Twelve military heroes. Twelve indomitable heroines. One UNIFORMLY HOT! miniseries.

Mills & Boon® Blaze®’s bestselling miniseries continues with another year of irresistible soldiers from all branches of the armed forces.

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COMMAND PERFORMANCE

by Sara Jane Stone

BACK IN SERVICE

by Isabel Sharpe

UNIFORMLY HOT!

The Few. The Proud. The Sexy as Hell.

Back in Service

Isabel Sharpe

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISABEL SHARPE was not born pen in hand like so many of her fellow writers. After she quit work to stay home with her firstborn son and nearly went out of her mind, she started writing. After more than thirty novels for Mills & Boon, a second son and eventually a new, improved husband, Isabel is more than happy with her choices these days. She loves hearing from readers. Write to her at www.isabelsharpe.com.

To my dear friend and fellow author Delores

Fossen, who patiently introduced me

to the fascinating world of the Air Force.

I am very grateful.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

1

“I HAD A great time today, thanks, Crystal.” Kendra Lonergan smiled at the attractive middle-aged widow and got a wide smile back. A first! This was good progress. They’d spent the past hour down on Rat Beach tossing balls into the Pacific waves for Byron, the golden retriever Kendra regularly borrowed from a friend for appointments with her dog-loving clients.

“I had fun, too.” Crystal bent and stroked Byron’s reddish fur. “It felt good to be on the beach again. Thanks, Kendra.”

“You are welcome. See you next week!” Kendra tugged Byron’s leash and gave Crystal a quick wave before leading the dog back down the block to the Lexus minivan that had belonged to her parents. For a while now she’d been intending to sell the car and buy something smaller, but she didn’t ever seem to have time, and wasn’t sure what she’d replace it with. In the meantime, it was a nice—if a bit tough—reminder of the family she’d lost. “Up you get, Byron. I’ll take you home now.”

She unhooked his leash; Byron bounded into the car and settled on the towel Kendra kept on the backseat. What an amazing animal—she never had any trouble with him. His owner, Lena, Kendra’s friend since kindergarten, worked typical lawyer hours and was delighted to have Byron out getting exercise whenever Kendra needed him. Kendra had thought about getting a dog herself, but...she hadn’t done that yet either.

The Lexus swung smoothly out of its parking place on Pullman Lane in Redondo Beach; she turned it south onto Blossom Lane, heading toward the Pacific Coast Highway and her hometown of Palos Verdes Estates, a hilltop oasis overlooking the vast urban sprawl of L.A. She was back living in the house she’d grown up in, a temporary situation that had stretched on as the weeks and months passed. The house was much too big for one person, but it was stuffed with memories Kendra wasn’t yet ready to leave behind.

Climbing the steeply curving roads of Palos Verdes Estates, windows rolled down to enjoy the cool November breeze, she turned up the volume on a Mumford and Sons song she loved, “Little Lion Man,” peeking occasionally at the view of Santa Monica Bay, which became more and more spectacular as she ascended.

She left the view behind and turned onto Via Cataluna, then into the driveway of the house where Lena lived with her husband, Paul. Her cell rang, a private caller.

“This is Kendra.” She switched off the engine.

“Kendra Lonergan? It’s Matty Cartwright.”

Kendra blinked, taking a moment to place the name. Matty Cartwright? From Palos Verdes High School? Whom Kendra had last seen years ago? How typical of a Cartwright to think she’d need no further introduction than her name. “Hi, Matty.”

“I’m calling to— Oh, uh, how are you? It’s been a long time.”

Kendra pushed out of the car, rolling her eyes, not in the mood for friendly small talk. She hadn’t seen Matty since her sophomore year, when Matty was a senior, and didn’t think she’d ever spoken to her. “I’m fine. What a surprise to hear from you.”

“I’m calling about Jameson.”

Jameson. Kendra grimaced, opening the car’s rear door. Matty’s younger brother had been in Kendra’s grade from Montemalaga Elementary School through Palos Verdes High School. Not her favorite classmate.

She followed Byron to Lena’s front entrance, where she fumbled for the borrowed keys in the pocket of her sweatshirt, not really anxious to be having this conversation. “What about Jameson?”

“I wondered if you could work with him.”

Kendra froze. Work with Jameson Cartwright? As in help him? After the way he’d treated her? Byron whimpered impatiently. She unlocked her friend’s door; the dog raced toward the kitchen. “Whoa, back up a second, Matty. Where is he, what happened to him and how did you hear about me and what I do?”

A sigh of exasperation came over the line. Kendra gritted her teeth, tempted to tell Matty where to stick her Cartwright attitude.

“I’m sorry, Kendra.” Matty gave a short, embarrassed laugh. “I’m not making any sense. I’m just so upset.”

Kendra hung Byron’s leash in the foyer closet, feeling an unwelcome twinge of sympathy. “It’s okay. Just start at the beginning.”

The slobbery sound of Byron lapping water came from the kitchen. Kendra wandered into Lena’s airy living room, able to picture Jameson Cartwright as if she’d just seen him the day before. Nordic like his whole family—blond hair, blue eyes, high forehead, strong jaw. Yet she couldn’t describe him as severely handsome, like the rest of them, because of his one fatal flaw: a wide, sensual mouth more suited to lazy smiles and lingering kisses than sneering and barking orders. Totally wasted on him. He must hate that mouth every time he looked in the mirror.

All through elementary and middle school he’d harassed her pretty steadily, mostly egged on by his odious older twin brothers. In high school there had been fewer incidents, since Hayden and Mark had graduated, thank God. Senior year Jameson had whipped Kendra for class president, not because he’d run a brilliant campaign, but because she’d been eccentric, brainy and overweight, and he was a Cartwright. Every Cartwright sibling had been president of his or her class.

“You know how our family is all in the military.” It wasn’t a question.

“Air Force, right?” Pilots going back generations, most attaining high rank or managing to be heroes of one sort or another, at least according to the Palos Verdes Peninsula News, which had done a rather gushy piece on the family some years back that Kendra had skimmed and tossed.

“Jameson did Air Force ROTC at Chicago University. He graduated last June with the Legion of Valor Bronze Cross for Achievement.”

Kendra interrupted her who-cares eye roll. Wait, this past June? Kendra had graduated from UCLA and gone on to complete a two-year master’s program in counseling at California State by then. “He just graduated?”

“It’s a family tradition to take a year off before college and travel in Europe. Jameson settled in Spain and...sort of took two. Anyway, after college, he finished basic officer training at Maxwell Air Force Base, a distinguished graduate for top marks in test scores and leadership drills.”

My, my. How lucky Kendra was that she’d never have to suffer the pain of being so utterly perfect.

She entered Lena’s bright yellow kitchen, where Byron was already lying in his crate, tired out from his frantic exercise at the beach. Such a good dog. “Then?”

“Then he was injured his first day of specialty training at Keesler Air Force Base, in Mississippi. He tore the ACL in his right knee and had to have surgery.” Matty’s voice thickened. “He’s back home in Palos Verdes Estates on thirty days of personal leave while he continues recovering enough to go back and recover some more.”

“Tough break.” Why was Matty telling her this? Jameson needed a Scrabble partner? Someone to read him bedtime stories? Kendra closed Byron in his crate and blew him a kiss. “What do you need me for?”

“He, uh...” Matty mumbled something. It was suddenly difficult to hear her, as if she was speaking through cloth. Kendra pressed the phone harder to her ear. “...accident...with a stray...”

Kendra waited impatiently. Stray what? Bullet? Land mine? Grenade? “Sorry, I didn’t hear. Accident with a stray what?”

“Cat.” She said the word sharply. “Jameson was injured tripping over a cat. On his way to dinner.”

Omigod! Kendra clapped a hand over her mouth to keep Matty from hearing her involuntary giggle. Seriously? Not that she’d wish that miserable an injury on anyone—even Jameson Cartwright—but karma must have had a blast arranging that one.

“What a shame,” she managed weakly, barely stifling more laughter. Latest Cartwright’s Journey to Hero Status Cut Short in Fierce Battle. Victim’s last words: I tawt I taw a puddy tat.

“You can imagine what this means to a Cartwright.” Matty spoke stiffly. “This could end his military career before it even starts.”

But how is the cat? Kendra couldn’t bring herself to be wiseass enough to ask. Though she couldn’t imagine in a million years making a statement like “You can imagine what this means to a Lonergan.” Like they were a rare and special breed of humans the rest of the world could barely comprehend. “I’m sure it’s been hard.”

“It’s been awful.” Her voice broke, making Kendra feel guilty for being...catty—ha-ha. “Jameson is furious and severely depressed. I’ve called several times. He only picked up once and would barely speak to me. He won’t talk to the rest of the family at all. I don’t know if he’s eating or anything. I’ve never seen him like this. Can you help him?”

Kendra’s laughter died in the face of Matty’s anguish. Depression was not a joke, no matter the cause. Kendra had been paralyzed for months after the sudden deaths of her parents mere days after her graduation from college. “How did you hear about me?”

“I was talking to a friend whose friend recommended you. She said you get referrals from doctors and therapists and hospitals, that your work supplements whatever care they’re giving people in various stages of grief. That your methods are unusual but effective. Jameson won’t accept traditional talk therapy.”

“No?” Oh, there was a big surprise. Cartwright men didn’t need some sissy talking out of their feelings. Why would they, when it was so easy to punch or ridicule someone and feel tons better about themselves?

“We...weren’t exactly raised on sensitivity and openness.”

Well. Kendra raised her eyebrows at the unexpected admission, and at the bitterness in Matty’s voice. At least she recognized that much. “I’m not sure I’m the right person to—”

“I know what you’re thinking.”

“You do?” She doubted it.

“That Cartwrights don’t have any whining rights. That I’m being arrogant and overprotective looking for professional help for a guy who isn’t suffering from anything more than wounded pride. That he should get over himself and deal.”

“Uh...” Darn. That was exactly what she’d been thinking. Except the last part. Telling a depressed person to get over it was not generally effective.

“If it was one of my other brothers or my dad, I’d agree with you. There’s no way I’d ask you to try to help one of them. But Jameson is different.” Her voice softened. “He’s always struggled to fit in. I think life would have been easier for both of us if we’d been born into a different family.”

Kendra blinked in astonishment. She didn’t know Matty at all, but Jameson? Struggling? He’d always seemed to fit the Cartwright mold to perfection—arrogant, entitled, self-centered...should she go on? “Huh.”

“I know, you don’t believe me. But he’s different from the other guys in the family. And that’s why this is hitting him so hard. It’s worse than just losing out on his planned future. It’s like the final proof that he can’t cut it. You know? I don’t see it that way, and Mom...who knows...but you can bet Dad and my brothers do.”

Kendra stood in Lena’s living room, phone pressed to her ear, having a very hard time processing this information, given that it contradicted everything she’d ever thought about Jameson.

“I just know that I can’t help him right now, and while traditional doctors and therapists might, he won’t go, and he really, really needs help.”

“What makes you think he’d let me help him?”

“He...knows you.”

Kendra gave an incredulous laugh. He knew her? He knew how to typecast her, he knew which buttons to push and he knew how to make her feel loathed and worthless. Thank God her parents had been psychologists and had taken time and care helping her through the pitfalls of childhood with her self-esteem intact. “Not very well. In any case, I’m pretty booked...”

“Please, Kendra. I’ll beg if you want me to. You’re the first ray of hope I’ve had in weeks.” Matty sounded as if she was about to burst into tears. “I haven’t slept all night in so long I forget what it’s like.”

Oh, geez. Kendra closed her eyes, torn between sympathy for Matty and her instinct telling her she wanted less than nothing to do with men like the Cartwrights ever again.

“Just call him, Kendra. Talk to him. If you think I’m overreacting or it doesn’t feel right, then fine, you don’t have to take him on. We’ll go another route. I just don’t know what that would be at this point.”

Kendra forced herself into motion, letting herself out of Lena’s house. Committing to one call was an easy out, not really saying yes or no, which Matty undoubtedly knew and was exploiting. She was a Cartwright, after all.

Maybe Jameson had grown up some. Maybe Kendra had misjudged him all along, typecasting him as he had her. Hard to imagine, but Matty would know her brother better than Kendra did.

“I’ll talk to him.” She climbed into the Lexus, started back down the hill toward her house.

“Thank you. Thank you so much.” Matty’s relief was humble and real, no triumph in her tone. “He’s house-sitting at a friend’s condo. I’ll give you the address and his cell. Thank you so much.”

“Sure.” Kendra sighed, feeling both noble and trapped. Lena would have a fit when she told her.

“Um. There is just one more thing.”

Uh-oh. “What’s that?”

“I’d rather you didn’t tell Jameson that I’m behind this. Even though he and I are close, he’s...a little sensitive when it comes to family right now.”

“Meaning he wants all of you out of his face even if you’re trying to help.”

“That would be it exactly.”

Pretty classic depression symptom. Though if Matty’s description of Jameson as the outcast was correct, he could also be protecting himself from the rest of the family’s judgment.

Damn. This was almost intriguing. “Okay. I won’t mention you. But I’m not sure he’ll buy that six years after our graduation I suddenly want to catch up.”

“Tell him you’re part of a new program the Air Force is trying out for soldiers on medical leave. Or that his commanding officer or surgeon heard of you through some doctor you work with here. Something that leaves him no choice.”

Clearly Matty had thought this through. “So I should lie while I try to gain his trust?”

“Oof.” Matty whistled silently. “Do you have to put it that way?”

“Can’t you get your commander or some general to write a fake letter?”

“Not me.” Matty laughed lightly. “I’m not in the Air Force. I’m an actress.”

Kendra brought her car to an abrupt halt at an intersection before she realized there was no stop sign; luckily there was no one behind her. “You’re an actress.”

“Between jobs I sell real estate, but right now I’m in a musical called Backspace at the Pasadena Playhouse. I have a small part, but it’s a job.” The pride in her voice was unmistakable.

“It’s an impressive job.” Well, how about that. Her parents must have nearly dropped dead. A canker on the Cartwright family tree! And now Jameson injured and out of his training program? A regular crumbling dynasty. “I’ll come up with something.”

“Thank you, Kendra. Please stay in touch. And send the bill to me. How much do you charge, by the way?”

Kendra told her.

“What? You’re kidding.”

Kendra was used to surprise and had the explanation for her bargain-basement rates ready. “I want my services available to as many people as possible. I’m not in this to get rich. I like working with people, and I don’t want to be limited by fees so high that my clients are thinking every second has to count triple for me to be worth their while.”

Happily, money was no problem. Great-Grandpa Lonergan had made a fortune in banking in the early twentieth century, and Kendra’s ever-cautious parents had had plenty of life insurance on top of that. She would never have to work, though she knew she’d always choose to.

“How about I throw in two tickets to my show?”

“You’re on.” Kendra pulled into her driveway on Via Rincon and parked outside the garage, gazing affectionately at the white stucco house with the red-tile roof her grandparents had built into the side of the hill.

“You know, what you do is really remarkable.”

“Thanks.” Kendra shrugged. It didn’t feel remarkable. It was her business, and like any business it could be frustrating, boring, annoying, but overall more deeply satisfying than anything she could imagine doing. For many clients who’d experienced loss, grief and loneliness had become so much of who they were, they didn’t want to let it go. Proving they still had plenty of life to live and plenty to offer others was about as good as it got.

She took down Jameson’s number, punched off the phone and climbed down from the car. Jameson Cartwright, for God’s sake. One of the last people she’d ever imagined seeing willingly again, let alone in a situation where he needed her help.

Following the curving brick path from the driveway, she passed her dad’s Meyer lemon tree, heavy with still-green fruit, and the jasmine bush bought by her mom, planted clumsily by Kendra and her brother, Duncan. It would burst into fragrant white blossoms in February. She let herself into the house and headed through the small dining room to the spacious kitchen, her mom’s pride and joy. Dropping her bag on the hardwood floor, Kendra dialed her best friend’s cell. If anyone would enjoy this story, it was Lena.

“Hey, Kendra, what’s up, Byron giving you trouble?”

“I don’t think he knows how to make trouble.” She helped herself to a can of lemon-flavored sparkling water from the stainless-steel refrigerator and pushed through the sliding glass door out onto the deck overlooking their pool, which overlooked their terraced hill lush with her mom’s rather overgrown gardens, which overlooked Redondo Beach and beyond that Los Angeles, the Pacific and the Santa Monica Mountains. “It’s a different kind of dog giving me trouble. Remember Jameson Cartwright?”

“Yes. Ew. Don’t tell me he got in touch with you.”

“Sister Matty called me. Jameson was injured on his first day of Air Force training last month.” She dragged out a chair from the iron table set her parents had bought soon after they were married and turned it toward the view.

“Last month? What’s he been doing all this time? I thought everyone in his family ran to the Air Force as soon as they got out of diapers.”

“Nope.” Kendra sank into the chair and propped her feet up on the railing. “He took two years off to run around Europe. Spain in particular.”

“Two years? No kidding. So what did Matty want?”

“She wants me to work with him.”

“You’re kidding! That obnoxious, bullying... How come? What happened?”

Kendra started smiling before she even opened her mouth. “He’s depressed because he tore up his knee at Keesler Air Force Base. Tripping over a cat.”

Lena gasped, then her shriek of laughter nearly burst Kendra’s eardrum. “Oh, my God! Another Cartwright hero!”

“I know.” She was giggling again, guiltily this time.

“Brought down by a pussy!” Lena snorted and chuckled a few more times. “I know, I know, I shouldn’t be laughing. I’m sure it’s hell for him. No more Mr. Tough Guy, no more hot uniforms and cool planes. Now who is he?”

“Exactly.” Kendra tipped her head back to enjoy the eucalyptus-smelling breeze. “Matty said he’s seriously depressed.”

“Ugh, I bet. So she wants you to fix up his ego and send him back into battle?”

“Yup.” Kendra waited a beat. “Maybe with a squirrel next time.”

Another shriek.

Kendra laughed with her. Yes, it was horrible to make fun of someone in physical and emotional pain, but Jameson and his twin brothers...it was sort of inevitable. Reap what you sow, Cartwrights. “One interesting fact. Matty never went into the military. She’s a working actress. I almost got the impression she had some depth.”

“No way.”

“What’s more, she implied Jameson might have some, too.”

“You have to admit, he wasn’t as bad as Mark and Hayden.”

“Not saying much.”

“True. I’ve told you his dad was a piece of work. We’d hear shouting over there all the time. I don’t know if he drank or what, but he had a hell of a temper.”

“I remember.” Not surprising. Most people who grew up bullies had a first-class role model at home. “I said I’d talk to him.”

“Of course you did.” Lena sighed. “You can’t resist trying to fix everyone. I’m not sure this guy deserves you, though.”

“I said I’d talk to him. Then I get to decide what to do. I’m curious, to be honest. Don’t tell me you’re not. You were madly in love with him.”

“Only for a few weeks! Besides, everyone was madly in love with Jameson. He was a jerk, but he was a major hottie.”

“Not to me.” Kendra shuddered. She liked men whose strength lay in kindness and caring, not muscles and manipulation. Lena had married Paul, a slender, dark-haired fellow lawyer—complete opposite of her plump blond energy—who was gentle, brilliant, funny and the nicest man on the planet. Kendra wanted one of those.

“When are you going to talk to him?”

“When I can stomach it. His sister wants me to make it seem like I’m on official business and leave her out of it.”

“Smart. If my brother thought I was trying to force him into counseling, he’d refuse on principle.”

“Uh-huh. And honestly, I think he’s probably mortified. I mean, really, a cat?”

“Oof.” Lena started giggling again. “I know, I’m terrible. If it was anyone else it wouldn’t be so funny. Call me the second you finish talking to him, okay?”

“I promise.” She hung up and sat still for a moment, remembering Jameson in grade school, bringing up his wide, smug smile from her memory bank, that weird nervous snickering he did when taunting her, looking back at his hulking older brothers for validation and support.

In elementary school he’d tripped her in the halls, put worms in her lunch, glue in her hair. In middle school he’d spread rumors that she had mysterious rashes, that she was dating a cousin, that she’d had an abortion in eighth grade, that she was being medicated for a mental illness. In their freshman year of high school he’d asked her to the school dance as a joke—pretending he wanted to date the fatty, ha-ha-ha. Then without lifting a finger, he’d denied her the class presidency she’d worked so hard for.

Why was she even considering helping this guy?

Because she, at least, was a grown-up now. Because he was hurting. Because helping people in pain was her job. Because Kendra knew depression, knew how it could sap your ability to get out of bed in the morning, how the idea of having to live the rest of your life seemed an impossibility, how feeling anything but crushing pain seemed a distant dream, sometimes not even worth going after. Didn’t matter what caused the pain, the very fact of its existence meant conquering it should be imperative.

After she’d emerged from the worst of her own grief with the support and help of an amazing therapist Lena had dragged her to, Kendra had decided she wanted to help people out of that same darkness.

For her program, she used the techniques that had helped her the most, starting slow and simple—getting out of the house and back in touch with nature, then gradually resuming favorite hobbies and activities and introducing new ones that had no memories attached. And along with that, listening, compassion and a friendly shoulder—repeat as needed.

Could she offer those things to Jameson Cartwright in good faith? She’d need to make sure she didn’t just want to prove he hadn’t won. To show him how in spite of him and people like him, she’d emerged with self-esteem intact. To parade her slender self, no longer in thick-framed glasses or drab don’t-look-at-me clothes. To show him she had the strength to survive worse than anything he’d ever dreamed of dishing out, a tragedy that put his stupid pranks and arrogance into stunning perspective. To be able to confront him in a situation in which, finally, she held all the power.

Kendra would need to check her baggage and her ego at his door. If she couldn’t be genuine in her approach, she’d do neither of them any good.

A red-tailed hawk circled lazily over a fir tree growing partway down the hill, its uppermost needles at eye level where she sat. The bird landed on the treetop, folded its feathers and stood fierce and proud, branch rebounding gently under him.

When Kendra was in elementary school, she’d found a baby hawk on the fire road below their house—how old had she been, seven? Eight? The creature had broken its wing and lay helpless to move, to fly, terrified of the sudden vulnerability.

In spite of his feeble attempts to peck her eyes out, she’d gotten the creature to the house; her mother had helped her transport it to the Humane Society. Kendra had visited often while the hawk healed, naming it Spirit. The staff had invited her to come along when they rereleased Spirit into the wild. She’d watched him soar into the sky and had felt the deep joy that comes from helping a fellow creature heal.

Kendra had thought of that bird often as she’d struggled through the first year after the crash that left her without family except for the much-older brother she’d never had much in common with who lived abroad. And she’d thought about Spirit when she’d decided on her career path, and when she met people made helpless by grief, and when she was first trying to help people who wanted nothing more than to peck her eyes out. Because she knew something they couldn’t grasp yet. That there would be a moment when she could rerelease them into the wilds of a renewed life and watch them soar.

She picked up the phone and dialed Jameson.

2

WE LIVE IN fame or go down in flame. The line from the Air Force song played endlessly in Jameson’s head. Torture. As if he needed more.

He was stretched out on his buddy Mike’s sofa, staring out the window, sick to death of watching TV. Yeah, he’d gone down in flame. Because this sure wasn’t fame, and it could only marginally be called living.

At least Mike had his back, letting him stay at his place so Jameson wouldn’t have to crawl to Mom and Dad. As if his humiliation wasn’t complete enough, moving back home would have about killed him. He’d met Mike at Maxwell during basic officer training, and in one of those stranger-than-fiction coincidences realized he was living in Jameson’s hometown with his wife, Pat, who was with her new-mom sister in Reno. Mike had been assigned to train at Keesler in computer communications at the same time as Jameson, and offered his place after Jameson’s accident. Couldn’t have worked out better.

His cell rang. Again. He didn’t look at it. He hadn’t looked at it last time or the time before that. It was Dad or Mom or Matty or one of his brothers or a friend. They’d make stilted conversation, Matty and Mom oozing sympathetic cheer, his male relatives masking their contempt with endless advice about how to recover faster than he was, friends who didn’t know expressing shock, Air Force friends going on about all the training he was missing.

He laughed bitterly, throat tight, painful weight in his chest, gazing at the sky. Look out there. No clouds. No birds. No planes. A vast nothing, stretching out over the sea. Perfect metaphor for his days since the accident. Over a month of this limbo, first medical leave, now personal. November 4 today, the accident had happened in early September, then surgery, rehabilitation—felt like forever. And it would be if he was one of the unlucky few who didn’t recover post-surgery stability in his knee. The Air Force couldn’t use a man who couldn’t pass their physical test.

He’d done everything right, everything a Cartwright was supposed to do except want to be a flier. He’d majored in computer engineering at Chicago University, a career field in good demand in the Air Force. He’d excelled in his ROTC training, breezed through basic officer training, in both cases earning the friendship and respect of his fellow officers and commanders. His father and brothers were finally looking up to him, in spite of him being the first Cartwright nonpilot. He was on top, poised to continue at Keesler. He’d ace that, too. What could go wrong?

Everything.

He hadn’t seen the damn cat, but he’d sure heard it and felt it. He’d gone down, twisting to one side rather than crush the little bastard, and had torn his ACL—his anterior cruciate ligament, to be precise—clean off the bone, and also damaged his cartilage. Badly. One second in time, a moment he’d take back and redo a hundred different ways if only he could. But, as Dad liked to say, life gave you no do-overs. You had to get everything very right the very first time.

The door buzzer rang, making him jump and curse the intrusion and the surprise. He’d been in town a few days and hadn’t seen anyone. Only his family knew he was back, and he’d made it clear he wasn’t ready for visits from any of them. This must be one of Mike’s friends who didn’t know Mike was training at Keesler. Where Jameson was supposed to be. Working hard, moving forward.

Two months of stagnation. Many, many more months to come.

He hauled himself off the couch, thinking a shower and shave were a good idea sometime this month—maybe for Thanksgiving—adjusted his knee brace, and limped through the living room and dining area to the front door, where he pressed the intercom.

“Yeah?”

“Lieutenant Cartwright?” A woman’s voice.

He stiffened instinctively. Lieutenant? Oh, man. He should not be caught by Air Force personnel looking like such a mess. Why hadn’t they called first?

He hadn’t been answering his phone.

Crap.

But how had she found him? He’d given out his parents’ address here in town.

Dad. Doggone it.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“This is Kendra Lonergan.”

Jameson did a double take. Kendra Lonergan? From high school? She was in the Air Force? He couldn’t imagine it. There must be more than one Kendra Lonergan in the world. “How can I help you, ma’am?”

“Just checking in. I’ve been sent by Major Kornish.”

His orthopedist at Keesler had sent someone here?

“Yes, ma’am.” He pushed the buzzer so she could enter the building and hobbled into the bathroom, where he splashed water on his face, combed his dirty hair, cringing at the coarse stubble on his face, and reapplied deodorant, ashamed of how he’d let himself go. That done, he hesitated in the doorway, wondering if he could make it into the bedroom for a clean shirt before she got to his door. He was still slow moving, slower than he thought he should be by now, and didn’t want to keep her waiting.

Jameson glanced down. Oh, man. Food stains. Clean shirt was a good idea.

In the bedroom, he’d barely gotten his old one off before the knock came, brisk and no-nonsense, four rapid taps.

Hurry. He yanked the new shirt over his head, part of his physical training uniform, and made it back as fast as he could. Bad sign, this continued pain. He tried not to think about it or what it could mean about the success—or not—of the surgery. Not to mention his chances of staying in the Air Force. Maybe he’d just gone overboard on his home exercises that morning.

“Coming.” He reached the door and opened it.

Holy moly, Kendra Lonergan.

No, this couldn’t be the same woman.

“Hi, Jameson.”

He blinked. The voice was the same. It was her. “What happened to ‘Lieutenant’?”

“Doesn’t suit you.” She stared unapologetically with green eyes he didn’t remember being so big or so beautiful. She was also taller. Or at least thinner. And without glasses. Instead of the short ginger hair that looked as if her mother had cut it, she’d pulled back a long mass of auburn waves into a casual ponytail. In place of the drab succession of stretch pants and long shirts, she wore a short flowery skirt under layered tops in bright colors.

Kendra Lonergan was a knockout. And definitely not in any branch of the military.

“You look...different.” He hid a wince. Could he say anything more inane?

“Huh.” She looked him up and down. “So do you.”

Yeah, well, tough. It was unfamiliar and extremely unpleasant to be ambushed like this. He’d been raised to be ready for anything at any time. “What are you doing here? How did you know where I was?”

“Dr. Kornish sent me. I told you.”

He narrowed his eyes. “What for? What’s your connection to him?”

“May I come in?”

“Why?”

“So I can look around. See how you live, how you’re doing.” With a flourish she produced a clipboard and a pen from an immense purse that seemed to be made of patches of brightly dyed leathers. “So I can report back.”

“To my doctor...”

“Kornish, yes,” she answered patiently, peering past him. He moved back as she stepped in, to avoid her getting too close. He was not at his best smelling.

“Why doesn’t he ask me how I’m doing?”

“Because he’d rather hear it from me.” She walked through the dining area to the center of the living room, turning in a slow circle, taking in the TV, the rumpled couch and the state of the coffee table, which made it clear he’d been camped out in this room for quite some time. “Nice place. You own it?”

“I’m house-sitting for a friend. Why does he trust you?”

“I’m a professional.” She made some notes on her clipboard and moved toward the kitchen.

“Professional what?” He hobbled after her, trying not to stare at the way the flimsy material of her skirt clung to her very fine rear end.

“I help people recover.” She peered into the sink at the pile of dirty dishes. Okay, he wasn’t at his best. It was none of her business.

“If you’re not a doctor...”

Kendra turned back toward him. “I’m not here for your physical recovery.”

“No?” He was immediately hit with an image of her helping him with his sexual recovery, which irritated him even more. “What, then? Spiritual recovery?”

“Something like that.” She moved past him, toward his bedroom. He followed, hoping she didn’t do more than glance at the bathroom. It was not pretty.

“My spiritual views are private.”

“Nothing to do with religion.” She stopped at the bedroom door, flicked him a glance and went inside. Jameson hadn’t open the blinds yet. Or made his bed. Or picked up his dirty underwear. Well, she’d invited herself in. He owed her nothing. Though he wasn’t wild about a description of this mess going into some report.

This was so effed up. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“I called. You didn’t answer the phone.” She left his bedroom to glance into the master bedroom, still gleamingly neat because Jameson hadn’t set foot in it.

“I didn’t want to talk to anybody.” He followed her back into the living room, feeling like a damn puppy now, more and more annoyed.

“Hmm.” She planted herself on the black leather chair next to the sofa, looking as if she was going to stay awhile. “That’s a problem.”

“Why?”

“Because you have to talk to me.” She consulted her clipboard. “First tell me how you’re feeling.”

He folded his arms across his chest. “If this is therapy crap, I’m not interested.”

“Just checking in.” She smiled too sweetly, green eyes sparkling. It occurred to him he’d never seen her smile at him. Not that this was a real smile. But damn, it lit up the room even so. “Can I have some water, Jameson?”

“Tell me exactly what you are doing here, what you—”

“Oh, sorry, your knee. I forgot. I’ll get it.”

“Get what?”

“Water.”

Right. He stared after her as she disappeared into his kitchen, keeping his eyes resolutely on the back of her head this time. What the hell? Was she deaf? Crazy?

He made a sound of frustration. No, she wasn’t crazy. She was Kendra, as she’d always been, totally sure of herself and incredibly determined. She’d driven him nuts all the way from elementary school through their senior year, simply because he’d never been able to rattle her. Apparently nothing had changed.

Moving carefully, he maneuvered himself onto the big chair she’d left—staking his claim, yeah, but it was also easier on his knee to sit there.

“Now.” She came back with the water, stopped to peer at a picture of Mike in uniform with his arm around his wife, Pat, then plopped down onto the couch and drank. Jameson found himself staring at her rosy lips on the glass’s rim, the glimpse of white teeth, the pale column of her throat working as she swallowed. Kendra Lonergan was in his apartment, looking like temptation itself. Kendra Lonergan. His brain refused to process it.

Finished, she put the glass down between a coffee mug from four days ago and a plastic tray from a fairly disgusting frozen dinner two nights earlier. She lifted the top page of her clipboard and peered at the sheet underneath.

“I would imagine you’re feeling pretty horrible about all this. A big change, not part of your plan at all.” Her voice was gentle, concerned. “A threat to everything you’ve worked for your whole life—a career as an officer in the Air Force.”

Her compassion pissed him off even more, because it was so tempting to start whining like a baby. “No, no, this is the greatest.”

“Uh-huh.” Kendra didn’t blink. “You’re obviously still in pain.”

“Nah.”

“You sleeping okay?”

“Never better.”

“How is your appetite?”

“Outstanding.”

“Any weight gain or loss?”

“Neither.”

“Energy level?”

“High.”

“Sexual function?”

“Hey.” He glared at her, wondering what she’d been scribbling on her sheet. “None of your business.”

“Okay.” She scrawled again.

“Are we done yet?”

Kendra lifted the clipboard to read. “Subject is exhibiting clear signs of depression, including sleeplessness, minimal appetite, weight loss and lethargy.”

Right on all counts. How the hell did she know?

“He is also impotent.”

Jameson bristled. “I am not impotent.”

“Don’t worry.” She turned that sweet grin on him. This time she was really smiling. It made him want to smile back. Or growl at her. Or kiss her. “I won’t tell.”

“Kendra...”

“Teasing.” Her smile grew wider. “I didn’t really write that you were.”

“You—” She’d gotten him. Fair game. “Is part of your treatment plan to make me want to toss you off my balcony?”

“If necessary.” She capped her pen and tucked it back into the top of the clipboard. “How is your family reacting to your disability?”

“Fine.”

“How is your dad reacting to your disability?”

He felt a rush of anger, first at his dad, then at her. She had no right to question him about any of this. “Dad supports me no matter what.”

She held his gaze for a moment, then nodded slowly. “That’s what I thought.”

Jameson swallowed. He felt a loss, almost a betrayal, as if he assumed she’d be able to see through that lie, too, and offer him—

What? A widdle huggy-wuggums?

For God’s sake, get a grip, airman.

“How are your brothers coping with your—”

“Disability. They are also very happy for me.” His knee was throbbing. He took hold of his thigh with both hands and swung the leg up to rest on the pile of Mike’s GQ magazines he’d arranged so he could elevate his injury. “I mean they are also supportive. At all times.”

“I remember that about your brothers.”

Her tone was quiet, but he sensed the steel in it. A pang of guilt lessened his anger. Kendra knew Mark and Hayden. For years he’d been their puppet, admiring their dadlike toughness and what he’d perceived then as leadership. In college ROTC and basic training he’d learned that a true leader inspired and respected his men. That’s the kind of leader Jameson wanted to be in the Air Force. A new kind of Cartwright.

But it looked as if he bloody well wouldn’t get the chance for nearly another year. Possibly not at all.

He shifted in frustration, causing a landslide in the pile of magazines under his foot. His leg fell, twisting, onto the table with a thud that shot pain from his knee to his hip.

He was dimly aware of Kendra running from the room. She was back beside him so quickly he wondered if he’d blacked out.

“Here you go. This should help.” He felt the chill of a cold pack over his knee, then through the lingering haze of pain, the blessed cool of a wet cloth across his forehead and a warm hand on his shoulder. “Should I call someone? Can I get you meds?”

He shook his head, which was clearing rapidly at her touch. He didn’t need baby nursing. “I’m fine.”

“Oh, yeah, I can tell. You’re in perfect shape.” Her voice was exasperated. “Here. Let me at least do this.”

She sat on the coffee table and gently lifted his leg into her lap, somehow managing not to hurt him or disturb the cold pack.

“What are you doing?” He was unnecessarily snappy from the pain and oddly panicky for some other reason he couldn’t identify.

“I’m going to aim karate chops at your knee until you tell me the location of the missing computer chip.”

What the—

She didn’t, of course. He didn’t expect her to. But he also didn’t expect what she did do. Carefully but firmly, she began to massage his feet through his socks, which, thank God, were clean that morning.

Her touch was magical, finding and tending to places in his toes, the arch of his foot, his heel, places he didn’t realize were in such desperate need of attention. Slowly, the tension and pain in his body started to ease, began to be replaced by relaxation and pleasure.

Wait, what the hell was he doing letting Kendra Lonergan touch his feet?

“Uh, yeah, thanks, that’s fine. I’m fine.”

“Good.” She didn’t stop, moved upward, tackling the tight muscles of his ankles, his calves, along his shins.

It was helping. Doggone, it was helping. That spot...there, oh, yeah.

But it drove him crazy that she still wasn’t listening to him, that he felt, once again, out of control around this woman, out of his element. “You can stop now, Kendra.”

“I know.” She lifted his leg and put it back on the coffee table, leaving his foot and lower leg tingling from the warmth of her touch, aching for more. He didn’t like that she’d come into his house and upended everything about his day and body and attitude in less than fifteen minutes.

He wanted her out of here. He wanted to go back to his bad-assed mood, refining his misery to an art. He didn’t want to cope with people who irritated him, seeing his current poor showing as a human being reflected so clearly back to himself.

“You can go now. You should go now.”

“You think?” She knelt close to him, smelling flower fresh, and put her hands around his thigh, safely above his knee. She started on the tightness his injury caused in his quads and in his hamstrings, loosening the muscles, increasing the blood flow to his leg. Jameson sucked in a breath. Her hands were strong, long fingered, with clear pink polish.

They were very talented hands.

His cock noticed.

He was wearing sweatpants.

Kendra would notice.

Way more humiliation than he should be expected to bear in one day. “Stop, Kendra. Now.”

She stopped, looking up at him with a bemused expression. “We’re done, huh.”

“Done.” He dropped his hands into his lap. She glanced at them as she got to her feet. Of course she’d noticed.

“Better though?”

He nodded stiffly. “Thanks.”

“Sure.” She sat back down, her color high, picked up her clipboard and stared at it for a moment without seeming to register anything. “So.”

“So?”

“We were talking about your family.”

“No.” He shook his head pointedly. “We were finished talking about my family.”

“Ah, yes.” Her smile was back. “So we were.”

“In fact, I think we’re finished talking, period.”

“No, not yet.” She kept the smile on. This woman did not intimidate easily. She did not intimidate at all. He should know that from their past. He’d been prodded into humiliating this girl more than once, though it hadn’t ever quite worked out. Deep down he’d resented his brothers’ manipulation, of him and of her. A part of him had cheered when she’d refused to play the traditional role of picked-on student. That same damn part was still admiring her now.

“You’re on personal leave, waiting to recover, so you can go back to Keesler and be assigned to a desk job until you can pass the physical exam and be cleared again for worldwide duty. Then you’ll be able to resume your specialty training.”

He clenched his teeth. If she knew it and he knew it, why bring it up? “Yes.”

“If your surgery is unsuccessful, you will most likely be honorably discharged. Since you’re planning to be a career officer, how would that feel?”

“Super.”

“Uh-huh. I thought so.” She scrawled something triumphantly. “Okay, moving on.”

“How long is this going to take?”

“You have somewhere to go?”

He held her gaze. “This is an intrusion into my day.”

“Of...”

“What do you mean?”

“Your day of what? Pain? TV watching? Brooding? Unbearable waiting?”

“Yes.” He spoke through clenched teeth. “It’s all I have right now.”

“Doesn’t have to be that way. What are your hobbies?”

“Oh, for—”

“Okay, okay.” Her laughter at his exasperation made him want to smile, too. Instead he glared at her, because that was much safer in a way he couldn’t quite comprehend and didn’t want to. Not while she was in the room smelling like a flower garden and making him hard with a few strokes of her hands, which none of the PTs at Keesler hospital had come close to doing. “One more question.”

“Promise this is the last?”

“Cross my heart.” She made a graceful gesture that brought his attention to the dark shadow of cleavage at her neckline.

He must be going completely nuts. “Shoot.”

She leaned forward, pinning him with her lovely green eyes. He held her gaze, keeping his cold, impersonal, not wanting her to know how she got to him—a weird reversal of their roles in grade school. “What are you most afraid of, Jameson?”

A laugh broke from him. Oh, no. No way. She wasn’t getting that stuff out of him. “That’s easy.”

“Go on.” She looked hopeful, but wary. Smart woman.

“I’m afraid...” He leaned forward to match her posture, ignoring the complaint in his hamstring. “That you’ll never, ever get the hell out of here.”

To his surprise, she burst out laughing, a musical cascade that shone some light into his darkness and made him feel taller, straighter, lighter himself, though he kept from laughing with her, or even smiling.

Kendra stood and laid a friendly hand on his shoulder on her way past him. “I think that was the first straight answer I’ve gotten all morning. Except about you not being impotent.”

“Could be.”

“Okay, you win. I’m off. Don’t get up.”

“Wasn’t going to.”

She was still smiling, tall and slender and graceful, her legs shapely and strong looking under the short full skirt, sandals with some sparkly metal on them emphasizing the pretty shape of her feet. “Enjoy the rest of your day.”

“You bet.”

She tipped her head, looking at him mischievously. “It was very interesting seeing you again, Jameson.”

“Surreal.”

She nodded once, then walked away, the way she’d said his name lingering behind her. The closer she got to the door the darker the space around him felt. In another three seconds she’d be gone and he’d be back with the pain, the brooding, the agony of waiting, his fate in someone else’s control.

At the door, she lifted a hand. He clenched his jaw, stifling the absurd desire to stop her.

Then she disappeared through the door and closed it behind her.

Click.

The room went dead, devoid of sound and light and life.

Jameson hauled himself up and limped into the kitchen, his knee still pissed at him for the thumping he’d given it, mood reverting to its earlier foulness, only now it seemed even less bearable. The reason made him angrier and more frustrated and stir-crazy.

He had no idea when or whether Kendra was coming back.

3

MATTY CROSSED THE alley behind the Pasadena Playhouse and stepped through the artists’ entrance onto El Molino Avenue. The show had gone well tonight; she was pumped. The usual stage-door crowd had gathered to see the actors emerge, but given that she had such a small part, Matty put on an impersonal smile and didn’t even hope to be asked for her autograph. That way she couldn’t be disappointed, and the few occasions she had been asked were a real surprise and pleasure.

The night was cool, mid-sixties, she’d guess, a beautiful night to be out. She had a sudden impulse to drive to the ocean, maybe Santa Monica, which wasn’t far from where she lived in Culver City. Hang out on the pier and have a drink. Maybe her roommate and longtime friend, Jesse, would want to come with her.

She was digging in her purse for her cell when it rang. Kendra!

“Hey, Kendra, how are you?”

“Fine. Is this a bad time?”

“No, it’s perfect. What’s going on?” She tried not to sound too anxious, which was hard, considering she was...too anxious.

“Your brother is definitely having a tough time.”

Matty grimaced, stomach sinking. “I know.”

“But all is not lost. He’s in pain, physically, which will dissipate, and emotionally, which will be harder. But I think—think—he’ll let me help him.”

“And will you?”

Kendra gave a low, dry chuckle that came from somewhere Matty didn’t understand. “Yes. I will.”

Relief exploded out of her in a long exhale. “Thank you.”

“I might live to regret it.”

“No, no, you won’t. That is...” She laughed breathlessly. “You will live, you won’t regret it. What will you do for him?”

“First? Clean up the place and cook him some decent meals. Then we’ll try getting out to reconnect with some of the world he knows and introduce a bit of a world he doesn’t. See what works. It can be a slow process, but he’s not past help.”

“Oh, my gosh, Kendra.” Emotions jammed in Matty’s throat. Hearing that Jameson was not in true despair, that he wasn’t going to do something crazy like kill himself...ugh, she couldn’t even think about it. That wasn’t an option. “I have no idea how to thank you.”

“Really, don’t be too excited. I haven’t done anything yet but piss him off.”

“Ha!” Matty nodded sympathetically. “That’s not hard these days. Even I can do that.”

“We’ll see if I can get around the mood. I’ll give it a try. For old times’ sake.”

Matty caught the bite of irony. Hmm. There might be something there. “Kendra...did you and Jameson ever date?”

“Date? Jameson and me? God, no.”

“Huh. Okay, sorry.” Matty frowned. Pretty violent denial. The main reason Matty had such huge hopes Kendra could help Jameson was because she’d been sure Jameson had had feelings for her back in middle and high school. Maybe she’d been wrong.

“I’ll stay in touch and let you know how things are going.”

“Thank you. Thank you so much. I—” Matty rolled her eyes. “I can’t stop thanking you.”

Kendra laughed. “Not a problem. Talk to you soon. Take care.”

Matty ended the call and stood, pressing the phone to her cheek, trying to contain her excitement. This could be good. This could be really, really good. She wanted Jameson free of pain, but also free of the family pressure to be something he might not be. She’d done her medical research, she knew ACL repair surgery could be unsuccessful, that there was a small chance Jameson could end up out of a career in the Air Force, the first Cartwright discharged since God knew when.

But maybe for him that wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. Maybe Kendra could help him rediscover living life his own way, as he’d been doing in Spain, working for a U.S. company, taking art and English courses at St. Louis University in Madrid and dating a dancer, before their father had reached his patience limit and dragged him back to the U.S. and the Cartwright Plan for Life.

A hand bumped her arm. She automatically moved away.

After that, Jameson had—

“Mattingly?”

Matty’s head jerked up. Only one person outside her family ever called her by her full name.

Her eyes met a pair of deep brown ones under a shock of wheat-colored hair that had gone slightly gray at the temples. Somehow she managed to stifle a gasp.

“Chris.” Calm. Stay very calm. As if she’d just bumped into him a week ago, not wrenched herself away from him back...how long had it been now? Years. She’d been a senior at Pomona College. He’d been an associate professor. Bad choices had happened. Drama. Pain. Deep love, and the best sex she’d ever had. Not that she was comparing. “What a surprise to see you.”

Surprise was putting it mildly. If she didn’t make sure to keep breathing, she’d pass out on the sidewalk.

Luckily, being raised by Jeremiah and Katherine Cartwright had taught her how to suppress every vestige of human emotion. Not a good technique on stage, but it could come in damn handy during real life.

“I saw the show.” He seemed calm, too. But then, he always did. Except when he was laughing or about to come. “You were great.”

Matty accepted his compliment with a polite nod. She had a few solo lines and part of one song—no bragging rights, but she took pride in having been chosen for that much, and in doing her role well. God knew she never took any theater job for granted. “Glad you enjoyed it.”

“It was...” He was looking at her too intently, with eyes that were too warm. “It was a shock to see you, Matty, I admit.”

“A good one, I hope.” She was appalled at the automatic response. Do not flirt, Matty.

“Best one I had all week.” He smiled down at her and boom, too many memories came rushing back—the nights of passion, the blissful stolen hours together.

What the hell? Had she learned nothing?

“Chri-i-is?” A woman’s voice behind them, fake sweet. “There you are.”

And there she was, slim and elegant in some high-fashion drapey tunic thing she pulled off to perfection. Exactly the type Chris should be with.

“Zoe, this is a former student, Matty Cartwright. Matty, this is Zoe Savannah.”

Matty nearly snickered. Zoe Savannah? She was perfect. Right down to the leopard-print pants.

Smiling with as much warmth as she could muster, Matty chided herself. Zoe had every right to date Chris. She was closer to his age, for one thing—meow. And she was probably a lovely person. Or maybe she wasn’t and they deserved each other. Either worked. “Nice to meet you, Zoe.”

“Oh, me, too! I loved the show.” She whacked Chris playfully on the arm with her program and went into gales of laughter for no apparent reason. “And now I see why Chris was staring at you all night. He knows you! I was afraid it was love at first sight.”

Actually, it had been.

“No, no, nothing like that.” He glanced uncomfortably at Matty, who refused to look uncomfortable.

“You look great, Chris.” She wasn’t lying, unfortunately. He looked incredible, hair still thick, that new sexy touch of frost at the temple. He’d always reminded her of a cross between Ben Affleck and Russell Crowe: boy-next-door handsome but with powerful masculinity backing it up. “Still teaching at Pomona?”

“They haven’t fired me yet.”

They should have when she was there.

“Silly.” Zoe whacked him again. “You’re tenured.”

Matty smiled again, for real this time. She was happy for him. He’d wanted that very badly. “Congratulations. A great accomplishment.”

“Thank you, Matty.” He really needed to stop looking at her like that, half amused, half hungry. It was horrendously unsettling.

“Well!” She glanced pointedly at her watch and lifted a hand in cheery farewell. “I’m due to meet someone for a drink. Great to see you, Chris, and to meet you, Zoe.”

Not waiting for answers, she turned and headed for her red Kia Sportage parked in the lot behind the theater, her cheeks hot, mind whirling. So. Finally, it had happened. She’d seen Chris Hamilton.

For the first couple of years after graduation she’d imagined bumping into him, fantasized about it, actually. How after one glance into her eyes, he’d tell her he’d made a terrible mistake letting her go, that he couldn’t live without her, that he loved her desperately and always would and blah blah blah blah.

More years had gone by, six in total by now, and she’d stopped worrying about seeing him. Stopped worrying she’d fall apart, beg him to take her back, stopped worrying about the pain she was sure only he could bring. Because she was over it, thank you very much. There’d been other men since, and no, she was not comparing.

The only really awful part was that after all her efforts, after she’d reached a real understanding of the forces that drove their passion, analyzed that passion to death and accepted not only that it was over, but that its being over was for the best, tonight it turned out Chris Hamilton in the flesh was still dangerously attractive to her. Whatever had pulled them together, in spite of the utter stupidity of professor and student hooking up, that power was still there.

“Matty.”

Crap. Matty closed her eyes, considered pretending she hadn’t heard him, but he wouldn’t buy it. Probably because it was ridiculous.

She whirled to face him. He stopped short, watching her warily. Damn him, why hadn’t he put on weight or wrinkled or just turned ugly, for heaven’s sake? He looked fabulous. Six feet of good-looking that knew how to do the sheet tango better than anyone she—

No, she was not comparing.

“What do you want, Chris?” Matty bit her lip, shocked at how bitter and angry she sounded. So much for putting her feelings safely behind her.

“I want to see you. I want— I just want to see you.”

“Ha!” The syllable came out without her permission, a mixture of shock, horror and a tiny explosion of pleasure. “How does Zoe feel about that?”

He put his hands on his hips, pushing back his jacket. Stomach still flat. Thighs still long and muscular under casual pants. Darn him.

“Zoe is a colleague.”

“Oh, so you’re doing those now, too?”

“Low, Matty.” The bastard spoke calmly. She could not get to him with insults.

Matty checked herself. She should not want to get to him at all.

“Sorry. You know me. If it’s in my brain, it comes out my mouth.” She inhaled slowly to settle herself. “I just don’t think getting together is a good idea.”

“But...how is that possible?” He looked genuinely confused. “I only have good ideas.”

Her laughter was reluctant. Charm as well as sex appeal. Chris had it all, the slime bucket. “No, thank you.”

He took a step toward her.

Turn around. Turn around and walk away now.

“You look great, Matty.” His gentleness enveloped her. Too much intimacy. “I like your hair long.”

“Yeah, thanks.” She was not going to tell him how fabulous he looked.

“You doing okay?”

“Yes! Fine! Great!” Her voice cracked. He’d notice. He was good at that. And what woman wasn’t a sucker for a man who noticed? It’s just that she hadn’t noticed six years ago, that while she had fallen madly in love with him, he was only interested in what lay between her legs. “I’m getting theater work pretty regularly, and I have a side business in real estate that’s picking up.”

“Good. Good for you.” His brows drew down. He pursed his lips, the way he did when he had something uncomfortable to say. “I’ve thought about you a lot over the years.”

Me, too. She stood silent, hands in her jacket pocket clutching her car keys.

“Well.” He touched his forehead as if he were tipping his hat and turned away, a gesture at once so familiar and dear to her that tears threatened. Six years ago, Matty. For God’s sake.

She walked rapidly toward her car, breaking into a run when her steps weren’t getting her there fast enough.

Damn it. Damn it. What the hell was wrong with her? How could she let him affect her so deeply?

She unlocked the car, wrenched open the door and hurled herself inside, started the engine and peeled out of her parking space.

Santa Monica Pier, here I come. She was going to go there alone and drink herself into a stupor, how pathetic was that?

Very! And it was exactly what she was in the mood for. A long parade of drinks, surrounded by happy partyers and the wild, wavy ocean. She’d sit by herself, looking mysterious and sultry, indulging memories she hadn’t allowed herself to call up for years, brooding and wallowing in emotional agony.

Then she’d sleep soundly in the apartment she shared with her best friend and be fine tomorrow. Chris would again be safely part of her past and she could really move on this time, having gotten this first post-relationship encounter over with and ending up unscathed.

An hour later, she was standing at the pier’s end, inhaling deeply, pulling her jacket around her for warmth against the stiff, salty wind. Of course she was much too sensible to get drunk. One beer and the crush of bodies around her had gotten annoying, the noise not conducive to proper misery. Her big scene, like most, played better in fantasy than in real life.

But she loved it out here, staring at the black sea, a whole world under there, not one single resident of which had gotten his or her heart crushed by Chris Hamilton.

They’d met in class her senior year. He was teaching a seminar on music and culture in Paris around the turn of the twentieth century. She’d thought he was hot from the first day. In fact, she and her girlfriends—including a new friend named Clarisse—had giggled and oohed and aahed and had a great time dissecting his every word, gesture and look. As crushes went, hers seemed particularly intense, but so what? He was a professor. She was a student. And never the twain shall sleep together.

They’d gotten to know each other through a shared love of all things French, had talked earnestly after class one day, then another, had gone out for croissants and café au lait. Then lunch at a French restaurant he particularly enjoyed...

Later they’d admit that they’d known what was happening, but since they hadn’t the slightest intention of doing anything about it, the attraction was harmless. What counted were the ideas they shared, their similar views and tastes and humor.

Ironically, the crossing of the line had happened because of Clarisse’s first “suicide attempt,” a low-risk grab for attention after a guy dumped her.

Eventually, Matty had realized Clarisse suffered from pretty serious mental issues. Compulsive lying, sociopathic tendencies and a deep need to screw her friends’ boyfriends. But at the time, Matty had been terrified and extremely upset. Who wouldn’t be? The woman had tried to take her own life!

Matty had called nine-one-one and ridden with Clarisse to the hospital. When she’d heard Clarisse was going to survive—of course she was—Matty had finally broken down, tears that wouldn’t stop. Walking home to her dorm, she’d run into Chris, returning from a Pomona orchestra concert. One look at her face and he’d invited her out for coffee. She hadn’t wanted to be out in public looking like hell. No problem, he’d drive her to his apartment, where he’d set up the spare bedroom if she wanted to stay over. They’d shared a bottle of wine. Talked until very, very late.

She’d never made it to the spare bedroom.

The next morning they’d agreed it could never happen again. They weren’t that kind of people. He was too old for her—more than ten years older. She was his student. An affair was wrong, and he could lose his job. They’d stay away from each other.

They couldn’t stay away from each other.

For the next six months they’d tried to break up, gotten back together, then did both again. All those agonies of longing and pain followed by the joys of giving in to temptation, the guilt, the fear—by the time Clarisse caught on and set her sights on Chris, Matty was frankly exhausted. When she’d caught them together, along with the pain there had been relief. Finally it was truly over. No more temptation. Because Matty understood what he was and how foolish she’d been.

Chris had come after her, he’d explained. He’d laid the blame on Clarisse. It wasn’t what it looked like, he’d sworn to her...

Please. It was always what it looked like.

Three weeks later, Clarisse took enough sleeping pills to look ill, but not really threaten her life, and Matty had known it was over for them, too. She’d waited, even telling herself she shouldn’t, but Chris hadn’t come looking for her again.

On the pier now, arms wrapped around herself, squinting into the wind, Matty thought about how she’d come such a long way since then. She’d built a good, rich life for herself. Dated a couple of guys seriously, though none who took her over the way Chris had.

Yes, she was comparing. She’d always been comparing.

But unfairly. Her feelings in college had been intensified by her youth and inexperience, by the lure of the forbidden, by the perfect bubble in which their encounters took place. She hadn’t met his friends, he hadn’t interacted with hers. They’d had no problems to cope with but the drama of their own taboo passion.

A tear made its way down her cheek. She flung it forward into the sea, sniffed angrily and turned to go home.

Enough. She’d done what she’d come here to do. Brooded. Remembered. Cried one beautiful tear. The actress side of her had been fed.

Now she’d do her father proud, march home, get up at 0700 hours and take on the next day of her life.

4

KENDRA PULLED INTO the parking lot at Villas of the Pacific, CD player blaring Adele’s “Don’t You Remember.” Villas? Really? She could have sworn they were apartment buildings. Nice ones, yes. But a villa needed a sprawling estate. Jameson didn’t quite fit that mold, but he’d also looked painfully out of place in his friend’s apartment, which was decorated with modern art, odd sculptures and plants. Jameson belonged in a more traditionally masculine interior, all leather and dark wood, books and model fighter jets, one plant, always about to die...

She found a visitor spot and turned off the engine, sat for a moment in the sudden silence, annoyed at herself for being nervous. Hadn’t she been through all this after her visit here the day before? Yes, she had. Going forward she’d continue bypassing Jameson’s obnoxious behavior, understanding that it came from his pain and anger. She’d focus only on how she could help him. And she’d ignore the...complication.

Finding herself a teeny, tiny bit attracted to Jameson after all these years did not mean the world was about to end. He was an attractive man. So what? He was also an entitled jerk, who happened to be in a terrible situation and needed Kendra’s help. Kendra had agreed to help him because...quite honestly, she was curious. Who was this guy now? Who had he always been? Why had he chosen her to make miserable for so long?

One thing she had definitely decided—no more massages. Yikes. Not that his erection had been significant. He was a guy, one who probably hadn’t had any in a long time. His reaction had undoubtedly surprised him as much as it had her, especially after so many years of rather juvenile enmity between them.

Out of the car, she took a moment to gaze over the red-tiled roofs and palm trees toward the rust-colored cliffs that dropped to the edge of the vast Pacific. Blue sky today, a good breeze—the sight calmed and filled her as it always did. She could bring beauty and positive feelings and hope back into Jameson’s life if he would let her. She’d focus on that. The erection, not so much.

Today’s goal: clean the apartment, cook him a healthy meal. Push him gently to talk about his situation. Duck when he threw things at her. Maybe throw a few things back.

Kendra turned to unload the groceries and cleaning supplies she’d brought for this visit, one bag of each. Above all, she’d stay cheerful and brisk in spite of his sarcasm and cranky bad-boy mood, intent on what she was there to accomplish. She was not the same cowed high school kid having to fake self-confidence. She had the real thing now.

At the entrance to Jameson’s building, she balanced one bag on her hip and the other on a raised knee, trying to free up a hand to push the buzzer. Her finger had almost made it when a guy pushed out the door and let her in with a warm smile. Well. Looked like she’d catch Jameson by surprise again. She’d called that morning and left a message after another client canceled a late-afternoon meeting, letting him know she’d have time for him today. He hadn’t called back to say he wouldn’t be in or didn’t want to see her, so here she was.

On the second floor she turned right and strode down the cream hallway, enlivened by dark green carpeting and prints of landscape paintings on the walls. At his door she balanced the bags again and knocked, four fast raps, I’m here, ready or not, then stepped back to wait, bright smile in place.

Nothing.

Was he home? Had he planned to be out just to annoy her?

A noise inside. Her heart gave a little flip and she scoffed at herself. Still scared of the big bully, Kendra?

The door opened.

Whoa.

Jameson had cleaned up. Gone was the stubble, ditto the greasy hair and wrinkled clothes. He looked really good.

Really good.

Unwrinkled navy-and-white Air Force T-shirt over neat khaki shorts. Great legs, scarred on one knee. Awesome chest.

Had she referred to him as an attractive man?

She’d lied. He was smoking hot.

And he was standing there, stone-faced, staring at her. Was she gawking? Well, yeah, but she didn’t think it was that obvious.

“Come in.” He stepped back to let her pass.

“Hello, Jameson.” She pushed through the door. First thing that hit her was the absence of crap strewn all over the living room. “Wow, you cleaned.”

“Mike has a service.” He seemed taller today? Maybe he was just standing straighter. In any case, he already looked 100 percent better, and Kendra hadn’t even started her program yet. Matty would be happy.

“Looks like you resumed your human form.” She smiled at him, cheerful nurse, big sister, teacher, counselor, whatever kind of person would not want to have wild sex with him all over the apartment. “Did you get my message?”

“What’s in the bags?” He took one from her, apparently possessing at least some gentlemanly tendencies.

“That’s cleaning stuff, obviously not necessary now. This one is groceries.”

“I’ve got food.”

“Not this food.” She took the bag into the kitchen, aware of him limping after her.

“So, what, you’re taking over my life now?”

“Every bit of it, yes.” She put the bag on the counter and started unloading. He was still playing cranky, but his tone didn’t sound quite as bitter as the day before. More progress. “How’s your knee today?”

“Better than ever.”

“Still in pain, huh.”

“I love pain.”

“That’s lucky.” Always the tough guy. Funny how grief affected people so differently. Some closed up, like Jameson. She called those Turtles. Others, like herself, plunged into activity to alleviate in others what they were suffering themselves. She called those Avengers. Then there were Pancakes, utterly flattened by the experience, and Curators, who turned their memories and memorabilia into museums of those they’d lost, and on and on. “Your home exercises going well?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good.” She didn’t really need to ask. His type would want to get better as quickly as he could. Athletes, military, anyone who depended on his or her body would be driven to stay in the best shape possible and didn’t mind the work it took to get there.

She’d just try not to think about how his body was already in the best shape possible—broad shoulders, flat stomach, long legs, no doubt impressive muscles all over...

Ahem. Kendra had a job to do, and it didn’t entail standing around imagining Jameson Cartwright naked.

“I’ll make you a basic spaghetti sauce. You can eat some, freeze the rest when you’re sick of it. You like to cook?”

“Haven’t done much lately.” He seemed huge in the small kitchen. She’d have to get him sitting on the other side of the counter so she didn’t bump into him every time she moved.

“It’s easy. I’ll show you. You can make this. Anyone can make this.”

She pointed to the ingredients neatly laid out on the counter. “Ground beef, carrots, onions, tomato puree, beef broth and cream. Want to chop onions?”

“Chopping onions will help me come to terms with losing a year of my life, Kendra?”

She gave him another unreturned smile, not surprised by his sarcasm—she’d heard it all—but shocked by the jolt of sympathy. That was a switch. She’d spent her grade school years, coached by her parents, vainly trying to feel sorry for Jameson Cartwright when she didn’t want to, and now she was feeling sorry for him automatically—though she still didn’t want to. “I think you’d be surprised what can help.”

He shrugged. “You’re the expert.”

“That is so true.” Kendra found a cutting board already out on the counter and selected a knife from the magnetic strip next to the sink. She’d spent last night researching ACL surgery and the recovery process. Long and slow, the worst kind of sentence for a man like Jameson. Nine months, on average, to recover normal use of the knee—though many people were never back to 100 percent—and often pain lingered after that. “You know how to chop onions? If you don’t, I’ll show you.”

“I know how.”

“Yeah?” She pointed to the chair by the stretch of counter that doubled as a table. “Have a seat there. I’ll pass you stuff to do.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He sat.

“Did you help your mom in the kitchen?” She passed him the board and knife.

“Sometimes.”

“She a good cook?”

“Average.”

Kendra turned back to the sauce ingredients. Yes, she was getting one-word answers, but at least he was answering, and no sarcasm this time. One of her clients had been so depressed, Kendra would show up at their early appointments and pretty much talk to herself.

“My mom was an amazing cook.” She ripped open the red plastic net holding the onions. “Always experimenting with other cuisines. We had Thai food, Indian, Chinese, you name it.”

“Was an amazing cook?” For the first time, his voice lifted to a normal conversational tone.

“Yes.” Kendra put a large onion down on the cutting board in front of him. The news of her parents’ deaths had been pretty big locally. Ken and Sandra Lonergan had been active in the Palos Verdes Estates community and in the schools. She would have expected Jameson to hear somehow, even having been away at college in Chicago. But maybe he didn’t have long catch-up chats with his parents the way Kendra had had with hers. Or maybe he’d heard and forgotten, since it wouldn’t have meant much to his life. Hard to imagine sometimes, since it had pretty much imploded hers. She understood so well when clients said they’d wake up day after day, surprised the sun was still shining. “My mom passed away a couple of years ago.”

“I’m sorry.” His words were clearly heartfelt.

“Thank you.” She couldn’t look at him, still found it hard to speak when she talked about the accident. “Chop the onion whatever size you want. Doesn’t really matter.”

“Okay.”

She set about peeling carrots, feeling his eyes on her, her throat still tight. Music would help. Kendra generally liked an uplifting soundtrack around clients to mitigate silences when they occurred and lessen the pressure to produce constant conversation. “Does Mike have any CDs?”

“Yeah, I think in the cabinet under the TV.” He was already on his feet, hobbling into the living room.

Well. Doing something nice for her. Another hint that he was capable of pleasant behavior. Unless he was terrified Kendra was about to do something girlie and horrible, like cry. “Thanks, Jameson.”

“Uh-huh.”

She turned back to her carrots. Baby steps...though it bothered her he was still limping two months after surgery. Maybe it was the nasty jolt he’d given his knee the day before when she was here, but by now he should be able to—

A horrific blast of death metal came over the speakers. Kendra yelled and jumped, then flung herself toward the kitchen door to peer into the living room. He could not be serious.

The music went off. Blessed silence.

“Uh.” Jameson was grinning, crouching in a rather painful-looking position in front of the CD player. “That was not on purpose.”

“I am glad to hear that.” She put her hand to her chest, this time smiling genuinely instead of in polite encouragement. He was ten times more handsome when he wasn’t scowling, though he managed to turn even the grouchy look into an appealing bad-boy aura.

But this...if Kendra didn’t already know her heart was pounding from the scare, she might think he was affecting her. But, um, of course it wasn’t that. “I think they play that music in hell.”

“Wait.” He actually chuckled. “You know this CD?”

“God, no.”

“It’s called Satan’s Soundtrack.” He held up three fingers in a Scout’s-honor pledge. “Not kidding.”

“Nice.” She stepped farther out of the kitchen toward him. “What’s the band called?”

“Flagrant Death Meat.”

Kendra cracked up. “You aren’t serious!”

“I am.” He held up the CD, chuckling.

“That is just too weird.”

Their laughter trailed off. Their gazes held. He stayed crouched. She stayed in the doorway. A dozen yards apart, they might as well have been chest to chest.

Kendra swallowed. Moments of intimacy with her clients could be important. Sometimes they allowed people the safety to talk about something real. All she wanted to do was hurl herself back into the kitchen to escape Jameson and the strong pull he exerted.

He turned abruptly to the TV cabinet. “I’ll find something else.”

“Great, thanks.” Kendra fled to the sink, shaken by her inability to take charge of the moment. She could not back down from a connection that might prove helpful to Jameson. That was the core of her practice—inspiring trust, creating a safe environment into which clients could dump their innermost fears and feelings.

Instead, Kendra had stared at him as if he were a bug pinned to a foam board.

The smooth strains of an entirely different type of music filled the apartment. The Lumineers. Just the right atmosphere.

“Better?” Jameson limped back into the room and took his seat.

“Much, thank you.”

Chopping and peeling sounds filled the kitchen. Kendra took a deep breath, determined to get back on track. “Have you been out of the house since I saw you?”

“‘Go outside and play. Get some fresh air.’” He did a high-voiced mom impression.

Kendra cracked up. “Your mother?”

“That’s her.”

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