PROLOGUE
“Damn it.”
USMC Sergeant Isabella Ramos cursed as her ammo clip hit the
dirt on the other side of the wall. Sergeant Connor Maher could not help but
notice. He didn’t write the rules of nature. A real man’s always gonna look,
and this particular gal’s derrière, albeit camouflaged in the uniform of the
day and plenty of dust, made for a choice view. What red-blooded, all American
male wouldn’t?
One minute she was seated all nice and comfortable on that
three-foot wall. The next, she was bent over it, damn near ass over teakettles
with her boots, legs and butt on display. He glanced away, not wanting to be
caught looking—at least not by her.
He and his buddy, Jamie, were part of the United State’s
military response to the increased violence of the Iraqi insurgency in
Fallujah. Both short timers and counting the days, this was their final tour
together unless Jamie got another brilliant idea to re-up. With home only a
couple months away, Connor was antsy. All he had to do was stay alive. In Iraq.
During one of the hottest USMC campaigns of the war. Stolen commercial breaks
like this show with Ramos made the grind endurable.
She’d gotten the short end of the stick when their
commanding officer decided someone ought to show the two newly arrived
non-commissioned officers the lay of the land, and voilà . Just like that, they
got a snappy tour of U.S. Camp Baharia and along with it, a floorshow that
couldn’t be beat.
The good thing about the predominantly USMC camp was the
large clear water lake in the center of it. The bad thing was it was still in
Iraq. The once-upon-a-time desert resort town was now filled with hard-core
military men and women who sometimes forgot how to behave. Like Lance Corporal
Jamie Ramos, who by sheer coincidence shared the sergeant’s last name, but
obviously, not her dedication to the Corps.
Already passed over once for promotion, Jamie was headed for
trouble with his CO. He didn’t seem to have a problem with his rifle
qualification or combat fitness, but his true talents lay in another direction—entertainment.
Jamie was a tease to the mathematical power of a gazillion, and that innate
need for attention would land him in the brig one of these days.
“You know you want to.” He elbowed Connor again, urging him
to do the unthinkable. “Just one little smack. It’s easy. I’ve done it a
million times. No one else will see you. Just walk over, lay one on her ass and
run like hell. She’s short. She’ll never catch you. Go on. Do it.”
“Shut up,” Connor muttered out of the corner of his mouth,
glancing again at the ass in question and doubting the ‘I’ve done it a million
times’ line. “You know better than to treat women like that. Knock it off.”
“What’s she gonna do? You’re both the same rank,” Jamie
persisted. “It’ll be fun.”
“Cut the crap. She’s a lady.”
“No, she ain’t. She’s a jarhead just like us. She’s GI.
Loosen up, Maher. Walk on the wild side for once in your geeky life.”
Connor glanced at the ass in question again. Damn. It was
spank-a-licious and hard to keep his eyes off of. This dark-haired and
olive-skinned beauty had potential in his book. Lots of potential. He didn’t
want Jamie’s crazy antics to blow his chances before he knew if he had any.
Raised in a house filled with six younger brothers and no
sisters, women still perplexed Connor. Sometimes they loved a guy who only two
seconds earlier they’d hated. He couldn’t keep up.
Besides, his mother had
taught him early what Jamie’s education must have missed. A real man does not
disrespect women, even when they cussed like sailors. He’d grown to appreciate
Bridgette Maher’s wise sayings more now that he was out of her house. Treat a woman like a lady and she’ll never
turn into a nag.
With a twinkle in his eye, Jamie edged closer to the
irritated sergeant’s backside, a big cheesy smirk on his trouble-making face.
She tipped farther over the wall, the toes of her boots nearly off the ground
and still cussing a blue streak. No way was Connor getting close to that
action. He shook his head and mouthed a definite, No. Don’t do it.
Jamie’s eyes brightened with, Are you daring me, man?
Connor didn’t know whether to nod or shake his head. Either
way spelled trouble.
Jamie’s left eyebrow spiked into an incredibly wicked, Here goes. His arm lifted higher.
Connor shook his head, disgusted for letting
Jamie take a prank this far. He stepped forward to halt the wise guy before
things got anymore out of hand. Retrieving the clip in question would solve the
Sergeant’s problem and torpedo Jamie’s stand-up comedy once and for all.
“Excuse me, ma’am—”
Jamie’s perfectly white teeth flashed a big shitty grin. His
flattened hand lifted over the rump in question.
Apparently, Ramos hadn’t heard Connor yet, leaning over the
wall like she was. He was nearly behind her. “Ma’am, let me get that for—”
The sergeant tipped one booted foot to the sky and
exclaimed, “Finally. Got the damned thing.”
SMACK!
Crap. Sergeant
Ramos came off that wall so fast she landed in Connor’s arms. The deadly scopes
of a deadly sniper skewered her one man viewing audience.
Oh, sweet Mother Mary
and Joseph.
He gulped and caught a peripheral of his trouble-making
buddy. Jamie was on his knees. At the end of wall. Out of sight. Clear out of
sight.
Ramos could only see—him.
Those sizzling brown windows to a she-devil’s soul were
pointed straight up at—him.
Crap. I’ll be busted
back to private first class.
He should’ve pushed off. He should’ve been a gentleman and
apologized for the inappropriate contact. He should’ve done anything, but no.
Generations of hopeless romantics from the Emerald Isle had led him to this
pivotal moment. His fingers refused to unclench from her biceps. Looking down
into two dark pools of what felt like the strongest, bitterest, sweetest
coffee, Connor was doing good just to keep breathing.
Hot damn. If I’m
dying, it’s gonna hurt, but I’m going to heaven.
Equal rank or not, something about this diminutive spitfire
had stomped the hell out of his ego from the first moment he’d seen her. With
the meanest reputation in the squad, she could teach the drill sergeant’s How to Be an SOB class all by herself. Ramos
was a cherry bomb with a short fuse and right now, he was cannon fodder.
Nothing but.
“You want to die right here and now, Boston?” she hissed,
her shoulders rolling along with her swagger. How could a gal with such sexy
brown eyes be so mean and sound so tough? His eyes refused to move off of her,
even though her top lip was curled over a wicked Devil Dog bite.
And here he was holding her. Not just holding her, but chest
to breast kind of holding her, and either she didn’t mind the contact or he was
in for one helluva lesson in smack down, hand-to-hand combat. The woman was
pure muscle, her biceps as hard as her eyes. Contempt glittered there, and just
maybe something else. Mischief?
“Ahh, no, sir – I mean—no, ma’am—I mean—” He dropped his
hands and took a full step back to get out of her personal space, stuttering
like an idiot.
Jamie was still crouched with his hand clamped over his big
fat mouth he was laughing so hard. Right then and there, Connor should’ve
handed his buddy over, but real men don’t do that either.
Ramos stomped right back under Connor’s chin, her eyes dark
and deadly, full of the promise of nothing but pain. Maybe death. “You think
hitting another soldier’s ass is funny, do you?”
“No, ma’am, I do not.”
God, she was so damned gorgeous. Yeah, she radiated a
certain amount of radioactive hostility, and he was pretty sure he glowed
already, but damn. What a package. His nose filled with the lovely whiff of
roses and incense. How fitting. The sweetness of flowers mingled with the
unmistakable hint of burning ash. He’d been an alter boy. He ought to know.
That drab green T-shirt peeking up from her uniform didn’t
conceal the rounded landscape beneath from a man of his height, either.
Six-foot-three should be the one doing the intimidating instead of peering down
a woman’s shirt like he was. The thought of peeling her out of those desert
cammies tweaked what was left of his common sense. He wanted to touch. Hell, he
wanted to fondle, pet, and a whole lot more.
Should I pour on the
Maher charm?
Sizzling death glowered up at him, not even blinking once
and full on daring him to keep breathing.
Ah, maybe not.
The verbal assault commenced. “I’m gonna make you wish you
died during boot camp, you pig-faced, camel-lipped, piece of...”
On and on she went. He took it like a man. Almost. His jaw
kept moving, but sound had ceased coming out. Article 128 of the United States
Code of Military Justice flashed through his blood-deprived brain.
Question: Is a slap on the butt considered
sexual battery?
Answer: Damn straight.
Don’t touch. Don’t tell. And all that stuff.
Jamie howled, at last overcome by his own hysterics.
Ramos shot a scorching look over her shoulder. “You!”
The instant she looked way, the magic faded. Connor was
half-inclined to cup her chin and direct her gaze back to him. Just him. Not
Jamie. But he was afraid to touch her. She might be too hot for him to handle.
“Why don’t you grow up?” Kicking a boot scrape of sand in
Jamie’s face, she stalked off, which only made him laugh harder. The dumb ass
looked like he was having a heart attack the way his face was all screwed up.
Oddly, Connor felt a chill when Sergeant Ramos left. A chill
in Iraq? How’d that work? He watched her walk away, her dark brown ponytail
twitching side to side in time with her butt, both sassy as hell. Taking one
step forward to follow and apologize, he came to his senses and stopped short.
Not now. Let her cool off. Mad women were unpredictable.
“You shoulda... You shoulda....” Still laughing his guts
out, tears streamed over Jamie’s cheeks. “I mean it. You shoulda seen the look
on your face!”
“You could get me court-martialed,” Connor ground out, even
as his gaze returned to the command tent where Ramos had gone. He wasn’t so
much scared as interested. Maybe it was all those blond brothers he’d grown up
with, but dark-eyed girls always caught his attention. Hers seemed darker than
most, full of sparks, promise, and a whopping dose of cayenne. The moment he’d
seen her, he knew. They would spend time together.
“Oh, hell.” Jamie pulled himself onto the wall, dusting his
pants off. “Don’t worry. She won’t do anything. You’re safe.”
“Yeah, right.” Connor huffed out an aggravated sigh. “You
ever heard of friendly fire? She was an MP sniper, jerk-off. Now I gotta watch
my back the rest of my rotation.”
Jamie guffawed through another laughing attack. Connor had
half a mind to kick his friend’s ass if it would douse the hysterics, but he
doubted it would. Jamie was a fun-loving, risk-taking Hispanic who could charm
the socks off most ladies. Didn’t seem to have any effect on the sergeant,
though.
Finally, he turned semi-serious. “Don’t worry. I’ve got your
six. You know that, Bro.”
“Bullshit, you do,” Connor shot back at him. “You’ve got
nothing.”
“No, really. I’ve seen how you look at her.” Jamie almost
sounded sincere. “Listen, Connor. Remember how I told you I’d never seen her
before in my life, how lots of us Hispanics got the same last names only it
don’t mean we’re related? You know, like Martinez, Gonzales, Sanchez, Moreno,
Garcia?”
“So what?” Connor could feel it coming. The joke wasn’t over
yet.
Jamie winked. “I lied. That’s Izza. My sister.”
