nose tapping aside, she’d go along with the diversionary tactic instead of following up with a more probing question. After all, she couldn’t very well force the husband she barely knew to unburden his secrets to her if she wasn’t ready to do the same for him.

But she could care. She did care. Putting her desires on the back burner, Becky slid her arms around his waist. She walked into his chest and hugged him tightly, offering him something a little calmer, a little saner than the healthy lust that zinged like perpetual lightning between them.

After a moment’s hesitation, Zachariah folded his arms around her shoulders and hugged her back. “Hey. What’s this for?”

She turned her nose into the crisp, starched scent of his uniform. “I’m sorry I wasn’t a better letter writer, and that I didn’t e-mail you more often. I’m sorry I’m not a better…” Oh, crud. The word was sticking to her tongue. “Wife.”

“Hey.” She felt him nuzzle the crown of her hair. “There’s no blame here. It wasn’t like I was a devoted penpal. Besides, there’s no guarantee I would have gotten your messages. Not where we were.”

“So where were—” His hold on her tightened, derailing Becky’s question. Deliberately? Had something changed between them? Or was he drifting again? Just what had Zachariah and his men been doing that he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—talk about it? The APO address and military domain name that he’d sent her several weeks after his departure had told her as little about his location and assignment as his brief messages had. Outside of the base headquarters where his unit had reported in between missions, he and his comrades seemed to have disappeared for weeks, even months, at a time. “Are you okay?”

Captain Somber here was so not playing into the let’s-recapture-what-we-had-but-I-really-need-to-keep-it-light-so-I-can-walk-away-without-either-of-us-getting-hurt scenario she’d planned for this weekend. Was he normally this moody? She hadn’t seen any indication of a darker side to Zachariah Clark back in D.C.

Beyond the military information he couldn’t share, taciturn and evasive were hardly words she’d use to describe her conversations with Zachariah back then. Not that they’d had any deep heart-to-hearts. He’d been so refreshingly up front about what he wanted from her that Becky had found his lack of an agenda as much of an attraction as the breadth of those muscled shoulders and chest. He’d been blunt. He’d been bold. He’d worn his thoughts and emotions on his sleeve, and Becky had responded to his easy forthrightness.

The Zachariah Clark who’d gotten off the bus this morning was too complex for her to read, and that left her at an unfamiliar disadvantage. Becky couldn’t be sure he would understand, much less welcome, the things she had to say and do—not if he was feeling down or preoccupied like this. And her concern about whatever was troubling him complicated her own promises to hurry back to the people who really needed her, people she could actually help.

This was supposed to be a welcome-home celebration. Escaping for a weekend frolic with her…um…husband.

Damn. Even thinking the word pinched at her conscience.

Oh, yeah. This reunion was going really well.

Zachariah gave her a quick bear hug before pulling away completely, beyond arm’s reach, distancing himself from her questions as well as her touch. “I suppose if we’d had time to go through the newlywed training, we’d have done a better job of keeping in touch.”

Becky arched one eyebrow. Did she know anything about Zachariah’s life? “There’s newlywed training?”

“Yeah. So the new spouse knows what to expect when the husband or wife is deployed. Where to find support groups. How to contact us if there’s an emergency. Familiarizing each of us with what can be said in a message and what can’t. Stuff like that.” He lifted his cap, scratched his fingers over his ultra-short, fawn-colored hair and wedged the cap back on. “Sorry. I guess I cheated you out of all that by gettin’ hitched so quick. I kind of ran off and left you in the dark.” He turned his left hand back and forth, studying his splayed fingers as if seeing them in front of his face reminded him of something he didn’t like. “Hell. I never even took the time to buy us rings.”

Two small boys, darting around the fringe of a family welcoming home the father, accidentally bumped into the back of Zachariah’s legs. He tensed instantly. His hand fisted and his shoulders seemed to expand in a way that made Becky think he was about to turn and attack. Only the Zachariah she knew didn’t have a temper.

The boys must have sensed the brewing volcano, too.

“Sorry, mister,” the little one chirped.

“He’s a captain, dork-butt. Look at his collar.”

“Sorry, Captain.”

“Thanks for all you do for our country,” the older one said, in a well-rehearsed voice.

“Yeah, thanks.” The younger of the two boys stepped between Zachariah and Becky and craned his neck, squinching his mouth into a thoughtful frown as though he was perplexed by how far he had to look up to see Zachariah’s face. “Do you know my dad?”

Zachariah blinked away whatever had seized him and looked over at the family gathering before lowering his chin and mustering half an apologetic grin for the boy. “Yeah. Sort of. He’s in our support unit. We couldn’t do our jobs without—”

“C’mon, Eric.” The older boy put a hand on the young one’s shoulder and pulled him away, apparently not trusting Zachariah’s size or mood. “Dad’s waiting for us. We get to carry his duffel bag.”

As quickly as the boy’s curiosity had surfaced, it disappeared. He chased his brother back to their family. “I get to carry it first!”

“Uh-uh!”

Zachariah scrubbed his palm down over his face and muttered a curse as he watched them disappear back into the crowd. “So how bad do you think I scared those kids?”

“Not half as much as you’re scaring me.” Becky propped her hands at the waist of her denim skirt. “You’re acting like Zachariah Clark’s evil twin. Are you going to tell me what’s bugging you or not?”

His green eyes were the only thing that moved as his gaze bored into hers. “Like I said, I’m beat.” Leave it alone. She understood the message clearly enough—didn’t like it, but understood. An echo of silence passed before he shook loose his shoulders and twisted his neck from side to side, forcibly relaxing his posture if not convincing Becky he had truly relaxed.

“Then maybe we’d better get going,” she suggested, not knowing what more she could do, even if he were willing to share. She pointed toward the fence. “I’m parked in the visitors’ lot. I can drive until we can get your truck out of storage.”

With a nod, he heaved his duffel bag up onto his shoulder. After holding back for a moment, he lengthened his stride to fall into step beside her and settled his hand at the back of her waist. “Sorry. All the way home I was thinking about falling into bed. With you. I guess it was stupid to think nothing about us would change after eighteen months apart. This marriage thing takes a little getting used to.”

“I know what you mean.” It shamed her to think of how she’d kept the news of her “gettin’hitched” tucked away like a secret weapon in her back pocket—waiting until the moment was right to tell her parents, until now the secret weighed like an anchor around her neck. It was becoming more and more clear that there was more to making a marriage than a legal document. “It’s as though we have to get reacquainted all over again.”

And there was only one way they’d really known and understood each other, even back in D.C.

“I thought I was doing the right thing—making you my wife—in case something happened to me, or I got you pregnant. I just wanted you to know that what we had meant something to me.”

Becky halted in her tracks. “I’m a big girl, Zachariah.” She snagged his hand as he walked past. At that slightest of tugs, he stopped and looked down over his shoulder at her. “That week meant something to me, too. But you don’t have to take care of me. You just have to…be with me. While you’re here. While we’re together.” Her own plans, which she’d stewed over for months, were changing even as she spoke. “We’ll figure out whatever we’ve missed in each other’s lives later. For now, let’s just try to stay in the moment, shall we?”

He considered the bargain, then altered his grip to lace his fingers together with hers and pull her to his side. “In the moment. Sure. I can do that. Now take me to your car.”

She pointed toward the gate. “Over there.”

He shifted direction and guided them through the fringes of the lingering crowd. He dipped his head to her ear so she could hear him as they hurried past the band, which was playing a Sousa march. “In your last e-mail, you mentioned something about that honeymoon we missed?”

His lips stayed close and nuzzled the sensitive skin beneath her earlobe.

Honeymoon. She liked the sound of that. Becky wound her other hand around Zachariah’s and hugged herself against his arm. The brush of his lips and heat off his skin sparked something prickly and needy inside her. Maybe this awkward tension between them was nothing more than frustrated physical energy. Maybe once they got the lust—which had been simmering for eighteen months—out of their systems, everything else would fall into place. They could talk. He could lighten up. She could walk away.

Becky stumbled over the momentary hesitation of her feet. Don’t go there.

But, linked to the brace of Zachariah’s arm, she couldn’t fall. And because it had to be brief, she didn’t want to retreat from the time they could be spending together. Not wanting to shout, she waited until the band was behind them before she answered, “I might have an idea or two in mind about that honeymoon.”

“Spread those ideas out. Other than a quick visit to my folks out in Nebraska, you’ve got me for six whole weeks.”

Six weeks? Um, yeah. About that…

“Unless you want to come with me?” he offered. “The ranch should be green and pretty in the middle of summer—the lake water nice and cool.”

Nebraska? Ranch? Lake water? “Do you go sailing?”

“It’s not that big a lake. Fishing, mostly.” He released her hand and slipped his arm around her waist, pulling her flush to his side and hurrying their pace. “But I was thinking more along the lines of skinny-dipping after midnight.”

In lake water? “Is that sanitary?”

“Sanitary? Man, you sure know how to sweet-talk a guy. Here I am, imagining the moonlight on your bare skin, and you’re worried about the greeblies in the water.”

“So there is something in the water.”

“Fish. Hence, the fishing.” He grinned. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”

She tensed. In the moment. Stay in the moment. “You told me you live on a ranch. Don’t the cows use the water, too—”

“Yo, Clarksie!”

Becky jumped in her skin as a man materialized from between two parked cars and charged toward them, his arm outstretched. He was big, not by Zachariah standards, but big enough that everything inside Becky jerked with the urge to run in the opposite direction.

Zachariah braced for an instant in a protective stance between her and the man. Then the tension rolled off his shoulders along with his duffel bag and he released her to stick out his own hand to greet the man with a handshake. “Action Man!”

While Becky squashed down the startled heartbeat that pounded in her chest, she took note of the dark royal pants and khaki shirt that marked “Action Man” as another military officer. The handshake became a bear hug that involved backslapping, ribald nicknames and seeing who could squeeze the other harder.

Clearly an old friend, judging by the rapid-fire questions about families and work and the “How’ve you beens?”

Not a threat.

Not even anything to do with her.

Way to play it cool, Owens.

The dressed-up Marine pulled an athletic-looking woman up beside him and tucked her under his arm. “I’m as good-lookin’ as ever and I’ve got some of the best prospects I’ve had in a long time. This is Tess.”

“Tess, eh? I’m Zachariah Clark.”

The woman named Tess smiled and took his hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Clarksie. Most of it, I couldn’t repeat to my mother. But to hear Trav tell it, it’s all good. Welcome home.”

“Aw, shucks. Thanks, ma’am.” Zachariah leaned forward. “Is she the one you e-mailed me about?”

The man named Travis didn’t even hesitate. “She’s the one, period. I’ve still got some details to work out, but—”

As embarrassed by her knee-jerk reaction as she was relieved, Becky took a deep breath and stepped forward to be introduced. “Do I have to hang back like the paparazzi? Or do I get an introduction, too?”

“Geez. Sorry, darlin’.” Quickly shifting his stance to pull Becky into the conversation, Zachariah rested his hand at the small of her back and made the introductions. “Travis McCormick, this is my…my wife.” The fingers at her back contracted. An apology? Or did the word feel as awkward on his tongue as it had on hers? “This is Becky Owens. Becky Clark.” The fingers tightened another notch and she felt his gaze sweep across her face. “This is the Beckster.”

Like their missing wedding rings, her new name was another topic they’d never had a chance to discuss.

A cheesy grin split Travis’s face. “What, you forget you were married already?”

They moved past the awkward moment with more handshakes and an introduction to Travis’s girlfriend, Tess Bartlett, whom Becky learned was a physical therapist.

“So how do you know Zachariah, Captain McCormick?” Becky asked, curious to meet one of his friends.

“It’s Travis, and don’t worry about the title.” Despite the woman at his side, Travis seemed to be a bit of a flirt. “Clarksie and I served together on a Special Operations team—until I got wounded.”

At the mention of the word wounded, the good-natured camaraderie between the two men ebbed as though they were rowdy boys who’d been reprimanded by their parents for too much roughhousing. Becky could sense the stiffness that crept into Zachariah’s posture.

“I see you’re not in Charlie uniform—your camouflage work gear,” Zachariah pointed out. “Does that mean the top brass denied your request to return to a Special Ops team?”

Travis waved aside his concern. “I didn’t give them the chance. I asked to be transferred to the training division. General Craddock approved it yesterday. I’m going to be teaching the yahoos who’ll be taking your place one day.”

“Congratulations, man.” Becky glanced up. Despite a smile, Zachariah’s jaw had tensed. “What changed your mind?”

“I realized I couldn’t give the hundred-and-ten percent S.O. teams need anymore. But I figure I can eke out about a hundred-and-one percent to whip some of those new boys into shape. I’ve learned I make a pretty good coach.”

Seeing the blush that dotted Tess’s cheeks when Travis smiled down at her, Becky had to wonder just what kind of “coaching” Zachariah’s pal was talking about.

“I get to choose my own staff.” Travis jabbed Zachariah on the shoulder and grinned. “I could use a big hard-ass like you on the team.”

Zachariah’s hand fisted at Becky’s back before he broke contact completely. “I’ll think about it.”

“Do. I can always use a man with good hands.”

Afraid she was witnessing another reappearance of the secretive stranger who’d been so intense that he’d frightened two little boys, Becky linked her arm through Zachariah’s. “Can’t we all?”

Tess and Travis laughed right along with her, the double entendre buying a few seconds, giving Zachariah’s mood a chance to pass. His deep, rumbly laugh finally joined in. He linked his fingers together with Becky’s and lifted her hand to claim it with a kiss.

Like the laugh, she couldn’t tell if his silent thank you was for real or for show. Still, his words sounded sincere enough. “Duty calls. Thanks for showing up, Trav. It feels good to be on home soil. Good to see you.”

Travis nodded. “Well, you’ve got a homecoming I’m not going to keep you from any longer. Take care, buddy.”

“You, too.” The two men shook hands. “I’ll call you soon, I promise.”

Travis looked at Becky, then up at Zachariah and winked. “I’d give it a good forty-eight hours or so before you make any phone calls. I expect you’re gonna be busy for a while.”

THE MAN OPENED HIS TOP RIGHT desk drawer and pulled out papers and file folders until he uncovered the photograph at the bottom.

After a quick glance around his bustling office to verify that he was alone and unwatched, he pulled on a pair of plastic gloves and reached in to touch the picture. Clarified and enlarged on his home computer, the photo provided a remarkable likeness of the woman captured there. He traced his fingertip around the woman’s wide, slightly crooked mouth, lingering on the natural pout that was evident even on this unsmiling government ID.

He liked that mouth better when it was closed.

She was pretty enough, in a Rubenesque kind of way. Her hair was so blond, it nearly hurt the eyes to look at it straight on in full sunlight. And the expensive layered cut she wore it in spoke of family money rather than a government salary.

She was class.

She was style.

“You bitch.”

A familiar rage sparked through his blood.

“You think you’re going to make the world fall into place the way you want it, don’t you?” He splayed his fingers over her face and squeezed his eyes shut, breathing deeply to control the anger. Breathing deeper to control the animalistic urges that fired through his body. “I gave you every chance to do right by me. To understand the way things should be. But you just like to screw with a man when he’s down, don’t you? Makes you feel like you’re something special, doesn’t it? Like you’re too high and mighty to ever fall off your throne.”

Still smothering her face with his palm, he opened another drawer and pulled out the envelope he’d brought from home. “I’m going to put you in your place, Princess. If you’re going to deny me what should be mine, then I’m going to destroy you. I’m going to make you suffer. I want to see you weeping. And if you still don’t learn your lesson…

“I’m going to kill you.”

3

ZACHARIAH KNEW HIS MAMA WOULD have had his hide if she’d been there to see him in action that morning.

As he followed the enticing bounce of Becky’s bottom to her car, he had only one thing on his mind. And it wasn’t the apology he needed to make.

He’d like to think he had a fever—or blame it on eighteen months of celibacy or on the memorial service he’d attended two days ago at the base. But something wasn’t right in his head. From the moment he’d spotted Becky’s deep blue eyes, he’d been drawn to her like a moth to a back porch light. If he could just get to her, get a hold of her—get inside her—then everything would feel right again.

The crap that had been plaguing him since that last mission into Al-Bazan would fade away. He could replay the awful way he’d reacted to those two kids—acting like the enemy instead of a colleague to their daddy. Maybe he could get a laugh out of them instead of instilling in them the urge to run away. He’d be able to stand back for a moment and figure out why he’d snapped at Becky for calling him on his behavior, and why he’d held something back from his best friend, Travis McCormick.

He was happy to be stateside. Happy to see Travis back on the job and looking as fit and fine as ever. Happy to find his woman—his new wife—waiting for him now that he was officially off duty.

But from the moment Becky had launched herself into his arms and her sweet, full lips had softened beneath his, Zachariah had been waging a war inside himself. Fighting to control a battle between a shameless hard-on and the seething emotions that itched at him like intel of an ambush. He knew all hell was gonna break loose—he just didn’t know when or where it would happen. And he wasn’t sure he could control the situation.

He hadn’t controlled a damn thing in Al-Bazan.

Shit. Zachariah crushed the strap of his duffel bag in his fist and slammed the door on the memories that tried to escape. He blinked himself out of that desert hellhole with the dead bodies and acrid smoke, and concentrated every bit of his considerable will on counting the number of metal buttons running down the side of Becky’s blue-jean skirt. He hoped to hell that thing had a zipper on it.

He desperately needed to recapture the normalcy of his life here in the States. And normal with Becky meant something blessedly physical. The lacy V-neck blouse she wore, which covered up enough to look classy and ladylike while still clinging in all the right spots to remind him of the size and weight and beauty of her breasts, didn’t help. Neither did the deep rose of her painted toenails or the alabaster skin showing beneath the hem of her skirt.

He was horny. He was simmering. He was full of a need that went beyond basic sex and had him ready to bust out of his skin.

Yet he had to make nice. He had to be civilized. After all, he was stateside. He was off duty. He was home.

But Zachariah didn’t want to reminisce or discuss new job opportunities or listen to small talk.

He wanted Becky.

Now.

If he could just recapture the mindless perfection of that week they’d spent together in D.C., he could get this fever out of his system. He could feel like himself again. He could cope.

“This is it. Shall we?” With a sweeping flair as stylish as any game-show model’s, Becky pointed to a silver, late-model Nissan sedan. She pulled a ring of keys from her pocket. “You can put your bag in the back.”

She opened the trunk and Zachariah dropped his duffel inside, inhaling a whiff of her warm, exotic perfume as he bent beside her. The remembered scent filled his head and his fantasies, and he scooped her up into his arms as he turned back around.

“I missed you, darlin’.” He’d kissed off all her lipstick earlier, but her nude pink lips seemed to beckon him all the more. “I can’t wait until we’re alone together.”

Her mouth was soft and hot and eager beneath the claim of his lips. Becky wound her arms around his neck and pulled herself into his kiss. Her lips parted. Her tongue danced against his. Breasts pillowed against the ache in his chest, her nipples beaded, branding him.

Humming her needy sound, which was as potent as a caress, she hooked her tongue around his and pulled it into her mouth. Aw, geez. Zachariah’s body lurched in response, mimicking the same push-pull gesture. With one arm still anchored around her waist, he slid his hand down over the curve of her butt and boosted her up, aligning their bodies together like snug puzzle pieces. Her skirt inched higher as he found naked skin and dragged his palm over the back of her velvety thigh.

Zachariah’s blood was humming right along with her seductive moans. This was the way it had been between them in D.C. The way it should be between them. Just them. Just this.

But with a breathless laugh, Becky pulled her fingers from his hair and slipped them between their lips. “We’re not exactly alone yet. People are watching.”

“They’re jealous.” Though a weak voice inside his head backed her up with the message that this was neither the time nor the place to relieve their sexual frustration, his body wasn’t listening. He kissed her fingertips, working his way back to her mouth. “Tell ’em to get their own girl. You’re taken.”

With a laugh that jiggled against his chest, she pushed his chin up into the air. “Not yet, I’m not. But I trust you’ll see to that later?”

She was killin’ him with her lush body and naughty double entendres. But he discovered he still knew how to laugh as he lowered her back to the ground, testing that suddenly shaky will of his by enduring the friction of her soft curves along his harder planes. Once she was standing on her own again, he adjusted her skirt to a more modest level and tried to breathe some sanity back into his brain. He touched his forehead to hers, grinning at the stain of passion he’d stamped onto her swollen lips. “Have I told you how happy I am to see you?”

The blue-eyed temptress palmed the hardest part of him through his pants. “I know how happy you are to see me, big guy.”

Zachariah jerked in her grip, squeezed his eyes shut and silently begged for strength.

“Beckster…” he warned. Audience or not, if she didn’t move her hand, he was going to finish what they’d started. Here. Now.

Becky released him and stepped back, holding her hands out to either side as if she were surrendering to his plea. But that clever, daring look in her eyes told him she was taking charge rather than giving in. “Get in. You can nap while I drive since I can’t guarantee how much sleep you’ll be getting once we reach our destination.”

“A woman after my own heart.” He leaned down to kiss her again, but Becky was made of stronger stuff and his lips skidded over her cheek as she dodged his mouth and nudged him toward the side of the car.

“Get in.”

“Yes, ma’am.” After closing the trunk, Zachariah climbed down into the passenger seat. Even sliding the seat all the way back, he had to fold himself in like a pretzel and lean against the door to keep his shoulder from bumping into hers. He barely had room to spread his legs far enough apart to give his woody a chance to relax. He removed his cap, but still had little clearance between his crewcut and the roof. “Oh, man. Why don’t you just put me in a sardine can?”

He hadn’t known how small a sporty little Nissan could be. Definitely no room for playing in here. The cramped space should be incentive enough for him to be a good boy and mind his manners a little while longer.

“I won’t ask if you’re comfy,” she apologized, backing out and pulling into traffic. “But I do promise it’ll be a short drive.”

Short was a relative term that had more to do with time than distance. The way Becky Owens—make that Becky Clark, he amended—put the pedal to the metal, she should be driving at Daytona instead of zipping along the highway that connected the Marine base in Quantico to the outskirts of Washington, D.C.

“We’re not heading down to Richmond?” He knew she lived in Virginia’s state capital. With his base housing surrendered and his stuff all in storage, he’d just assumed they’d be spending the next several hours at her place.

She shook her head as she checked her mirror and zipped between a semi and a pickup truck. Zachariah gripped the dashboard and held on. Forget Daytona. This woman could be driving on the battlefield, dodging incoming fire. How had he missed her lead foot tendencies before? Had they really not gone anywhere besides hotel rooms and the courthouse?

“So was your flight home really that bad?”

He grinned as they sped past a string of cars and cut over to catch the exit ramp. “It lasted about twenty-seven hours longer than this trip is gonna take.”

Becky downshifted and adjusted her speed to merge with the city traffic. “And you don’t have to be anywhere for a while?”

This polite chitchat wasn’t on his to-do list.

“As of ten-hundred hours this morning, I’m on leave to do whatever the hell I want for forty-two days. And you know what I want to do.” He reached over and traced a finger along the line of her jaw before winding it into her pale golden hair. The chin-length silk tumbled over the back of his hand like a thousand tiny kisses. She’d cut her hair since he’d seen her last, but one thing sure hadn’t changed. She was still icy cool to look at, but fiery to the touch. His touch, at any rate.

Her full lips pouted with a smile as she turned to kiss that finger before batting him away to keep her focus on the road. “I want that, too. I rented a room at that same hotel we stayed at after that first night at Groucho’s Pub.”

Yeah. The night they’d first met. The night they’d first had sex. The night Zachariah had first started to wonder if the bachelor’s life was all it was cracked up to be. Not when he could come home every night to something as smart, sassy and sexy as Becky Owens.

Becky Clark. He winced at the name that refused to click into place inside his head. Maybe if she’d say it. Just once.

But talking was for later. Though he’d showered and gotten some shut-eye before boarding the bus to the base, Zachariah was beat. Eighteen months on active duty, running more missions than he could count—he swallowed hard and pushed his thoughts right on past that last mission that had gone so wrong so fast—and an endless flight did that to a man. No matter what kind of fighting shape he was in.

“Stay in the moment,” Becky had said. Sounded like good advice. No past. No future. Just now. Just them. He leaned back against the headrest and let his eyes drift shut.

She’d warned him he needed to take a nap before she got him back to the hotel. He intended to do her bidding in whatever she asked of him.

But the name issue wouldn’t seem to let him be. Maybe it was his fault as much as hers that it was an awkward point of discomfort between them. “Hey, sorry about that whole confusion with the ‘wife’ thing when I was introducing you to Travis. I guess when he startled us, I kind of lost my train of thought.”

“No problem. It’s not something we need to concern ourselves with right now. I’m content to go with plain old Becky Owens. Don’t worry about it.”

Zachariah winked one eye open. No problem? Was her response to his apology just a little too glib to be sincere? Or was his weary brain reading something into the fierce grip she had on her steering wheel? “You sure? I mean, it wasn’t an intentional stumble. Becky Clark. Becky Owens-Clark. However you want to say it, I’m proud to claim you as mine.”

“I know.” Did her knuckles just turn a little whiter around the steering wheel?

Zachariah shook his head and let his eye close once more. Too much thinking. He needed sleep. He needed sex. He needed Becky. “I’m not used to saying it out loud. One minute we’re in front of a justice of the peace, and the next I’m on my way to Reagan International to catch my plane to…hell.”

Even if he was cleared to talk about Al-Bazan now, he didn’t want to say the words out loud. The memories were like poison stirring in the pit of his stomach. And he was pretty sure it was the past few months trying to sneak into his thoughts—not Becky’s speedway driving—that was making him a tad queasy.

She shifted the car and slowed for a turn. Then he jumped when she reached farther across the front seat and squeezed his thigh. “Don’t sweat it. We’re going to stay in the here and now, remember? Let’s enjoy the homecoming before we worry about anything else.”

Zachariah’s eyes popped open. There was something to worry about.

But before he could ask what it might be, her hand slid higher. Closer to the action. The electric current that had been buzzing through his body ever since that kiss in the parking lot zinged up to a higher voltage. Just like that. He was hard. He was ready.

“Beckster.” His warning was a low-pitched growl in his throat. “I can’t maneuver in this car.”

She dutifully returned both hands to the wheel. “Then you’d better lean back and relax. Like I said, you’re going to need your strength.”

With that husky promise lacing her voice, Zachariah could have damn well found a way to maneuver.

But he was smart enough to know when to advance and when to retreat. It would be a good idea if they actually got to the hotel in one piece—and without having to explain themselves to a traffic cop if they got pulled over for reckless, er…driving.

He could forget. For now.

He could wait. A little.

Closing his eyes, Zachariah leaned back against the headrest. But even with the deep breathing exercise that normally relaxed him, sleep wasn’t coming. With every inhale, his nose filled with the spice of Becky’s perfume. With every exhale, his mind filled with images of each delicious thing he was going to do with her once they reached their destination.

“Becky?”

“Yes?”

“Drive faster.”

BECKY PULLED INTO THE Wardman Park Hotel’s circular drive. It was sentimentality as much as the desire to put distance between her and the problems waiting for her back in Richmond that had prompted her to make this reservation. But a momentary glitch in her courage tried to surface as she thought back to the last time she’d been here with Captain Zachariah Clark.

Checking into the posh, discreet hotel with a man she’d just met in a bar—okay, after getting better acquainted with his hands and mouth in the parking lot outside the bar—had to be the craziest thing she’d ever done.

Correction. The second craziest.

She’d avoided dealing with number one on her crazy list longer than she’d allow any of her clients to put off such an important decision. But she didn’t intend to ruin tonight’s festivities by addressing the marriage issue now.

Squelching the nagging misgivings over the conversation she knew they needed to have, Becky parked the car. Stay in the moment. That would be her treat for herself this weekend.

No past. No future.

No family.

No clients.

No messages for the bitch who was ruining her anonymous fan’s life.

Becky shivered in the summer heat as the tension filled her, then gradually dissipated with a mental affirmation of her resolve.

She was going to do this. She wanted to do this. With Zachariah Clark she could enjoy the here and now. She could let out the sensual, decadent side of her that had no place in the rest of her life. She had a man to welcome home after serving overseas in a war zone. And from the look—and feel—of things, the big guy needed some serious welcoming.

Becky looked over at him dozing in the tiny confines of her car and smiled. She was torn between the soft tug at her heart at his deep, soft snore—indicating just how exhausted he must be after being on guard every waking moment for the past eighteen months—and the firmer tug at her libido. Zachariah was an adrenaline rush to her hormones. There was just so much of him. So much muscle. Such broad shoulders and long legs—like tree trunks. Such big hands with an amazing coordination that must reflect in his work as well as his loving. And the whole of him was in fine, fighting shape. So much man. So much to want.

Tiny muscles, deep in her belly, clenched and yearned just looking at him. She licked her lips, feeling a sudden thirst as she ran her gaze over his wide, firm mouth. His square jaw. The bump on his nose—a remnant from an old fight, perhaps? One he’d no doubt won. She visually caressed the strong brow and masculine crop of sandy-brown hair that framed his commanding, if not handsome, face.

Becky slowly exhaled, letting the warm breeze of her desire dance across his skin.

One bold green eye opened and met her gaze. “I told you I can’t maneuver in here, darlin’.”

Oh, yeah. Conversations could definitely wait. She wanted this. She stretched up and pressed her lips to his cheek in a mild hint of things to come. “Then get out. We’re here.”

Suddenly, it was a race to get checked in and carry their bags up to the room. They scrambled to hang the Do Not Disturb sign on the knob and then locked the door behind them.

And then Zachariah had her backed against the door. The buttons of her blouse flew by the wayside. His hands were on her breasts, lifting, squeezing, flicking the nipples to attention through the silk of her bra. She gasped as the instant fire rocketed from the tips of her breasts down to the juncture of her thighs. No man had touched her like this. Ever.

Ever. She groaned aloud as he dipped his head and guided one straining peak to his mouth, swirling his tongue around the distended tip. “Oh-h.”

Becky needed something to hold on to as her knees went weak. She needed him.

Winding her arms around Zachariah’s neck, she skimmed her palms against the prickly grain of his hair, slipping her fingers up beneath his hat and tossing it aside so she could cup his head and drag his mouth up to hers.

She paused only long enough to meet the hungry desire blazing in his verdant eyes, long enough for him to see that same hunger reflected in her own. “I’m glad you’re safe. I’m glad you’re with me. Welcome home.”

Then their lips met. His, hard and demanding. Hers, soft but eager to make some demands of their own. He took. She gave. She begged. He delivered.

She got his shirt off him, his belt undone. Her skirt and half-slip were on the floor. She grasped at the hem of his T-shirt and he reached for her panties.

“Do you have protection handy?” he rasped against her ear before nipping at the lobe. “Mine are in the bottom of my duffel.”

Becky nodded, pushing the T-shirt up over ridges of muscle and a scar that hadn’t been there eighteen months ago. Touching the puckered skin at the flat of his stomach, she glimpsed a similar scar cutting through the eagle’s wing tattooed on his bicep. “What are these?”

He tongued the side of her neck, ignoring her concern. “We need condoms. Quick.”

Right. Stay in the moment. Ask questions later.

“Okay.”

Weak with desire, Becky stumbled to the desk, where her overnight bag had landed. The shock of losing his heat and his determined touch left her breathing uneven, her fingers uncoordinated. By the time she’d unzipped her bag, spilled the box of condoms, cursed and fished out one of the shiny silver wrappers, Zachariah was naked and looming in the mirror behind her.

Oh, my.

Taller than she remembered. Bigger. Harder.

Her body wet with an instant female response to the potently male sight.

“I’m hurrying,” she whispered, her throat not working any better than her clumsy fingers.

“Now, darlin’.” His arousal nudged against her bottom as he easily reached over her shoulder and plucked the wrapper from her hands.

Fine. While he ripped and rolled, she could use the extra minute to take off her blouse and unhook her bra.

But Zachariah didn’t give her an extra minute.

He poked her again as he closed in behind her. He looped his right forearm around her waist to absorb the blunt of the desk’s hard edge as he pushed her up against it. “I need this.” His left hand slipped between her thighs and parted her. “I’ll make it good for you the next time, I promise.”

Becky automatically braced her hands on the polished mahogany surface as his chest met her back and they leaned forward together. “It’s okay. I’m read—”

He entered her in one deep, sharp thrust. Becky gasped as the tip of his cock nudged at her G-spot. “Ah-h…” She couldn’t speak as tendrils of pain melted into the prelude to pleasure.

He held himself still inside her for several endless seconds, filling her, stretching her as her body adjusted to accommodate him. She felt the vibration of every muscle he held in check, from the open mouth wetting the nape of her neck to the engorged member buried inside her.

“I’m sorry,” he panted against her skin. “Next… time…promise…”

Zachariah quickly withdrew. He widened his stance, adjusting his hips to cup her bottom. One hand slid to her breast, the other down toward her clit. She looked up into the mirror and found his green gaze locked onto hers.

Becky nodded.

With only one sleeve off and a bra strap riding down her arm, Becky fancied herself a wanton woman as Zachariah plunged inside her a second time. He ground his hips into her bottom, lifting her toes off the carpet as he bent her forward and rammed himself in to the hilt, roaring with his release. As he pinched her nipple, rubbed hard at her swollen nub, she writhed helplessly, suspended between his body and the desk, trapped between his hands and cock.

On a short fuse of desire herself, the pressure building inside her detonated.

Becky cried out. Her arms went weak.

Good? It didn’t get any better than this raw, overwhelming need.

Next time? Oh God, yes.

And when she collapsed against the desk in the sheer exhaustion at being so desired, so taken, so satiated, Zachariah picked her up and carried her to bed.

4

“…VIOLATED THE RESTRAINING order, then call…slap his butt in jail.” The distant voice spoke threatening gibberish and disjointed phrases in Zachariah’s dream. “I don’t care what Sligh told you. I represent you now. He’ll pay it, Dimitra. That’s what I’m here for.”

Zachariah rolled over onto his side and nestled his rough cheek down into a pillow of softness with a smile. Yeah. He hadn’t generated a fantasy like this one for a while. It was a woman’s voice in his dream. A sexy woman, judging by the blend of confidence and huskiness in her tone—some tough chick who wasn’t taking any guff off anyone. He liked a woman who could stand up to trouble. That meant she could stand up to him.

“Call the cops. Yes, I know. But that’s my problem, not yours…check on you as soon as I’m back in Richmond. Sometime this…call them. Or I will.”

The woman went away for a while, but when the hushed tones returned, he realized it was Becky’s voice. Zachariah grinned as he dozed. Definitely a sexy woman. Unexpectedly beautiful in ways that made his hormones crazy. “Dad? Yes, it’s me again. Now tell me exactly what…”

Becky was a tough chick. Oh, she might class up the exterior with tailored clothes and ten-dollar words, but there was nothing but steel running through her graceful backbone.

Zachariah pushed aside the covers and flipped onto his back, keeping his ear attuned to the fading voice, hoping she’d issue a command to him like she had before they’d fallen asleep. “Touch me here. Kiss me. I need you in me. Now!” Or maybe he was cooling off his body, which automatically heated up as fantasies turned into memories of Becky and the afternoon and night they’d shared.

Yeah, that first time, he’d shown all the finesse of a rutting bull. It had been a catharsis for him—a blinding expression of long-denied hunger and a driving need to find acceptance and humanity and healing. The second time had been a little more civilized. It had involved the bed and some champagne and using each other as wineglasses before rolling her onto her back and burying himself inside her. By the time he’d carried her out of the shower and they’d done it for a third time, Zachariah had been well and truly exhausted. Time zone changes and sleepless nights and mind-numbing sex had all caught up with him and he’d crashed. The bed was clean and comfy; Becky was warm by his side. His physical needs were sated enough for the time being that he could fall into a deep, long slumber.

Maybe that heavy, restorative sleep was what made him so groggy now as he tried to rouse himself enough to understand Becky’s urgent whispers. She must be on her cell phone, pacing, judging by the ebb and flow of volume. Talking softly, but not talking to him—unless his sleep-addled brain was translating her words into things that didn’t make sense. “Is she okay?”

Was who okay? The king-size mattress shifted as she sank down onto the opposite edge. Becky was all right, wasn’t she? Even though he’d been rougher than he’d intended that first time, she hadn’t complained last night.

In fact, the only one he knew definitely wasn’t okay was Lance Corporal Watson. And a half-dozen rebel insurgents with murder on their minds.

Watson.

Shit.

Dreams of a busty blonde in his bed vanished in a poof of harsh reality as the familiar nightmare crept out of a dark corner of his mind and seized control of his thoughts. Zachariah twisted on the bed, but he wasn’t conscious enough to scare it away.

“Where the hell…? Watson! Fall back! Fall back!”

“I can reach it, sir!”

“Negative! We regroup now!”

“Just one more second.”

“Get your ass out of there, Marine! It’s gonna blow!”

“I almost—”

“Watson!”

All at once, Zachariah was gritty and greasy, slick with sweat. His nostrils burned from the fiery heat raining down around him. His gut and shoulder burned even hotter. The rebels were neutralized, civilian casualties, zero. A successful mission by top-brass standards.

Gutsy kid. A real Marine. A real hero.

Stunned from his own wounds, Zachariah dragged his feet, carrying what was left of Darrell Watson’s body back to the checkpoint.

It should have been him. Not this green kid with the stupid jokes and a picture of his mom in his pocket. It was his bomb to disarm, damn it! His responsibility! Watson shouldn’t have taken the risk. If only the kid would have waited five seconds as he’d ordered. Five seconds! He shouldn’t have been there. Zachariah should have wrestled the corporal’s skinny butt to the ground and blown the charge himself before the timer ticked down on them. Watson shouldn’t be dead. Zachariah should have kept the kid safe.

Ah, hell. He couldn’t get away from the fire and the guilt. He couldn’t escape. Ah, hell.

“Zachariah?”

A distant voice blipped through his imagination as Zachariah fought with the haunting shadows. Sequestered together like this, nothing should be able to get to him or Becky. Al-Bazan was thousands of miles away, yet it had somehow invaded this very room.

Darrell Watson was dead. He should have kept him safe.

But all he’d been able to do was stand guard over a closed casket and watch Darrell’s mother cry.

“Zachariah. Can you hear me?”

He felt a warm touch at his face, another pressed against his heart.

“Zachariah. Wake up.”

Clinging to the lifeline of that commanding voice, Zachariah struggled to obey. His subconscious mind sorted reality from nightmare, and he woke with a start.

With every muscle locked on guard against the terrors of that night, Zachariah opened his eyes to find Becky’s face hovering above him. Her rich, cobalt eyes were lined with concern. She’d climbed onto the middle of the bed to shake him out of that dark place where he’d gone.

“Are you okay?” Those unblinking eyes were daring him to deny the truth.

Zachariah sat up straight and sucked in a deep breath that nudged his shoulder against her. She quickly jerked away as if the contact had singed her. What the hell?

He must have said something in his sleep, done something that alarmed her—hell, he could have scared the crap out of her for all he knew.

“I was having a bad dream,” he admitted, keeping any details about post-traumatic stress to himself. He kept silent about his survivor’s guilt, and his overdeveloped sense of responsibility, which the unit psychologist had discussed with him at his hospital discharge meeting. Hell

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