Читать книгу At Your Command - Julie Miller - Страница 6

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She’d married him.

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

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

Cool, calm and collected was also the Owens way.

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

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

Nothing to fear.

No one who seemed interested in her at all.

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

She focused her attention back on the bus.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But none of it was easy.

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

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

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

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

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

Be honest, girl.

He was the best time she’d ever had.

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

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

That was the Owens way.

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

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

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

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

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

Play it cool, Owens. Play it cool.

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

Screw decorum. Becky ran to greet him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No one watching.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Damn. Even thinking the word pinched at her conscience.

Oh, yeah. This reunion was going really well.

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

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

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

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

The boys must have sensed the brewing volcano, too.

“Sorry, mister,” the little one chirped.

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

“Sorry, Captain.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Uh-uh!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She pointed toward the gate. “Over there.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Six weeks? Um, yeah. About that…

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

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

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

In lake water? “Is that sanitary?”

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

“So there is something in the water.”

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

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

“Yo, Clarksie!”

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

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

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

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

Not a threat.

Not even anything to do with her.

Way to play it cool, Owens.

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

“Tess, eh? I’m Zachariah Clark.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He liked that mouth better when it was closed.

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

She was class.

She was style.

“You bitch.”

A familiar rage sparked through his blood.

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

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

“I’m going to kill you.”