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.

Don’t miss

THE RISK-TAKER

by Kira Sinclair

A SEAL’S SEDUCTION

by Tawny Weber

A SEAL’S SURRENDER

by Tawny Weber

THE RULE-BREAKER

by Rhonda Nelson

UNIFORMLY HOT!

The Few. The Proud. The Sexy as Hell.

The Rule-Breaker

Rhonda Nelson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

A Waldenbooks bestselling author, two-time RITA® Award nominee, RT Book Reviews Reviewers’ Choice nominee and National Readers’ Choice Award winner, RHONDA NELSON writes hot romantic comedy for the Mills & Boon® Blaze® line. With more than thirty-five published books to her credit, she’s thrilled with her career and enjoys dreaming up her characters and manipulating the worlds they live in. She and her family make their chaotic but happy home in a small town in northern Alabama. She loves to hear from her readers, so be sure to check her out at www.readrhondanelson. com, follow her on Twitter @RhondaRNelson and like her on Facebook.

For Ollie, my sweet, neurotic little fur baby, who sits at my feet from the first word on the page until the last. That, dear readers, is dedication.

Contents

Prologue

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

Epilogue

Prologue

Mosul

ELI WESTON NOTED THE Bible, the rosary and the bottle of Jack Daniel’s on his friend’s bedside table with a burgeoning sense of disquiet. Not that all three items didn’t make regular appearances on Micah Holland’s table—they did—but usually it was only one or two, not all three together.

That knowledge, combined with the increasingly blank expression on his friend’s face, made the hairs on the back of his neck rise.

Eli emptied his pockets and dropped heavily onto his bunk. “Another day in paradise,” he muttered, shooting Micah a smile. “You been back long?”

Micah shook his head. “Nah.”

A beat slid to three. “You look tired.”

He knew his friend hadn’t been getting much sleep, especially over the past two weeks. It was understandable, given what had happened. War was hell, and this war, in particular, had been fought in ways that boggled the mind. They’d been trained to fight other soldiers, to honor the rules of war, but this enemy didn’t play by those rules and thought nothing of strapping explosive devices onto pregnant women and then sending them into a hospital.

That’s what Micah had witnessed two weeks ago—what he’d tried to prevent—and he hadn’t been the same since. Not that Eli blamed him, but...

He hesitated, not wanting to cross a line, but not wanting to see Micah deteriorate any further. They’d met in basic training, had been friends since Jump School. There were a lot of blood and bullets under the bridge. And if the situation were reversed, he knew Micah would try to counsel him, as well.

“Listen, man. There’s no shame in talking to someone. I know you—”

Micah whirled on him, like a reanimated corpse, his eyes blazing. “You know nothing,” he spat. “Nothing. So don’t insult me by giving me the standard line. I’ve got to sort this out my own way and the only person I have to talk to about it or square it with is the man upstairs.” He jerked his head heavenward, gave an ironic little laugh, one that, for reasons which escaped him, made Eli nervous. Micah released a heavy breath. “Just leave it, Eli. I know you mean well...but I’m handling it.”

Rather than irritate his friend further, Eli merely nodded. But whether Micah wanted to admit it or not, he needed help. And if he wouldn’t get it on his own, then Eli had every intention of making him by other means. One word to the right person would set the ball in motion.

Finally, he nodded. “Yeah. Fine.” He arched a brow, pretending as if the exchange never happened. “You want to go get something to eat? I’m about to head over to the mess hall.”

Micah shook his head. “No, thanks. I’m not hungry.”

Eli heaved a silent sigh, then stood. He’d reached the door when Micah’s voice stopped him.

“Eli?”

He turned expectantly.

Micah opened his mouth, then closed it. He seemed to be struggling with what he wanted to say, a myriad of expressions flashing rapid-fire over his tortured face. Finally, he muttered, “You’re a good friend.”

Eli swallowed, gave him an up nod. “So are you, man.” Then he slowly walked away.

He’d made it to the front of the barracks before he heard the gunshot. And he knew before he’d frantically retraced his steps back to the room what he’d find.

Oh, Jesus. He dropped to his knees and gathered up his friend. Sightless eyes, so much blood, rosary still in his hand. “Micah! Dammit to hell,” Eli sobbed, rocking him back and forth, his voice broken. “Oh, Micah, what have you done? What have you done?”

1

Eight months later...

CAPTAIN ELI WESTON glanced at the invitation again, grimaced then tossed it back into the passenger seat of his rented truck as the city limits sign loomed into view. His belly clenched with dread, and tension inexplicably tightened his fingers on the steering wheel.

He so didn’t want to do this.

In fact, Eli could confidently say that if he could choose any place on earth he wanted to be right now, Willow Haven, Kentucky, would undoubtedly occupy the dead-last position on his list.

Not because it wasn’t a perfectly lovely little town, the quintessential Southern burg with lots of antebellum homes, majestic oak trees and a festival for every food group. Not because he could think of a million other things he’d rather do on his much-needed, too-short leave. He’d seen enough war—enough of the ravages of it, more specifically. Not even because he’d be working on the memorial for his late, beloved friend, Micah Holland.

It was the damned lying he most dreaded.

He’d been doing it for the past eight months, insisting to every superior officer who’d interrogated him about Micah’s death that his friend had been cleaning his weapon when it misfired, that he’d actually witnessed the accident.

Accident, of course, being the key word.

Lies, all lies. And they knew it, too. But they couldn’t prove it, so his “eye-witness” account stood.

And it was because of that account that his friend’s parents had been able to confidently bury their beloved oldest son in hallowed ground, believing his death was an unhappy circumstance, not a deliberate act by his own hand. Having lost his own father to suicide, Eli was well-acquainted with that particular brand of grief and had decided within seconds of Micah’s death to spare the Hollands that aspect of the misery, to do everything he possibly could to preserve his friend’s memory and military legacy. Micah had been one of his best friends and a damned fine soldier. He’d been like a brother. Eli swallowed, his throat suddenly tight, an inexplicable anger welling inside of him.

It was the least he could do, really.

Well, that and sling a hammer, he thought, glancing once more at the invitation in the passenger seat. Honestly, had Sally, Micah’s mother, not called and pressed him into coming to help build the Micah Holland Memorial in the heart of the town square, Eli wouldn’t have come. He’d have simply begged out of the event or made up an excuse as to why he wouldn’t be available—being deployed, in that sense, had its advantages.

But when Sally had told him that they’d simply plan the event around his leave, his schedule, he knew he wasn’t going to be able to get out of it. And considering how good the Hollands had been to him—they’d practically taken him in as one of their own as soon as he’d graduated—he could hardly refuse. Eli’s own family tree had withered and died with the death of his father, so being brought into the Holland fold had filled a void he’d scarcely realized was there.

Sally was the quintessential Southern mom. Her love language was food and nothing made her happier than a full table and full bellies. There was always a cake on the covered stand, cookies of some sort in the jar and cold iced tea in the pitcher. His lips quirked. And the emergency casserole in the freezer, of course, should she need to quickly provide a meal, either for her family or for someone else’s.

Carl Holland was a farmer with a degree in Agriculture from Auburn University—and had two Toomer’s Oaks grown from seedlings standing in the front yard. He had a deep affection for things grown in the soil. He was wise and patient, slow to anger and quick to laugh. Big and burly, with skin darkened from years spent in the sun and hands that were callused and scarred, Sally called him her Gentle Giant, GG for short, a sweet term of endearment that never failed to make Eli smile. He did now, remembering, and the action felt strange, almost foreign.

Probably because there hadn’t been much to smile about in recent months.

Truthfully, though he’d never considered a career outside the military, he had to admit he’d been growing increasingly dissatisfied since Micah’s death. He couldn’t seem to shake the sense that his feet weren’t so much on the right path as stuck to one instead. Bound by the very rules and regulations he used to appreciate, relish even. Micah had often joked that while he’d never met a rule he didn’t break, Eli had never met one he didn’t like.

Too true, he knew.

But rules established order and the absence of order was chaos. And Eli hated chaos. That word virtually described every foster home he’d lived in after the death of his father and the mental decline of his mother. The sweet, smiling woman he remembered from his early childhood had disintegrated into a vacant-eyed stranger who had to be reminded to eat, to bathe, and had to be told that she even had a son who needed to do those things, as well.

“Fragile,” they’d called her, when she’d been taken to the psych ward at their local hospital in Twisted Pines, Georgia.

“Irrevocably broken,” he’d later realize.

He drummed his thumb against the steering wheel, biting the inside of his cheek as the familiar sense of regret trickled through him. He’d need to go and see her before he reported back to base, Eli thought with a stoic twinge of dread. Not that she’d know him, not that she’d care. But he would do it, anyway, because it was the right thing to do, because she was the only family he had.

Furthermore, though he often spoke to her doctors and care team at the assisted living facility she called home—the one he paid for—a personal visit would remind them all that he was more than just the person writing the check. He was her son and, though he barely knew her, he loved her all the same.

Not that he was suspicious of any kind of abuse. He wasn’t. Having heard horror stories about mental hospitals and nursing homes, he’d researched dozens of potential facilities before settling on Marigold Manor. It offered the best in security and care, and smelled more like flowers than antiseptic. Which was a plus if you asked him. To this day the faintest whiff of bleach conjured up images of slumped over bodies too medicated to move, most particularly his mother’s. It had been a nightmare. He’d been twelve at the time. Old enough to know that her treatment was horribly wrong, but not old enough to do anything about it. Powerless.

Awful.

That was no small part of the reason he’d entered the ROTC program. With both sets of grandparents dead before his own birth and no close family, he’d known that he’d need the funds and the security to take care of his mother.

And he had, since he was eighteen years old. Two jobs, sometimes three, during college, then beyond graduation active duty had done the rest.

Duty, Eli thought. Would he ever escape it? And if he could, would he really want to? He released a long breath and slowly entered the town square. Those were questions for another day. A humorless laugh bubbled up his throat.

Or never.

As expected, the little hub of Willow Haven was abuzz with activity. Shoppers strolled along the freshly swept sidewalks, peering into windows as the regular walkers smoothly weaved in and out around them. Lots of flowers he couldn’t name bloomed from overstuffed planters and hanging baskets, and red, white and blue banners hung from various eaves, proclaiming the Micah Holland Memorial Dedication for the coming weekend. Another knot of dread landed in his belly and a pinch of pain constricted his chest as the image of his bloodied friend rose instantly in his mind.

It haunted him, that image.

And the slightest thing could bring it back. The sound of a gunshot, a whiff of Jack Daniel’s, even a laugh similar to his friend’s. It would catch him unaware, yank him unwillingly back into that wretched moment when he knew his friend was gone. At some point he was going to have to tell Gage the truth, Eli thought, wincing from the reminder. The third member of their “three amigos” crew, Gage Harper had been running a covert mission when Micah had died. Knowing that Micah had been struggling, Eli imagined Gage already suspected the truth but, out of respect or fearful of the answer, hadn’t asked.

He’d tell him, of course. At some point. In the near future, in all probability. And, God, how he dreaded it.

He’d become too damned acquainted with dread, Eli thought. In fact, he was so accustomed to it at this point, he was beginning to wonder if he’d know how to function without it, without the disquieting tightening of his gut or the ever-present whisper of uneasiness along his spine.

A group of men, Carl among them, of course, were busy driving stakes into the ground and pulling string, marking off the dimensions for the gazebo. Eli had yet to see the plans, but had been told the design had been rendered by Micah’s ex-fiancée, Shelby Monroe. He hadn’t quite worked out how he felt about that—had never been able to work out how he felt about her, for that matter. Not that anything beyond passing friendliness was in order—he’d be damned before he’d poach on a friend’s territory—but somehow the prickling of his skin, the inexplicable jump in his heart rate and the unwelcome stirring in his loins didn’t strike the strictly platonic note.

It was odd, really, how well he knew her without really knowing her. He’d been able to read her from the get-go, had been able to discern the thoughts behind the furrowing of her sleek brow, the upward quirk of her ripe lips, the twinkling or dimming of her pale green gaze.

That especially sensitive perception had also allowed him to work out some other things, as well. Like the fact that Micah had been more heavily invested in her than she’d been in him. He wasn’t judging. Even now, he wouldn’t. It happened. Micah and Shelby had been high school sweethearts who’d let things cool during college, when they’d both dated other people. They’d reconnected after a bad breakup—hers—and had stuck it out for quite a while. But it had ended six months before Micah’s death.

Despite being desperately in love with her, Micah had drunkenly admitted after she’d broken things off that he’d taken advantage of the situation. He’d offered her a shoulder to cry on, then pressed his advantage by proposing before she was ready. “Because she would have said no if I’d waited,” he’d explained. “And I just wanted her for my own. She was my It Girl,” he’d said, smiling sadly. “I met her and—” he’d shrugged fatalistically “—that was it.”

Eli had a grim suspicion he knew what that felt like. Because despite the fact that he’d known that she was and forever would be off-limits, to his eternal shame and chagrin, Shelby had had a similar effect on him. For reasons which escaped him, he’d been judging every girl he’d met against her for the past six years. She’d become the reason he wanted to visit the Hollands and the reason he’d desperately needed to stay away.

It was bad business all the way around.

To complicate matters, he suspected that he was partially responsible for the split. The last time he’d come home with Micah had been for his parents’ anniversary party. In honor of their 30th, Carl had rented the old Wickam plantation, then hired caterers, decorators and a band because he’d said he didn’t want Sally having to deal with anything more stressful than the invitations. When she began agonizing over the guest list, Carl had taken matters into his own hands and put an announcement in the local paper, inviting the whole town. Eli grinned. Problem solved.

The wine and booze had flowed freely, the food had been plentiful and delicious, and the band hadn’t miss a single note. Watching the couples dance, most particularly Carl and Sally, had had the most peculiar effect on him, Eli remembered now. Seeing the love between the two, the affection and familiarity, had made his chest ache and a bizarre sense of...emptiness had swelled in his belly. It had been an odd, mildly troubling sensation because it smacked of regret and loneliness, neither of which Eli had ever allowed himself to feel.

Regret was pointless and the benefit of the military was the constant company.

At any rate, Shelby had witnessed his momentary...weakness? Confusion? Hell, whatever it was, mortifyingly, she’d seen it from across the room and even now, he could still remember the slight arch of her blond brow, the question form in her too perceptive green eyes.

Eli had merely looked away, then proceeded to drink entirely too much. He’d danced with every single woman in attendance—and a few who weren’t so single, he’d later been told—and had pretended that nothing had happened, that he was fine, that he wasn’t envious of his friend or of his friend’s family. He’d laughed, he’d joked, he’d flirted and most importantly, he’d avoided her.

Looking back, that was his biggest mistake. If he’d simply behaved normally, she wouldn’t have known that she’d seen something he hadn’t wanted her to see. There would have been room for doubt. But he hadn’t. What he’d done, he’d later realize, for all intents and purposes, was wave a red flag in front of bull.

She’d waited until he’d stepped outside for some air, then made her move. He’d felt the air change, heat and charge. A wind kicked up, rattling the leaves on the hundred-year-old live oaks, bringing her scent closer. A mixture of fresh rain and gardenias. Summer, his favorite season.

“What’s wrong with you, Eli?” she’d asked, straight to the point as always. Directness was typically a trait he admired, but that night, it had grated on his nerves. “You’re not acting at all like yourself.”

He’d chuckled humorously, then taken another pull from the drink in his hand. “You think you know me well enough to make that call?”

She did, damn her.

She paused, gave him one of those disconcerting considering gazes, then said, “I do, actually. Does that bother you?” she’d drawled. “That you’re mysterious but not necessarily a mystery? Not to me, anyway.”

His heart had begun to pound, but he’d managed an unconcerned shrug. “Why would it bother me? It’s bullshit.”

She’d chuckled knowingly. “Oh, I have struck a nerve, haven’t I?” She’d moved closer, as though sharing a secret, then cast a meaningful glance back at the house. “They’re sweet, aren’t they? They adore one another, and are so obviously, achingly in love, even after all these years.”

Something in the tone of her voice made him look at her and it literally hurt, because she was so lovely, because she was so close, because she belonged to someone else. The night breeze toyed with the ends of her hair, blowing a wisp across the sweet swell of her cheek. Long lashes curled away from her eyes, revealing a wistful gaze that tore at him. She’d hugged her arms around her middle and was staring through the window, watching Carl and Sally take another turn around the room. The pearls Carl had given her gleamed around Sally’s neck.

“They are,” Eli had agreed, then looked away because, though he loved them, it was painful to watch. “Just think,” he’d said, an inexplicable edge entering his voice. “That’ll be you and Micah someday. Although I have to wonder if the tableau is going to be quite the same.”

He shouldn’t have said it. To this day, he still didn’t know why he said it.

From the corner of his eye, he’d watched her attention shift to him, could feel the weight of her gaze, the full benefit of her regard. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” he’d said, trying to backpedal, wishing like hell he could draw the words back into his mouth.

“No, it’s not nothing,” she’d insisted. “What the hell do you mean by that? You think Micah and I don’t have what it takes to make a thirty-year marriage work? Is that what you mean?”

“I don’t mean anything,” he said, ashamed of himself. “Just forget it. I’m sorry. I’ve had too much to drink.” That, at least, was true, if not a good excuse.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“And here’s the upside of not being your fiancé—I don’t have to.” Tension humming along every nerve ending, he’d flashed a smile at her, then turned to walk away, but she’d grabbed his arm.

“Listen, Eli, I don’t know what your problem is, but—”

She shouldn’t have touched him, Eli thought now. If she hadn’t touched him, he would have been able to hold it together, he wouldn’t have reacted as instinctively or as impulsively as he had.

He’d whirled on her and backed her up against the tree, crowding into her personal space. He’d startled a gasp out of her, her eyes round with surprise...and something else, something he ached for but didn’t want to see—a flicker of longing, one so intense it nearly sucked the air from his lungs. He’d seen glimpses of it before, of course, but never this strong. And certainly never this close.

“The problem isn’t what you don’t know,” he’d said, his voice low and fierce. “It’s what you do know. What we both know.”

Her gaze had dropped to his lips, torturing him, then bounced back up and tangled with his. She’d swallowed carefully, lifted her chin even though he could see the rapid fluttering of her pulse beating in her neck, betraying her bravado. “Oh, and what’s that?”

“Let’s just say that the level of affection in a relationship has to be equally weighted in order for it to succeed. And from where I’m sitting, the scales seem woefully unbalanced.”

She’d stared at him, a hint of sadness poisoning the truth in her pretty gaze. “And you’re an expert on relationships, are you? To my knowledge you’ve never had a girlfriend, just a string of one-night stands.” It was true, but he’d always avoided examining the reason behind the behavior. He grimly suspected he wouldn’t like the answers he found.

“Tell me I’m wrong, then,” he’d told her, lessening the distance between them even more. This was wrong—so wrong—but he couldn’t help himself. He couldn’t make his body retreat when she was this close, when the scent of her twined around his senses and the sound of her quickened breath made his own lungs labor to keep up. It took every particle of willpower he’d possessed to keep from kissing her, to keep from falling into the sweet heat of her body and losing himself completely to her.

“I wish that I could,” she’d said, wincing with regret, her voice low and broken. A kaleidoscope of emotion moved in and out of focus in her light green gaze. “Life would be so much less complicated if I could. If I didn’t want—”

He’d stilled, his senses sharpening. “Want what, Shelby?”

In answer, she’d looked hungrily at his mouth, released a shallow breath, then leaned forward and kissed him. Tentatively, at first, almost reverently, as though she’d been waiting a lifetime to taste him and didn’t want to ruin it by hurrying.

Shock and sensation detonated through him, delaying his reaction. Her lips were unbelievably soft, ripe and pillowy, and the taste of lemon clung to them, remnants of an iced cookie he’d watched her eat earlier. A little sigh had slipped from her mouth into his and, for whatever reason, the relief he’d heard in that sound had enflamed him more than anything else ever had or ever would. It was bittersweet and rang with surrender. The next thing he knew, his hands were framing her face, deepening the kiss. Her arms had wound around his neck and the best sort of tension had hummed through her body, the kind that proved she’d wanted him as much as he’d wanted her.

He would have taken her right there, against the damned tree, against reason and honor and logic and loyalty...had Micah not chosen that exact moment to walk out onto the front porch and call her name.

“Shelby?”

They’d broken apart like a couple of school kids caught making out in a coatroom, then stared at one another for the briefest, most horrible instant when shame polluted the moment between them.

She’d left him, and returned to Micah’s side, where she belonged. But even then he knew she wouldn’t go through with the wedding. Not because of him, exactly—desire was fickle and fleeting—but because the minute she’d admitted the truth to him, she’d been left with no other choice than to act.

That’s how truth worked.

And considering that he was here, perpetuating a lie to protect the memory of his friend, he supposed dishonesty used the same mode of operation.

With a sigh dredged from his soul, he pulled into a parking space, grabbed his tool bag from the passenger floorboard and exited the truck. The sooner he got this over with, the better. Considering she hadn’t even been able to look at him during Micah’s service, he fully expected Shelby to keep her distance. That, at least, was a blessing. Because, while he could lie to his superior officers, lie to fellow soldiers, lie to the grief counselor, lie to Micah’s parents and little brother and everyone else he was likely to come into contact with while he was here...he wasn’t sure he could lie to her.

Because, like she’d said, she knew him too well.

2

“HE’S HERE,” MAVIS Meriweather announced breathlessly from her position at the storefront window. “Merciful heavens, I’d recognize that especially fine ass anywhere,” she said, humming appreciatively under her breath. “It’s hot today. You think I should take him a bottle of water?”

Shelby Monroe ignored the kamikaze butterflies swarming in her belly at this news and glanced indulgently at her assistant. “He just got here, Mavis,” she drawled. “He’s hardly had time to work up a sweat.”

The “he” in question was Eli Weston, of course. Just the thought of him conjured more feeling—most of it conflicted—in her rapidly beating heart than could possibly be good for her.

Nothing new there, damn him. She should have known...

Mavis pretended to swoon and braced a bejeweled hand against the wall. “Sweat,” she murmured, blinking slowly. She shook herself and sent Shelby a scolding look, her perfectly drawn on brows furrowed with chagrin. “You ought to know better than to say things like that when I’m in this condition.”

“This condition” being hornier than a teenage boy with his first skin magazine. Mavis’s hormone replacement therapy had gone horribly awry. Either she was especially sensitive to the medication or she was on the wrong dosage. Regardless of the reason, the drugs were having a hyper reaction in Shelby’s older friend and, as such, had resurrected her flatlined libido with disturbing results. A former Vegas showgirl who’d dated A-list celebrities and famous politicians, Mavis had never married—had said she considered it an invasion of her privacy—and had always been a charismatic force of nature. But a desperate-to-get-laid Mavis had the makings of a natural disaster.

“Have you talked to Doc Anderson?”

Mavis turned away from the window and fanned herself. She’d recently gone from blond to red, a shade that suited her. “I have an appointment next week.”

It wasn’t soon enough if you asked Shelby, but she supposed it would have to do. “Maybe he can get you sorted out.” One could hope, at any rate.

She harrumphed under her breath. “The only thing that’s going to get me sorted out is an obliging man, preferably one with an especially large penis and more stamina than intelligence.”

Startled, Shelby’s needle missed the buttonhole and pricked her finger. She winced and inspected the damage, thankful when she didn’t see blood. She’d hate to bleed on this fine piece of vintage chenille. She was putting the finishing touches on a custom romper for Lilly Wilken’s little girl. It was excellent work, if she did say so herself.

And she did, because she was a first-rate seamstress. She’d learned at her grandmother’s knee and had taken to the craft like a fish to water. While other little girls had been playing with dolls and Easy-Bake ovens, Shelby had been learning how to sew. She’d gotten her own machine at ten and had started making her own clothes shortly thereafter.

Never one to follow the trends, Shelby had been happier with her own designs than anything she could buy off the rack. She’d always had a firm sense of self, knew what looked best on her own body and could tailor-make anything that struck her fancy. Thankfully, it wasn’t long until other girls were knocking on her door asking her to help them find their own personal style, as well. She’d gone to college on a partial home economics scholarship and was able to pay for the rest with the modest inheritance her grandmother had left her.

Armed with a business degree—with a minor in fashion merchandising—she’d returned to Willow Haven, bought the old dry goods store on the town square and converted it into her own shop, which she’d named In Stitches. The front room showcased her own custom designs, the back housed the working area, where she kept three full-time seamstresses employed, and she’d converted the upstairs space into an apartment, which was presently part of Mavis’s employment package.

But whereas business might be good, her personal life was in the toilet.

Between Micah’s death and the guilt she felt over breaking off their engagement—not to mention the guilt she carried over what had happened between her and Eli the night of Carl and Sally’s anniversary party—and the threatening letters she’d been getting for months, the last damned thing in the world she needed to complicate things more was Eli Weston, here in the flesh. She swallowed, her throat suddenly tight.

He blamed her—or at least considered her a contributing factor—she knew. How could he not? After what had happened? Though the official line from the military had cited an accidental death, Shelby knew that hadn’t been the case.

She knew...because Micah had written her prior to his death and told her so.

She hadn’t received the letter until several days after Micah’s passing, but even then she’d suspected. Though she’d broken their engagement six months before his death, they’d still kept in touch. Hell, they’d been friends since grade school. Just because the romantic relationship was over hadn’t meant that she’d stopped caring about him, that she hadn’t wanted the best for him. And he’d been struggling, she knew.

Eli, she imagined, had known it, too.

Shelby had been so consumed with grief and regret that she’d hadn’t even been able to look at him during Micah’s service. She’d been too afraid of what she’d see there. And she blamed herself enough as it was. Not specifically for Micah’s death—the sole purpose of his letter was to keep her from blaming herself—but the pain she’d inflicted on him, the guilt of longing for Eli... She owned that and suspected she always would.

Eli, she imagined, would, as well, which made facing him all the more difficult.

But there would be no avoiding him here and, considering that she needed his help to try and figure out who was sending the letters, she’d better pull herself together.

She released a shaky breath, thankful that her hands were steady even though her nerves were stretched thinner than a razor’s edge.

Thankfully, Sally had insisted that Eli be a part of the building and dedication of the gazebo going up in the center of the town square. A tribute to Micah, their fallen hometown hero. Because she’d always been good with a pencil, Carl had asked her to draw up the design. He’d told her it would mean a lot to the family, to Micah. In light of the breakup, she wasn’t certain it was completely appropriate, but Carl and Sally had been too good to her over the years for her to be anything other than helpful.

To show their appreciation to everyone who was participating with the construction, Micah’s parents were hosting a dinner every evening until the project was complete and Shelby had been told her presence was expected. “Micah loved you,” Sally had told her. “And we love you. It would mean so much to us for you to be there.”

Rather than argue, Shelby had simply nodded. She had no intention of doing anything that was going to cause Micah’s family any further distress. They’d been through hell. That playful light behind Carl’s eyes had dimmed, Sally’s smile had resurfaced a few weeks ago, but it never moved past her lips, and poor Colin—their “little surprise,” Sally liked to say—at thirteen, was caught at that awkward age where he was too young to truly cope and too old to allow himself to cry. He’d grown sullen and remote, a shadow of the happy, energetic boy she’d known. It was so sad.

And she would never, ever reveal the truth. No matter how many letters she received.

Which was why she needed Eli’s help. As Micah’s best friend, he could snoop around with less suspicion than she could. Willow Haven was a small tight-knit community. It wasn’t just likely that she knew the sender—it was a certainty. Any questions she asked on her own behalf were going to throw up a red flag and potentially allow the truth about Micah’s death to become public. She couldn’t let that happen. Any questions Eli asked, as Micah’s best friend and a Willow Haven outsider, wouldn’t be as conspicuous.

It was odd, really. The letters had started the week after Micah’s funeral and she’d received one every week since. Each one just as cryptic as the last, the notes were always short and to the point.

I saw you. I know what you did. I’m going to tell.

It wasn’t the gun that killed him, it was you. I’m going to tell.

How can you live with yourself, knowing what you did? I’m going to tell.

And the latest? The most disturbing?

You deserve to die. It should be you in a coffin beneath that heavy dirt. I’m going to tell.

It chilled her, this last letter. Possibly because it seemed so matter-of-fact, so stark. She’d never given much thought to dying or what exactly it meant to be buried. She’d never considered that the earth above a coffin would be heavy or how wretched that would make her feel. Just thinking about it had made her want to rush down to Rosewood Cemetery, where her parents and grandparents were buried, and claw the earth away from their coffins, then move them into an aboveground crypt, much like the ones she’d seen in New Orleans. Irrational? Costly? Yes, but she couldn’t seem to shake the idea.

Any more than she could shake the memory of Eli’s kiss—the blazing desperation and desire in his pale hazel gaze—from her mind. It stuck there. Haunted her. Mocked her. Shamed her.

Enflamed her.

She should have never followed him outside that night, Shelby had told herself a million times. She’d known if she danced too close to the fire she was going to get burned. And the kicker? The horrible truth? If she had to do over again, she’d probably do the same damned thing. Because getting burned was better than being numb.

And she’d never realized she was numb until Eli touched her.

Had there been a spark of something prior to that? Yes, God help her, as unwelcome as it was undeniable. Shelby had tried pretending that it didn’t exist, then chalked it up to Eli’s mysteriousness, that intense direct stare that occasionally left her feeling as if he’d opened her head and taken a peek inside. She’d tried avoiding him, not avoiding him, looking for faults...everything. Nothing had nudged that niggle of awareness, that lingering longing that stirred in her gut.

That’s why she’d ultimately broken it off with Micah. Because until Eli had kissed her, she’d been able to pretend that her affection and long history with Micah were stronger than something as small and insubstantial as the idea of someone else, of Eli. Because until he’d kissed her, that’s all it had been—an idea.

She’d so been wrong. Wrong for ever allowing things with Micah to rekindle, then progress to a proposal. He’d been safe and familiar, and she’d been vulnerable and lonely. He’d picked her up, dusted her off and loved her, as always.

She’d desperately wanted to love him back. And she did, to a point. But never as much as he cared for her. Never with the same sort of intensity. He’d known it, too. Freely admitted it. But he’d never cared, so long as they were together.

She tied off the final stitch, then reached for her scissors and trimmed the thread. It was hard to reconcile a world he was no longer a part of, to know that she’d never see his smile or hear his laugh again. That had been the best thing about Micah, Shelby thought, a pang tightening her chest. His laugh. It had been joyful and uninhibited, infectious. She missed it most of all.

“You look odd, Shelby,” Mavis remarked. “Are you all right?”

Shelby blinked and gave herself a little shake. Despite being extremely self-absorbed, Mavis could be disturbingly observant. “Yes, of course.”

“Well, aren’t you going to walk over there and say hello? He was Micah’s best friend, after all, and he’s using his leave to volunteer. I think it would be rude and inhospitable for you to ignore him.” She shot Shelby a pointed look. “Like you did at the service.”

Shelby stored her tools, then carefully folded the romper. She felt a blush creep up her neck. “I was understandably preoccupied,” she lied. “And so was he.”

“Maybe so, but he kept glancing at you and you never once looked his way. Say what you will, but I know that your actions were deliberate. It would have been less noticeable had you simply acknowledged him.” She frowned. “I’ve never known you to be so unkind. It was so unlike you. I can only conclude that I’m not in possession of all of the facts and that you had your reasons.” She paused. “However wrong they may have been.”

Subtle as always, Shelby thought. But Mavis was right. He was hurting, too, and she’d been a coward. As nerve-wrecking as it would be, this was her chance to make it right. Besides, she needed him.

Shelby stood, set the romper aside and smoothed the wrinkles out of her dress. “If you’ll cover the store, I’ll walk over there right now.”

Mavis beamed approvingly at her. “Of course I will.”

Shelby glanced at her pet and store mascot, then clicked her tongue. “Come on, Dixie,” she said, then watched her eighty-pound pot-bellied pig lumber up from her hot-pink satin-covered bed in the corner. She bent down and clipped the leash to her rhinestone collar, then straightened her custom-made tulle skirt and matching bow.

Mavis merely rolled her eyes. “I swear she’s gained more weight just since yesterday. How much bigger is she going to get?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Shelby told her. “That skirt’s got an elastic waist.”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it. She’s huge, Shelby. If she gets any bigger, she’s going to need her own zip code.”

Shelby smiled and scratched the top of Dixie’s head. “Nonsense. “

When she’d moved out of the upstairs apartment and bought the house a block from the square so that she could have more room and a yard, Shelby hadn’t counted on being lonely. She’d loved the idea of having more room, of having a little garden to tend, flowers to grow. But she’d barely been in the house a week before she’d decided that a pet—which she’d never had, because her grandmother had been allergic—was in order. A puppy, more specifically. Rather than buy a designer breed, she’d opted to go to the animal shelter.

She’d walked in knowing exactly what she’d wanted—a soft, cuddly, energetic puppy which would grow into a loyal companion. To everyone’s surprise—most especially her own—she’d walked out with Dixie.

The little pig had been abandoned outside the shelter months ago, when the owners had evidently realized that she wasn’t going to stay tiny and cute. It was a common misconception, which had resulted in thousands of the little animals being dumped in shelters all across the country. Knowing that the various dogs and cats would eventually be adopted, and that Dixie’s chances were extremely less likely, Shelby gave in. The thought of leaving her there, trapped in that five-by-five box, was simply more than she could bear.

There’d been a learning curve with the pig—try finding that kind of food on the pet aisle at the Piggly Wiggly—but with the help of her vet and the internet, Shelby had adjusted...and couldn’t be happier. Dixie had personality in spades. She was leash and litter trained, and extremely smart. Shelby grimaced. So smart, in fact, that she’d learned to open the fridge, which was why it was now locked tight with bungee cords. Hardly a permanent solution, but she could only tackle one thing at a time.

And right now, she had to deal with the return of Eli Weston.

Shelby opened the door and allowed Dixie to lead her out onto the sidewalk. The late-morning air was sweet with the scent of sugar coming from Lola’s Bakery next door, making her mouth water. The phrase “blessing and a curse” sprung immediately to mind. If she didn’t lay off the donut holes, she was going to have to start putting additional elastic into her skirts, as well, Shelby thought, making a mental note to eat a bowl of oatmeal before leaving for work in the morning. There. She already felt thinner.

Careful to use the crosswalk, she made her way across the street onto the green in the middle of the square, Dixie trotting along happily beside her on her short stumpy legs.

“Morning, Shelby,” Walter Perkins said, tipping his hat at her, a smile on his lined face.

“Morning, Walter.”

Dixie rooted at the ground, but Shelby jingled her leash, distracting her from whatever had caught her fancy. The pig knew better, but that didn’t stop her from trying. There was only one area that Dixie was allowed to dig and burrow in and that was in the fenced-in area in the backyard. It was her own personal mud hole, complete with a kiddie pool filled with water for cooling off.

In the process of mixing concrete, Hank Malloy stopped and looked up at her, a grin leaping to his lips. “I swear, Shelby, every time I see you with that hog I start craving barbeque.”

Used to the jokes, Shelby smiled. “She’s a pet, Hank, not a pulled pork sandwich.”

Hank’s comment had attracted the attention of the rest of the group, but it was Eli’s gaze she felt the most. A skitter of heat tripped along her spine and a sizzle of awareness made the backs of her thighs tingle. Her mouth went dry and her stomach decided this would be the perfect time to launch a career in gymnastics. It did a few backflips and somersaults, making her momentarily queasy.

“Shelby,” Carl called, waving her over, a big smile wreathing his tanned face. “Look who’s here,” he said, happily clapping Eli on the back.

Left with no other choice, she mentally braced herself and looked at him then. Her lungs seized and rush of warmth spread through her body, concentrating in her palms and the arches of her feet. Every hair on her head lifted, then settled, making gooseflesh race down her arms despite the heat, and her insides vibrated so hard it was nothing short of miraculous that her teeth didn’t chatter.

Sweet mercy...

His gaze was familiar—a glorious mixture of bright greens and pale browns—but heart-breakingly guarded and undeniably sad. Day-old golden stubble clung to his face, emphasizing the hollows beneath his high cheekbones, shading the stark line of his jaw. Dressed in work boots, worn jeans and a navy blue t-shirt that showcased the best pair of shoulders ever, he’d apparently arrived ready to work.

His lips—quite possibly the sexiest mouth she’d ever seen—tilted into something just short of a smile. “Shelby,” he said, his voice the same roughened baritone she remembered. “It’s good to see you.” His gaze dropped to Dixie and a disbelieving frown appeared on his face. “And your...pig.”

“That’s right,” Carl said, chuckling softly at his reaction. “You haven’t met Dixie yet, have you?”

He shook his head, then winced and rubbed the back of his neck. “No, I can’t say that I have.”

That’s because she’d gotten her pet after Micah died, but rather than use that horrible frame of reference, she quickly changed the subject. “So you’ve just gotten in?”

He nodded. “Just a few minutes ago.”

“Have you had a chance to look at the plans?”

“Not yet,” he told her. “Carl was just about to show them to me.” His gaze tangled with hers. “You drew them?”

She shot a glance at Carl, who’d stepped away to speak with another volunteer. “Carl insisted.”

He followed her gaze, seemingly reluctant to look at her, and winced sympathetically. “He’s good at that,” he murmured.

“It was good of you to come,” she told him, awkwardly tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “They appreciate it.”

His gaze found hers once more, lingering for the briefest of seconds. “I know they do.” He jerked his head toward the activity. “I’d better get back to it.”

Equally startled and stung that he had so little to say to her—not that she didn’t deserve it, she knew—Shelby reached out a hand, but stopped just shy of touching him. “Eli—”

He hesitated, his shoulders tight with tension, then turned and arched a dark golden brow.

“Could we catch up at dinner?” she asked. “There’s something I’d like to talk to you about.”

A shadow passed behind his gaze so quickly that she couldn’t read it and, though his expression never changed, she could tell that he was reluctant to continue their conversation. “Sure,” he said. “I’ll see you at Sally’s.”

And he might, Shelby thought, but getting him to talk to her was a different matter altogether. A lump swelled in her throat and the little kernel of hope she’d clung to withered and died.

She’d been right. He did blame her for Micah’s death.

3

WELL, THAT SURE AS HELL could have gone better, Eli thought, watching Shelby and her pig, of all damned things, walk back toward her shop. So much for thinking he was ready to face her again, that he could look at her and not want her with every damned fiber of his being.

His best friend’s “It Girl.”

Talk about breaking a rule. He mentally snorted. Somehow he didn’t think that was the kind of rule Micah had been referring to.

“Only Shelby,” Carl remarked, following Eli’s gaze. He shook his head. “Everybody else looks at that pig and sees a pork roast. She looks at it and sees a pet.”

Eli felt his lips twitch. “I have to admit it’s the best dressed pig I’ve ever seen,” he conceded. Actually, it was the only dressed pig he’d ever seen outside a story book—the Three Little Pigs had been one of his favorites as a child—but it was the truth all the same. And it wasn’t enough that she had to dress the pig—she had to make sure their outfits were color-coordinated, as well. The yellow skirt and matching bow on Dixie’s head perfectly matched the flowers on Shelby’s dress.

And naturally, because she’d made it herself, that dress showcased the very best her body had to offer. Beautiful lush breasts, a tiny waist—one that he could easily span with both hands, an unbelievable turn-on—and especially generous hips. She in no way resembled the starved praying mantislike figures that were so popular on the covers of today’s fashion magazines. She was toned but curvy, her shape reminiscent of a 1950’s pin-up model. Completely, utterly feminine.

But more than how she looked, it was the way she moved that never failed to captivate him. There was something so innately graceful about the way her body went about the everyday ordinary things. The tilt of her chin as she listened to someone, the easy slide of her ripe lips into a smile, the rhythmic swing of her hips as she walked. The fabric hung like air in that sweet spot high enough on her thighs to be sexy, but not so low to be inappropriate and it fluttered with an exaggerated little pop with every step that she took.

Mesmerizing.

And a quick glance around the square concluded that he wasn’t the only man who’d noticed. Irrationally, that made him want to roar and break things, preferably a few jaws. It was ridiculous the way she affected him, the way he’d wanted to feast his gaze on her, catalogue every little detail about her face the instant he’d seen her again. Every mole and freckle, every dip and hollow, every eyelash around those amazing green eyes. Eyes that were so clear a green they put him in mind of a piece of stained glass he’d one seen in a store window. And the hesitancy and vulnerability he saw lurking in that remarkable gaze? Awful...especially knowing there was nothing he could do to remove it. Much as it pained him, he had to stay away from her.

He’d failed Micah by not getting him the help he needed sooner—he could not fail him in this, too.

Shelby Monroe, no matter how tempting, was off-limits.

He felt Carl’s gaze—one that was shrewd as well as kind—and gave himself a little shake. “You were going to show me those plans?”

“Are you sure you want to get started?” he asked. “I figured you’d want to go to the cabin and get settled in.”

Rather than impose and stay at the house—where the only available room had been Micah’s—Carl and Sally had offered to put him up at the family cabin out on Holly Lake, for which he was eternally thankful. Aside from not wanting to disturb the shrine that had no doubt become Micah’s room, he and Micah had always stayed at the cabin together when he’d come in for a visit. A lot of laughter and beer had passed their lips out on that front porch overlooking the water. While it was going to be odd to be there without Micah, he knew he’d be much more comfortable there...and so would Sally and Carl.

Eli shook his head. “No, sir. I came ready to work. I’ll go out there when we finish up for the day. It’ll give me a chance to settle in and shower before coming back for dinner.”

“If you’re sure,” Carl said, a question in his voice.

“I’m sure.”

The older man nodded. “All right, then. Let’s take a look at the plans.” They walked over to what Eli imagined was command center, where a tent, a couple of tables and a few chairs had been set up. Coolers of cold drinks and various platters of snacks—Sally’s work, he knew—sat on one, and a printout of the drawing as well as what looked like the volunteer schedule lay on the other.

A thought struck. “Where’s Colin?” Eli asked. He’d expected Micah’s little brother to be on-site throughout the entire project. Despite the differences in their ages, the two Holland boys had been exceptionally close and Colin, he knew, had hero-worshiped Micah.

Carl hesitated. “Probably off with some of his friends,” he said. “I thought he’d want to help out with this, but he didn’t have a lot to say when I asked him to come down here with me this morning. Said he’d already made plans.”

Eli frowned, mildly surprised. “How’s he holding up?”

“Not good,” Carl confessed, lowering his voice. “In fact, I was hoping that maybe you could talk to him. He’s always looked up to you, kind of sees you as an extension of his brother.”

Eli didn’t know about that, but now that he thought about it, he was surprised that Colin hadn’t been around this morning, if for no other reason than to see him. They’d always gotten along well and had a good rapport. Eli had no illusions of taking Micah’s place, but he’d kept in touch with Colin since Micah’s death, hoping to build a better relationship with the boy. He’d made that promise to Micah years ago, long before the disaster in Mosul. In return, Micah had promised to oversee the care of his mother should anything happen to him.

“I’ll certainly try,” Eli told him.

Carl nodded, relief relaxing the tension around his eyes. “Thanks, Eli. We’d really appreciate it.”

That settled, Eli bent forward and inspected the design.

It was not at all what he’d expected.

“Wow,” he murmured, stunned.

“It’s something, isn’t it?” Carl asked, seemingly equally proud and pleased. “That’s why I asked Shelby to put it together. Most everyone knows she can sew like nobody’s business, but not many people realize that, had she not followed in her grandmother’s footsteps, she would have pursued a career in architecture.”

He whistled low and continued to marvel at the design. “I’m not so sure she didn’t miss her calling.” He looked up at Carl. “This is amazing.”

Carl beamed, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Not your typical town square gazebo, that’s for sure.”

No, it certainly wasn’t. Rather than the quaint white shape with lots of fancy fretwork and gingerbread trim, Shelby’s design more resembled something from one of Tolkien’s novels, but more modern. Shaped like an octagon with a steep-pitched shingled roof complete with a weather vane, the plan called for natural material left in its raw shape.

Taking inspiration from the town’s namesake, Shelby had incorporated lots of corkscrew willow branches in place of spindles, giving it a fanciful flair. Old gas lamps inside and out would provide ample lighting, and a fire pit, surrounded by a fountain, would take center stage. A row of wooden benches lined the inside walls, giving plenty of seating and recessed, glassless windows added additional character.

“We’re going with a concrete floor, so it’ll be easier to clean and maintain,” Carl told him. “But we’re going to stain it and stamp it with willow leaves so it’ll look more like a forest floor.”

Eli merely shook his head, almost at a loss for words. “It’s incredible.”

“Micah would have loved it,” Carl remarked, a palpable ache in his voice. “And that’s what counts.”

Yes, he would have, Eli thought. Micah had always said he’d wanted to build a bigger version of the cabin, had planned on logging the lumber himself. Shelby no doubt knew that, too, and had managed to create something that would honor her former fiancé, but capture the spirit of the town, as well. It was a delicate equation to balance, but she’d managed it beautifully.

His gaze strayed to her shop across the street. Though the windows were crowded with well-dressed mannequins featuring her designs, he caught a glimpse of her behind the counter and felt a bolt of warmth land in his chest and spread through the rest of his body, most particularly his groin. Awareness slid down the length of his dick, making him shift to find a more comfortable position. He gritted his teeth as need bombarded him, that of the relentless variety, the kind that he imagined ruined kings and started wars.

He was about to mount the biggest battle of his career, Eli thought...and God help him, it was with himself.

* * *

SHELBY WAS JUST ABOUT to lock up and close the shop when the bell above the door tingled, heralding the arrival of another customer. Though she typically didn’t mind staying late—and had been known to meet clients down at the store after hours in order to help out in a fashion emergency or to accommodate a schedule—today wasn’t one of those days.

She was emotionally wrung dry after her reunion with Eli this morning. She’d also had a steady stream of clients in and out all day, and she had just enough time, if she left now, to go home and freshen up before heading over to the Hollands’ place. As a result, she was not happy when she looked up and even less pleased when she saw who was standing there.

Katrina Nolan.

Micah had briefly dated Katrina during college, before he and Shelby had reconnected, and Katrina, who’d never been one of Shelby’s biggest fans, positively hated her now. She’d never set foot in Shelby’s shop, never spoke to her and had glared white-hot daggers at her during Micah’s service. Sally had told her that Katrina had tried to rekindle things with Micah when their engagement ended, but that Micah hadn’t been interested. Shelby hadn’t been the least bit surprised—that Katrina had made the effort, or that Micah hadn’t been interested.

Katrina had recently gone to work for the local paper and fancied herself some sort of small-town Lois Lane. She was constantly digging around in people’s trash, had supposedly paid spies to troll the beauty parlor and post office for juicy gossip, and just generally made everyone uncomfortable. It was widely suspected that the only person Katrina had any real dirt on was the editor of The Branches, Les Hastings, because any other paper would have fired her by now. Shelby didn’t have any idea why the woman was here, but knew that it wasn’t to plan a sleepover.

This wasn’t going to be good. A skitter of foreboding tingled down her spine.

Shelby didn’t ask if she could help her because she didn’t want to. She lifted a cool brow. “Yes?”

“I didn’t catch you at a bad time, did I?” Katrina asked, completely unrepentant.

“Actually, you did. I’m closing in—” she glanced pointedly at the clock above the door “—two minutes.”

Katrina’s lips slid into a hard smile. “Not to worry,” she said. “What I have to say won’t take that long.”

Shelby returned the same insincere grin, the kind that Southern girls learned to perfect from the cradle. “Wonderful. Because I’ve got to get over to Sally and Carl’s for dinner and it would be rude to be late.”

The dig landed, making Katrina’s mouth harden. While the whole town might be invited to the dedication of the memorial, only the people Carl had picked to help build and design it were invited to their home. Willow Haven was a small town, so there were very few people not on that list...but Katrina was one of them. Mean? Petty?

Yes.

But very satisfying all the same.

“Yes, I wouldn’t want to keep you. Funny how that’s worked out,” Katrina mused, strolling forward. She stopped and picked up a sundress—one of Shelby’s favorites—then grimaced as though she’d smelled something bad and returned it to the stand. “Even when you aren’t part of the family—and never intended to be—you still manage to have a seat at that table.” She looked up, her gaze almost triumphant, knowing. “I wonder if you’ll still have that spot when they find out that Micah’s gun didn’t misfire, that he killed himself because of you.”

A cold sweat broke out over the back of Shelby’s neck and her throat went instantly dry. She’d wondered if it had been Katrina sending the letters, but it had seemed out of character. Katrina, as evidenced, wasn’t sneaky. She was direct. She liked to play with her victims before pouncing.

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