Dear Reader,

We are delighted to present you with three brand-new stories proving that, from the battlefield to the home front, love can conquer all!

Merline Lovelace will take you into the jungles of passion with “A Military Affair,” the story of a U.S. Air Force sergeant whose recovery mission lands her in the arms of an ambitious photojournalist. After he’s captured the story of a lifetime, will he take her heart, too?

The determined army lieutenant in Lindsay McKenna’s “Comrades in Arms” believes a woman, especially one untrained in combat, can only be a detriment to his team. Until he faces the battle of his life—with her at his side.

In Candace Irvin’s “An Unconditional Surrender,” two passionate ex-lovers fight a mission side by side and learn in the flames of war what it means to be consumed by love.

We hope you enjoy this special collection of heroes and heroines who give their all for their country—including their hearts.

The Editors
Silhouette Books

MERLINE LOVELACE

A career air force officer, Merline Lovelace spent twenty-three years in uniform. She’s served at bases all over the world, including tours in Taiwan, Vietnam and at the Pentagon on the Joint Chiefs of Staff. She has produced one action-packed sizzler after another and now has over forty-five published novels. Merline lives with her husband in Oklahoma City, where she is working on her next novel.

LINDSAY MCKENNA

A homeopathic educator, Lindsay McKenna teaches at the Desert Institute of Classical Homeopathy in Phoenix, Arizona. When she isn’t teaching alternative medicine, she is writing books about love. She feels love is the single greatest healer in the world and hopes that her books touch her readers on those levels. Coming from an Eastern Cherokee medicine family, Lindsay was taught ceremony and healing ways from the age of nine. She creates flower and gem essences in accordance with nature and remains closely in touch with her Native American roots and upbringing.

CANDACE IRVIN

As the daughter of a librarian and a sailor, it’s no wonder Candace Irvin’s two greatest loves are reading and the sea. After spending several exciting years as a naval officer sailing around the world, she finally decided it was time to put down roots and give her other love a chance. To her delight, she soon learned that writing romance was as much fun as reading it. Candace believes her luckiest moment was the day she married her own dashing hero, a former army combat engineer with dimples to die for. The two now reside in Arkansas, happily raising three future heroes and one adorable heroine—who won’t be allowed to date until she’s forty, at least.

MERLINE LOVELACE

LINDSAY MCKENNA

CANDACE IRVIN

IN LOVE AND WAR

Contents

A MILITARY AFFAIR
Merline Lovelace

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Epilogue

A MILITARY AFFAIR

Merline Lovelace

To those who serve.

May you all come home safely.

Dear Reader,

My father, two sisters, brother and husband all served in uniform, as did I for twenty-three years. I grew up listening to my dad’s tales of missions he flew during World War II. Those tales took on a whole new meaning years later, when I received orders to Vietnam.

So when you read this story, you’ll understand why the theme is very close to my heart. Having served in a combat zone, I have only the greatest respect for the dedicated, incredibly skilled men and women who travel all over the globe to bring home America’s fallen warriors.

All my best,

Chapter 1

“Raven One, this is Raven Three.”

The call came through Tess’s earpiece, soft and staticy in the stillness of the hot, steamy afternoon. Reaching for the radio clipped to the shoulder of her green Nomex flight suit, she keyed her mike.

“This is Raven One. Go ahead Raven Three.”

“Unidentified nape at nine o’clock.”

Nape. Her team’s slang for naked ape, or human.

She spun around, her boot heels crunching on the crushed shells that constituted the only runway on this tiny atoll in the South Pacific. Blinking salty perspiration from her eyes, she searched the jungle edging the airfield.

“I make him at fifty meters,” her team member radioed.

Seconds later, Tess spotted the figure moving through the dappled shadows. He was on the dirt track that led from town, if you could call the dozen or so thatched huts perched on stilts a town.

“I’ve got him, Raven Three.”

Slowly, she brought her weapon to her shoulder. The high-powered scope fixed on the distant image and magnified it seventy times over.

She didn’t particularly like what she saw. The nape was tall. Lean. Scruffy as hell. His cheeks and chin sported several days of dark, bristly growth. His tropical-flowered shirt flapped open above wrinkled tan shorts. He wore decent-looking boots, but appeared to be missing one sock. What knotted Tess’s stomach muscles, though, was the camera looped around his neck.

The camera appeared ordinary enough. One of those digital jobbies that stored hundreds of images on one chip and downloaded directly to a computer. The kind every tourist seemed to have invested in these days. But the man who carried this one didn’t look like your average tourist, which made Tess wonder just why the heck he was heading to the tiny airstrip and what he wanted pictures of.

The area threat briefing she and her team had received before departing Hawaii had stressed that relations between the United States and the government of the Namuoto Islands had improved considerably since its bloody, ten-year-long civil war had ended in 1998. But here, at the northern tip of the island chain, anti-American sentiment still ran high. Understandable, Tess supposed, given the U.S.-backed covert operation involving South African mercenaries that had failed so miserably and cost so many lives. The handful of residents on this tiny atoll had been less than welcoming when a plane bearing United States Air Force markings had swooped down yesterday.

Tess flicked a quick look over her shoulder at the C-130 Hercules she and her team were charged with protecting. The four-engine transport was parked at the far end of the runway, poised for a fast takeoff. Its crew waited in the shade of the wing. Edgy and anxious, they were sweating out the return of the recovery team that had climbed up the island’s jagged volcanic peak to the crash site of the World War II-era Corsair.

The team should be starting back down the mountain any time now. They’d hacked their way up to the mangled wreckage of the single-seat fighter before noon. Their initial radio report indicated little had survived the crash and subsequent detonation of the plane’s ordnance, not to mention six decades of scavenging by wild creatures. All they’d recovered from the site were a few bits of human bone. Still, those fragments represented a fallen warrior who’d served his country during a time of great crisis. It was Tess’s job to make sure no one—including the small cadre of al-Qaeda-trained terrorists believed to be operating out of base camps in neighboring Indonesia—messed with the people or the plane sent to transport this fallen warrior home for long-overdue honors and burial.

Her glance cut back to the nape. He looked harmless, but she’d long ago learned never to trust appearances. Anyone in her line of work who did was asking for a bullet.

“I’m moving up for an intercept,” she told her team. “Raven Two and Four, maintain your positions. Raven Three, back me up.”

“Roger, chief.” Danny Boyle’s Alabama drawl drifted through her earpiece. “I’ve got you covered.”

Tess lowered her weapon and tucked it into the crook of her arm. The M249 SAW—Squad Automatic Weapon—was outfitted with a Special Ops package, yet was still light enough to be carried easily and fired from the hip, even when loaded with a 200-round ammunition box. After six years as a military cop, Tess could take the SAW apart and clean it in six minutes flat. After three additional years as one of the air force’s elite Phoenix Ravens, she could reassemble it again in her sleep. The butt of the weapon rested lightly on her hip as she crossed the clearing toward the nape.

The brutal training program every Phoenix Raven went through was designed to provide a working knowledge of everything from international law to unconventional and highly effective close-combat techniques. In what was touted as the equivalent of graduate program for supercops, instructors took law enforcement and security to the next level. In the field, however, the basic operational principle of every security force operative was to begin at the lowest end of the force continuum and escalate only as necessary.

In this case, Tess decided, she’d start with a simple command.

“That’s far enough!” she shouted. “Stop where you are.”

Relief zinged through her when the nape halted at the edge of the airfield clearing. Her mission pre-brief had stressed that the Namuotan population consisted of four diverse ethnic groups who spoke some two hundred different dialects. She’d been warned to expect communications problems. Thankfully she found that this particular islander understood English. Either that, or he had a healthy respect for the SAW.

Keeping her finger light on the trigger, Tess approached him. He didn’t appear any more reputable up close than he had from a distance. His black hair stood up in uneven spikes. Red shot through the whites of his eyes. His shirt looked as if he’d slept in it for the past week.

“Identify yourself, please.”

“I’m Quinn. Peter Quinn.”

Tess searched her memory for mention of anyone by that name in the mission brief and came up blank.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Quinn?”

He bent an elbow and made as if to dig into the pocket of his shorts. “I’m with the…”

“No sudden moves!” she snapped, whipping up the SAW. “And no reaching into any pockets.”

“Look, lady…”

“It’s sergeant. Staff Sergeant Teresa Hamilton, United States Air Force. Now turn around, plant your palms against that tree, and spread your legs.”

Scowling, he looked her up and down. His reddened, whiskey-colored eyes took in every one of her five feet, two inches before fixing on the naturally curly auburn hair that tended to go wild in this steamy heat. She’d mashed her blue beret emblazoned with the Ravens’ unit insignia down over the thick mane, but enough damp tendrils had escaped to frame her face and give her a deceptively fragile air. Fragile, that is, if you didn’t happen to notice the lethal arsenal she packed on her slender frame.

The nape noticed it. He definitely noticed. She saw his gaze drop from her face, skim down her front, and linger on her expandable baton in its leather jacket. The Taser clipped to her belt. The cross-hatched grip of the handgun poking from her underarm holster.

Tess let him look his fill before jerking her chin toward a tall palm. “Turn around, place your hands on that tree, and spread ’em.”

Swearing under his breath, Quinn turned. A whole lot faster than he should have, he realized in the next, blinding instant.

Fiery spikes drove through his skull and stabbed into eyeballs aching and sandpaper-rough from the home brew he’d swilled last night. Ten days on this dime-sized island and he still hadn’t figured out what the locals put into their beer to give it such a kick.

Gritting his teeth against the pain lancing through his skull, he planted his palms against the scaly trunk and widened his stance. Not far enough for the gun-toting GI Jane behind him, evidently. Hooking a boot around his right ankle, she jerked his foot over another eight or ten inches. Off balance, Pete used the tree for support while she patted him down.

And up.

And down again.

A snide comment on her thoroughness popped into his aching head. It popped right out again when she slipped a hand inside his shorts pocket and felt around.

Christ!

His lower body went on instant alert, but he wasn’t about to give her the satisfaction of knowing she’d gotten his attention. He stared at the tree trunk, determined to play it cool. Despite his best efforts, beads of sweat were trickling down his temples when she withdrew her hand.

“Was this what you were reaching into your pocket for, Mr. Quinn?”

Craning his neck, he aimed a glance over his shoulder. A red lace thong dangled from her fingers.

How the hell did that get into his pocket? More to the point, who’d put it there? The faces of a dozen different women swam through his head, some young, some old and seamed, all smiling.

No, wait! Those faces were from the wedding feast yesterday afternoon. The thong must have come after, but he was damned if he could remember when.

“I was reaching for my credentials,” he answered gruffly. “They’re in my other pocket.”

Her hand slid into his shorts again. Quinn swallowed. Hard. His reddened, sandpapery eyes drilled into the peeling tree trunk.

“You can turn around now.”

He turned more cautiously this time, not wanting to set off another artillery barrage inside his skull. The rumbles from the last one died slowly as he watched her unzip the leather case he never traveled without. Inside were his Palm Pilot with the notes he’d taken the past few weeks, his passport, and the credentials that identified him as freelance stringer for Associated Press.

“You’re a reporter?”

“Photo-journalist.”

“Do you live in Namuoto?”

“No. I live in L.A., but I’m temporarily based out of Hawaii.”

Her eyes were green, he noted, and decidedly unfriendly as she handed him back the case.

“What are you doing on this island?”

Even with the spikes pounding into his skull, Quinn understood her wariness. He’d covered the first six months of the war in Afghanistan, had seen the soldiers’ reactions when they’d heard an American had been captured fighting with the enemy. Had seen, too, the dangerous minefield of politics, religion, tribal loyalties and old hatreds the soldiers had had to negotiate.

This wasn’t Afghanistan, but Americans weren’t all that welcome in these parts, either. The scars from Namuoto’s decade-long civil war hadn’t completely healed yet. It had taken Pete Quinn ten days and untold quantities of beer to worm his way into the locals’ confidence.

“I came to Namuoto from Micronesia,” he said in answer to her question. “I’m working my way across the South Pacific, attempting to follow the trail of arms supplied by terrorist organizations.”

Her gaze went razor-sharp. “The trail led you here?”

He scratched at the bristles on his chin, wondering how much he should tell her. So far, all he’d sniffed out was a vague rumor of a cache stored in one of the caves honeycombing the volcanic peak. No one would verify the rumor, and the hours Quinn had spent scrambling up and down the damned mountain had been a waste of time and energy.

Well, not a total waste. He’d photographed the site where the World War II-era Corsair had plowed into the volcanic rock, thinking he might get a story out of it. He’d had no idea, though, that the U.S. had already requested permission from the Namuotan government to access the site. Hadn’t known until he’d surfaced from a drunken stupor a half hour ago that a recovery team had landed this very morning and was already up on the mountain.

“The trail led me here,” he admitted finally, “but it’s gone cold. Stone cold.”

“So what brought you out to the airstrip?”

The question surprised him. He would have thought the answer was obvious.

“I want in on the story.”

“Which story is that?”

“The Corsair that augered into the mountain. It should sell well with all the interest in the Second World War these days. I heard a recovery team is already up at the site.” He shook his head in disgust and ended up wearing a wince. “I can’t believe I missed out on their arrival, but I’ve shot the site, so I’ll get the team as they come down. In the meantime, I’ll shoot the C-130 and interview the—”

“Sorry,” she cut in, looking anything but. “This is a military affair. We brought a photographer along to document the recovery operation. No outside coverage is necessary or permitted.”

“Hold on a minute, Teresa.”

“It’s Tess to my friends. Sergeant Hamilton to you.”

She wanted to play hardball, did she? Fine by him.

“You’re standing on foreign soil here, Sergeant. You have no authority to prevent me from taking pictures or writing this story.”

“As a matter of fact, I have all the authority I need. The United States executed a repatriation agreement with Namuoto before we launched this mission. We’re recovering one of our own. We intend to accord him the dignity and honors he’s earned.”

“You accord the honors, I’ll document them.”

Disdain filled her green eyes. Her lip curled. Not enough for a real sneer, but pretty close.

“My definition of rendering honor to a fallen comrade doesn’t include letting an AP stringer cash in on the story and splash it across the headlines before his remains are positively identified and his surviving next of kin notified.”

The scathing remark got Quinn’s Irish up. “You have a problem with how I make my living, lady?”

“Yeah, I do. In this particular instance, anyway. Sorry you stand to lose a few bucks, Mr. Quinn, but this story is off limits.”

Well, damn. He was usually more careful about pushing the wrong buttons when he went after a story. He could only blame his clumsiness on the home-brewed poison he’d swilled down last night—and the fact that Staff Sergeant Hamilton, United States Air Force, was pushing a few of his buttons. Shoving a hand through his hair, he tried for conciliatory.

“Look, I understand where you’re coming from.”

“No, you don’t,” she shot back, her eyes darkening. “You couldn’t.”

Quinn’s instincts started pinging, the way they always did when he stumbled on a story within a story. Ignoring the hammering inside his skull, he raked another gaze down the sergeant’s face. His photographer’s eye noted the skin stretched taut over high cheekbones, the tight set to her jaw. There was more to this mission than Sergeant Quinn was willing to admit. Before he could probe deeper, however, she issued an ultimatum.

“No pictures,” she said flatly. “No story. Now amble on back to town before I confiscate your camera.”

The threat brought his simmering anger close to a boil. The sergeant must have seen how close. Casually, she brought the SAW’s barrel up a few inches.

“Move it, Quinn.”

His jaw locked. He threw another glance at the aircraft squatting at the end of the runway before zeroing in on the redhead again.

“You and I aren’t done, Hamilton.”

“Yes, we are. Move it.”

Tess kept the SAW leveled at his backside until he disappeared around a bend in the dirt track that passed for a road. When she went to thumb the safety on her weapon, she discovered her hand was shaking.

Damn! She had to stop taking everything about this mission so personally. Had to stop thinking about her grandfather.

Despite the stern admonition, she couldn’t quell a sharp stab of pain. She’d lost him just a few months ago. Larger than life, with a laugh that rumbled up from his chest, Big Mike Hamilton had been a hero—her hero—for as long as she could remember.

He’d also flown Corsairs during the Second World War. Right here, in the South Pacific. She’d grown up on stories of Pappy Boyington and his Black Sheep Squadron. Of dogfights over Tarawa, Iwo Jima, the Solomon Islands. Of all-out, diving attacks on Japanese warships. That could be one of her granddad’s squadron mates up there on the mountain. His wingman. His friend.

No way would Tess allow anyone to cash in on this mission. “That includes you,” she muttered to the slowly retreating reporter.

Not ten minutes later, she was forced to eat her own words.

The radio call came just as she was walking back to aircraft.

“Raven One! Raven One! This is Raven Five.”

Her throat went tight and dry. That was automatic rifle fire she heard in the background. Slapping a palm to her radio, she answered the urgent call.

“Go ahead, Five.”

“We’re taking fire.”

“From how many and who are they?”

“Sounds like ten, maybe twelve unfriendlies. No clue who they are, but they’re packing some serious iron.”

Tess’s stomach clenched. A dozen or so heavily armed individuals against a team consisting of a forensic anthropologist, an odontologist, an explosive ordnance tech, a photographer, a mortuary affairs specialist and one Phoenix Raven.

“We’ve got good cover, One, but we’re pinned down. We could use a little help up here.”

“It’s on its way.”

She was already racing for the C-130, her mind churning. This could be a feint. A ploy to draw her and the rest of the security team away from the aircraft. She had to leave sufficient firepower at the airstrip to protect the plane and its crew.

“Three and Four,” she barked into the radio, “you’ll stay with the plane. Two, you’ll go with me as far as the base of the mountain. You’ll have to provide back-up for both sites as needed.”

Boyle materialized at her side. “I’m with you, One.”

“We’ll take the RATT.”

The Rescue All Terrain Transport was a souped-up dune buggy specially modified for rescue-type operations. The Ravens liked the vehicle’s ability to climb sheer cliffs and plunge down ravines so much they’d modified a few for their own needs. The six fold-out stretchers had been replaced by side seats shielded by layers of Kevlar. A whole squad could squeeze in if necessary.

“I’ll brief the aircraft commander while you roll out the RATT and fire her up,” Tess told Boyle grimly. “Load her with the extra boxes of ammo.”

“Roger that, chief.”

Her boots crunching on shell, Tess raced toward the aircrew. They were standing now, alerted by the radio call from the recovery team. The aircraft commander’s jaw squared at Tess’s terse recap of her plan of action, but he knew better than to suggest he or any of his crew go along with her. They had their job. She had hers.

“I’ll bring the recovery team down, sir. When I do, I hope you have this baby revved up and ready to roll.”

“Count on it, Hamilton.”

Her cool confidence took a hit when the RATT rumbled down the aircraft’s rear ramp.

“She’s loaded and powered up,” Boyle told her, swinging out of the ATV’s driver’s seat, “but I can’t get the navigational finder to lock onto the team’s coordinates.”

“What?”

“She’s not taking a signal.” Frustrated, he pounded the instrument panel, as if a good, old-fashioned wallop would get the high-tech circuitry’s attention. “We’ll have to use our NavSat system.”

“Which only works when we find a big enough hole in the jungle canopy to take a fix,” Tess muttered.

She chewed on her lower lip. If they relied on the NavSat system they’d have to stop and get a directional reading whenever the canopy thinned enough to allow the satellite transmission. They didn’t have time for that. She needed a navigator, someone who knew his way up the mountain, and she needed one fast.

Swinging into the driver’s seat, Tess gunned the engine. “Climb aboard, Boyle. We’ll go get us a guide.”

The RATT threw up a plume of white dust as it sped down the crushed-shell runway, then cut across the clearing to the dirt track that led to town. Tess had made the trip into town earlier this morning, shortly after the C-130 touched down. She’d met with the island’s headman and forked over the two thousand dollars the U.S. had agreed to pay to park its aircraft on foreign soil for a few hours, then returned with the beefy fisherman the head-man had sent to guide the recovery team to the crash site.

She didn’t intend to go all the way to town for a guide this time. She figured she’d find one tramping along the dirt track.

Sure enough, he’d made less than a mile when they caught up to him. He turned at the muted roar of the dune buggy, watched it approach. Tess hit the brakes and fishtailed to a stop a scant yard away from his scuffed boots.

“You wanted in on the story, Quinn? All right, you’re in.”

He cocked his head, clearly suspicious of her abrupt about-face. “Why the sudden change of heart?”

“The recovery team’s taking fire.”

His red-rimmed eyes went from suspicious to sharp with interest. “Who from?”

“From a dozen or so hostiles, identity unknown at this time. But whoever they are, they’ve got my people pinned down. You said you’ve been up to the crash site. I need you to show me how to get there.”

“No problem. But I want an exclusive.”

“Dammit, Quinn…”

Shoving his hands in his pockets, he rocked back on his heels. “That’s the deal, Hamilton. Take it or leave it.”

She didn’t have time to argue. “All right, all right! You’ve got your exclusive. Now get in the vehicle.”

Chapter 2

Tess left Danny Boyle at the base of the volcanic peak. From there he could cover the recovery team’s descent or hotfoot it back to airstrip if the C-130 and its crew came under attack.

“Keep your head down and your backside covered, Dano.”

“That goes double for you, Chief.”

As soon as Boyle had hauled out his weapon and extra ammo, Tess aimed the all terrain vehicle up the jungle-covered slope. Beside her, Quinn braced both boots against the floorboard and grabbed the roll bar to keep from being tossed out as the RATT jounced over the roots of giant strangler vines and dodged rotting tree trunks.

The tropical rain forest’s dense canopy trapped the muggy heat and blocked all but a few stray beams of light. Green darkness surrounded them and the leafy underbrush was tough to penetrate. Making matters worse, the layers of thick, spongy vegetation had already swallowed the recovery team’s tracks. By sheer luck, Tess spotted a broken fern leaf. A few moments later, she drove over a hacked-off vine. Without Quinn’s terse directions, though, she would have lost precious minutes to backtracking and searching for additional signs of the route the team had taken.

All the while the RATT rattled up the steep slope, Tess monitored the recovery team’s situation. They’d scrambled into defensive positions and were still pinned down, although Raven Five was pretty sure he’d taken out at least two of the unfriendlies.

“They’re about twenty meters below us and to the east,” he advised Tess. “I’ll fire a smoke grenade to mark their position when you close in.”

“Roger, Five. Between us, we’ll generate a nice little crossfire.”

She glanced at Quinn, saw he’d heard her end of the exchange. Quickly, she filled him in on the rest.

“The jungle thins out when we hit the lava beds,” he warned. “We won’t have much cover.”

“How far to the lava beds?”

“Another five minutes or so.”

“Are they navigable?”

“Only on foot.”

She was already starting to see proof that they’d have to abandon the RATT. Lumps of glistening black poked through the spongy vegetation, creating more obstacles to steer around. All too soon the lumps swelled to rivers of black and the dense jungle canopy thinned enough for the rattle of gunfire to penetrate.

Her jaw tight, Tess took the all terrain vehicle as far as she could before the jagged rocks made the way impassible. Cutting the engine, she swung out of the vehicle and took a quick fix on their position.

The cone of the volcanic peak loomed directly above. Below, she saw in a fast sweep, the jungle rolled all the way down to the sea. She spotted the white scar of the airstrip off to the east. To the west was the town and a minute slice of palm-lined beach lapped by frothy waves. Beyond the beach was the sea, an endless expanse of shimmering turquoise topped by cotton-candy clouds.

Blowing out a breath at the deceptive serenity of the scene, she turned back to survey the steep precipice. No doubt about it. She’d have to scramble up the rest of the way on foot. Ripping open a box of ammo, she stuffed extra clips into the zippered pockets on the arms and legs of her flight suit.

“Stay with the vehicle,” she instructed Quinn.

“No way. You promised me an exclusive, remember? I’m going with you.”

“The hell you are.”

“If it’ll ease your mind, I was with the 101st Airborne at Kandahar.”

The fact that he’d spent some time in Afghanistan didn’t cut it with Tess. “You had a whole division of rangers covering your butt at Kandahar,” she pointed out acidly. “All you’ve got here is me.”

Quinn couldn’t help it. She sounded so tough and so damned superior, he had to pull her chain.

“You can cover my butt any time or any place you want to, sweetheart. The way you felt me up at the airstrip got me thinking we both might enjoy it.”

Her eyes flashed, and she looked ready to put a bullet through him on the spot. He must have some perverted death wish, Quinn decided. This slender, wild-haired Amazon was starting to turn him on.

Maybe it was the hair. The tendrils of dark red curled wildly around her face. From the look of the fat twist she’d stuffed up under her beret, the rest of it was thick and long and just made for a man to burrow his hands through.

Or it could have been her eyes. As vivid and green as the jungle, they looked out at him through a screen of red-tipped lashes.

The body that went with the hair and the eyes wasn’t too shabby, either. She certainly filled out a flight suit better than any other airman he’d come across in his years of covering military operations. Giving thanks for the form-fitting Nomex, Quinn stopped the scathing retort he saw her getting ready to deliver with a dry observation.

“Right now, though, I’d think you’d have other things on your mind besides my backside. Like getting to the recovery team.”

With an evil glare, she spun around and started up the treacherous lava bed.

As Tess scrambled up the jagged river of rock, the exchange of rifle fire above them grew louder. She took advantage of every scraggly palm and fan-shaped palmetto, not so much to protect herself but to keep the unfriendlies from detecting her approach.

Quinn dogged her heels, keeping up with more ease than she’d expected. He had stamina. She’d give him that. Even with all her conditioning and rigorous training, her cheeks were puffing in and out like a blowfish.

He also had the persistence of a dogfly and an ego that wouldn’t quit. She couldn’t believe the man had all but come on to her. Here. Halfway up a damned mountain. With the rattle of gunfire echoing above them.

Setting her jaw, Tess scrabbled for a hold on the smooth, jagged rock. Sweat drenched the armpits of her flight suit by the time she crouched in a crevice of shiny black rock and searched the craggy peak above through the SAW’s high-powered scope.

The team was up there, but hidden behind a wall of rocks. She could see the unfriendlies, though. They’d left their backs exposed, obviously not expecting an attack from the rear. Big mistake, Tess thought with savage satisfaction. Very big mistake.

Signaling Quinn to take cover, she propped her automatic rifle on a rock, cocked it, and keyed her mike. “I’m in position, Raven Five. You don’t need to paint the bastards. I’ve got them in my sight.”

“Roger, One.”

“Keep your heads down.”

“Will do.”

The SAW spat fire. A feral smile curved Tess’s lips as bullets traced a path across the rock and cut into the hostiles. They whirled, tried to pinpoint the new source of attack, and found themselves caught in a murderous crossfire. One went down with a scream. His pals dragged him behind a rock and tried to return fire.

At that point, Raven Five and the others opened up again from above. Tess heard the stutter of his automatic weapon accompanied by the bam-bam-bam of the handguns carried by the team members.

It didn’t take the hostiles long to decide they’d had enough. They scrambled away, firing as they went. Gradually, the crack of rifle fire and the splat of bullets digging into rock died. Tess held her position, her muscles coiled and her finger on the trigger, until instinct told her it was safe to move.

She started to get to her feet. A scrabble of sound behind her had her twisting violently to face the threat. Quinn froze and stared down the barrel of her rifle.

“Sorry,” she muttered, lowering her weapon. “I forgot you were there.”

He blew out a breath. “That’s the second time you’ve aimed that thing at my midsection, Hamilton. How about we don’t go for three?”

“Fine by me. Just don’t get in my way.”

The response was a little less than gracious considering how he’d guided her through the jungle, but she was too wired to care. Her mouth set, she started up the slope.

The recovery team scrambled down to meet her. Dr. Peggy Courtland, a forensic anthropologist and the team’s leader, gripped a blue steel Beretta in one sweaty fist.

“Boy, are we glad to see you, Tess.”

“Same here, doc.” Her gaze swept the small group. “Everyone here?”

“All present and accounted for. Except our guide. The guy turned tail and ran at the first shot.”

“Anyone hurt?”

“A few scratches and cuts. Nothing that needs attention right now.” Courtland’s gaze went to Quinn, who had his digital camera to his eye. “Who’s he?”

“A reporter.”

“What’s he doing here?”

“I’ll explain after we get the team down to the plane. Let’s go, folks.”

The anthropologist shook her head in quick protest. “We can’t leave our equipment behind.”

“You’ll have to. Whoever took those potshots at you might be re-grouping as we speak. Or they could decide to head down the mountain and take out the plane. We have to move out, and fast.”

“You don’t understand.” She thrust a hand through her short, sweat-streaked blond hair. “When those guys attacked, we dropped everything and scrambled for cover. The remains we recovered are up there along with our equipment. We can’t leave them behind.”

No, Tess decided grimly. They couldn’t.

That could well be one of her grandfather’s squadron mates up there. She owed it to him, to every man and woman who served their country, to see he was brought home and laid to rest at last.

“I’ll retrieve the box,” she said curtly. “You folks start back down to the plane. Go with them, Travers.”

The muscled Raven who’d accompanied the team didn’t want to leave her. She could read the reluctance in his face. But, like her, he knew his duty. The safety of the plane and crew, including this recovery team, took first priority.

“You’ll find the RATT parked where this lava rock gives way to jungle,” Tess informed him. “Boyle is waiting further down, at the base of the mountain.”

He nodded. “Let’s hustle, people.”

Tess had scrabbled up a good ten yards or so before she realized Quinn was behind her. Exasperated, she twisted around to blast him but he got off the first shot.

“Save your breath. I’m coming with you.”

Her lip curled. No doubt about it this time. It was definitely a sneer.

“Is there anything you won’t do for a story, Quinn?”

“If there is, I haven’t bumped up against it yet. Better get it in gear, Hamilton. Unless I miss my guess, our daily deluge is only minutes away.”

A quick glance over her shoulder had Tess stifling a groan. In the mere minutes since she’d last checked their position, the cotton-puff clouds had turned dark and threatening. Blown by a breeze that felt blessedly cool on her face, the thunder-heads scudded in above a sea that was now gray and choppy.

Great! Just great! She had armed unfriendlies possibly lurking nearby. A thoroughly obnoxious reporter dogging her heels. And now, what looked like a first-class tropical storm about to dump on her. Muttering a curse that would have shocked even her salty-tongued granddad, Tess continued up the steep slope.

As Quinn had predicted, the sky split open just minutes later.

The rain didn’t bathe the two climbers in cool, refreshing mist or drift down in gentle streams. The fat, bloated drops dive-bombed out of the clouds and hit with the force of hailstones. In the process, they made the rocks so slick that Tess slid down a foot or more for every yard she climbed.

The first time she slipped, her fire-retardant Nomex flight suit protected her knees. The second time, she sliced a palm on a razor-sharp outcropping of black rock. Cursing, she swiped the bloody cut against the leg of her flight suit and pressed on.

Quinn wasn’t faring any better, she saw in a quick glance over her shoulder. Those wrinkled shorts didn’t provide anywhere near the protection of her flight suit. Blood mixed with rain to run in pale-pink rivulets from a gash in his left knee, and he was sporting the beginnings of a nasty bruise on his right.

Home-based in Hawaii, Tess knew these tropical storms blew over almost as fast as they blew in. She hated to delay retrieving the recovery box and heading back down to the plane, even for a few minutes, but they couldn’t make much headway on these wet, slippery rocks. Wiggling around, she called back to Quinn.

“We’d better find a spot to hole up in until the storm blows over.”

He looked up, blinking the rain from his eyes, and surveyed the steep grade above her. “Best I recall, there’s a ledge a little farther up, with a good-sized overhang.”

With the way her luck was going today, Tess thought grimly, the unfriendlies had taken shelter from the slashing rain on the same ledge.

Signaling Quinn to stay put, she crawled up another few yards. Her fingers closed around a loose piece of lava rock. With a hooking, over-arm throw, she lobbed it onto the ledge. Her finger tight on the trigger of her automatic rifle, she waited for a startled shout, a scrabble of boots, a burst of gunfire.

None came.

Relieved but still wary, she inched up and confirmed with a quick, visual sweep that the ledge housed no other inhabitants. None of the nape variety, anyway.

Grunting with the weight of her equipment, Tess hauled herself onto the rock shelf and collapsed. She lay on her back for a moment, panting, while the rain pelted into her face. As soon as she gathered her strength, she’d roll onto her side and give Quinn the all clear.

She should have known the blasted man wouldn’t wait for her signal. Flexing an impressive set of muscles under his now-tattered shirt, he, too, hauled himself onto the ledge and collapsed. Right on top of her.

The breath she’d just sucked into her tortured lungs whooshed right out. She pulled it in again and waited for Quinn to roll off. Instead, he settled his weight more evenly over hers and pressed her into the rock.

“Well, well. Isn’t this cozy?”

The nasty gleam in his whisky-colored eyes told her he intended to milk the awkward situation for everything it was worth.

“I wouldn’t get too comfortable if I were you,” Tess drawled. “You’re in a pretty vulnerable position at the moment.”

“Is that right?”

“That’s right.”

All it would take was one knee to the groin, one twist of her hips, and she could send him over the edge. She knew it. He knew it.

Tess was tempted. Lord, she was tempted! The guy was really starting to get on her nerves.

And under her skin.

To her consternation, she felt little pinpricks of sensation at every point where his body pressed into hers. He packed some weight onto his tall, lean frame. She could feel him along every inch of her body. Disconcerted by the way her nerves jumped at every contact point, she shifted her hips and glared up at him.

“I’m not here to play games, Quinn. Don’t think you’re going to add another trophy to your collection.”

“Trophy?”

“What else would you call that red lace thong? Unless, of course,” she added with a saccharine-sweet smile, “you’re into cross-dressing.”

Her tone implied she wouldn’t be at all surprised. Quinn answered with a wicked grin. “Nope, I’m not into cross-dressing. I am, however, into undressing. Ever get naked and fool around in a tropical rainstorm, Hamilton?”

Tess knew he was goading her, knew he’d no more strip down and leave himself vulnerable to attack at this moment than she would. Still, the mere suggestion raised some pretty potent images in her mind. She’d fingered more than just a few loose coins when she’d slipped her hand into the pockets of his khaki shorts.

Sternly banishing the memory of his hard thigh and seriously impressive equipment, she blew out an exasperated breath. “Enough of this nonsense, Quinn. How about we get out of the rain and behind some cover before one of those unfriendlies lines us up in his gun sights?”

With an agility he’d already proven during the arduous climb, he rolled to his feet and reached down a hand to help her up. Tess wasn’t too proud to take it. With the SAW and the extra ammo she’d stuffed in her pockets, her equipment weighed almost as much as she did.

The overhang provided some protection from the pelting rain. The fissures at the back of the ledge offered more. Most of the cracks were narrow, barely big enough for vegetation to take root and sprout, but one appeared wide enough to squeeze through.

“Looks like a cave of sorts,” Tess murmured, examining the opening.

“It probably is. This whole mountain’s riddled with them. I think the molten lava trapped air pockets when the volcano erupted who knows how many millennia ago. Every time the earth shifts, new fissures like these open up.”

She speared a glance at the drop beyond the ledge. From here, it looked a long way down. The idea of this narrow slice of rock shifting under her feet didn’t particularly thrill Tess at the moment.

“Does the earth move often around these parts?”

As soon as the question was out, she wished it back. Quinn, of course, took it exactly the way it wasn’t intended. His brows waggled. A lecherous grin creased his whiskered cheeks.

“Not often enough, sweetheart.”

“Oh, for pity’s sake! Give it a break, will you?”

“I’ll think about it,” he tossed back, unrepentant, just before sticking his head inside the fissure.

“Quinn!”

She leaped forward, intending to hook the waistband of his shorts and jerk him back. Someone who’d gone into Kandahar with the 101st should damned well have more sense than to poke his mug into a cave that hadn’t been cleared.

No one pumped a bullet into him, however, and Tess let her hand drop before she got into his shorts. Again.

“This one looks pretty deep,” he announced. “And dry.”

He wedged in sideways. Muttering under her breath at the risks he took, Tess followed.

“Move away from the entrance.” His impatient order echoed hollowly from deep inside the dim interior. “You’re blocking the light.”

“Yes, sir. Right away, sir.”

If Quinn heard the sarcastic reply, he didn’t respond in kind. In fact, he didn’t say anything at all for some moments.

Tess used the short interval to prop her weapon against the rock wall. Water dripped from her hair into her eyes. Rain had drizzled down the back of her neck. She felt as though she’d taken a bath fully clothed.

There wasn’t much she could do about her soaked socks and boots at the moment, but at least she could get her wet hair out of her eyes. Pulling off her blue beret, she shoved it into the breast pocket of her flight suit. A quick tug released the plastic clip that held her hair up and off her shoulders. Using her fingers, she combed the fly-away tendrils back from her face. Once the clip was in place again and her hair semi under control, she squinted into the gloom.

“Quinn?”

He didn’t answer. His continuing silence was starting to make her nervous. Quietly, she reached for the SAW and checked the safety. Her finger was inching toward the trigger when Quinn emerged from the darkness.

His shirt hung open, gaudy and tattered. His knee still trickled a trail of watery red. But it was the deep, tight grooves bracketing his mouth that stopped her breath.

“We may be in trouble here,” he said grimly. “Deep trouble.”

Chapter 3

Tess didn’t like the sound of that terse pronouncement. At all. She searched the darkness behind Quinn but saw only shadows. Her glance zinged back to him.

“Just what kind of trouble?”

“Remember me telling you that the trail of terrorist-supplied arms I’ve been following had gone cold?”

“Yes.”

“It just heated up. This cave is a damned arsenal.”

“Great! Just what I needed to hear right now.”

“Take a look.”

He flattened against the rock wall to give her room to edge by. Her heart thumping, Tess squeezed past him and moved deeper into the dim interior. Barely enough light filtered through the narrow opening to illuminate the dark shapes stacked one on top of the other at the rear of the cave.

She couldn’t read the Chinese markings on the cases, but from their size and shape she had a hunch they contained AK-47 assault rifles, 20-caliber machine guns and mortars. The smaller boxes had to be ammo.

Two larger crates lay off to the side. The lid of one had been pried open. Tess scooped out a handful of packing material and found herself staring down at the weapon U.S. intelligence officials had dubbed the Red Parakeet, Tweet for short. It was a Chinese knock-off of the U.S. Army’s Stinger—a man-portable, shoulder-launched, heat-seeking missile. Despite its small size and simple “fire-and-forget” operability, the Tweet could knock a 747 out of the sky.

Or a C-130 transport.

The thought made her throat go dry. She scooped out more of the packing material and saw there were six of the missiles, securely mounted one above the other in special racks. Their launch tube lay nestled at the bottom of the crate.

Quinn materialized at her shoulder. “Are those what I think they are?”

“If you’re thinking Stingers, you’re close.”

With a low whistle, he angled his body to let in as much light as possible and snapped a half dozen shots. Tess barely heard the digital camera’s whirr. She was thinking hard and fast.

“I’ll have to rig up some kind of delayed fuse,” she murmured, more to herself than him. “Something that will give us enough time to get down the mountain before this stuff blows.”

He lowered the camera. “Come again?”

“The guys who stashed this stuff here could return at any time. I’m not real keen about letting them aim one of these Tweets at our aircraft when it takes off.”

“So you’re going to blow the whole cache?” he asked incredulously.

“That’s the general idea. I’d stack a few crates at the entrance of the cave and try to fire into them from a safe distance, but the angle’s all wrong. I’d be shooting up instead of down.”

“So what’s the plan?”

“I’m thinking a delayed fuse of some sort. Or maybe…” Thoughtfully, she stroked her fingertips along a small, sleek missile. “Maybe I’ll just generate a little heat for this baby to lock onto. Yeah, that would work.”

“Christ, Hamilton, have you ever fired one of those?”

“There’s a first time for everything. Besides, I hear they’re idiot-proof.”

“Oh, yeah?” Planting his hands on his hips, Quinn blew that theory all to hell. “Tell that to the kid from the 101st I saw loaded onto a chopper in a body bag. He managed to detonate his supposedly idiot-proof missile before it left the launch tube.”

That didn’t sound good. Not good at all. Tess didn’t see any other choice, though. The missiles were the only option at this point.

“Look, I’m going to go up and retrieve the recovery box. Do me a favor and empty as many of these crates as you can. Stack them by the entrance to the cave, then make tracks down the mountain, okay?”

His jaw set. “No, it’s not okay. It’s not anything close to okay.”

“What’s your problem?”

“If you’re climbing up,” he said flatly, “I’m climbing up. So we’d both better start emptying crates. We’ll set them ablaze on our way back down.”

“Have it your way,” Tess snapped. She was tired of trying to save his scruffy hide.

The tropical storm ended as dramatically as it had begun. One minute, rain was sheeting down outside the cave. The next, the clouds parted, the sun blazed out, and Tess was steaming in her ankle-to-neck flight suit. The heavy auburn hair she’d wrung out and clipped up came loose again. It straggled down and lay hot and damp on her neck as she emptied crate after crate. Between them, she and Quinn managed to make a sizeable mound at the entrance to the cave.

“I just hope this stuff burns long enough for us to get down the mountain,” she worried.

“And hot enough for the Tweet to lock onto,” Quinn muttered, throwing another crate on top of the would-be bonfire. “There, that’s the last of them. Ready to climb?”

“Ready.”

He hefted his camera. She slung the SAW onto her shoulder. They’d pick up the Tweet when they came back to light the bonfire.

With the sun beating down on her back, Tess found a foothold in the black rock and edged off the narrow ledge. The lava still felt dangerously slick in places, but was drying fast. She climbed swiftly, propelled by the gnawing worry that the unfriendlies might return with reinforcements at any moment. Quinn was right at her heels when she reached the spot where the recovery team had been ambushed.

Equipment lay scattered everywhere. Shovels. Picks. The acetylene torch necessary to cut through the wreckage. A laptop computer. A box of calipers used, Tess guessed, to measure bone fragments.

Ignoring the scattered equipment, she made straight for a gray knapsack and went down on one knee. To her relief, the small wooden recovery box was nestled safely inside.

Relief gave way almost instantly to a stinging combination of sorrow and regret. This was all that remained of a man who’d gone off to war in defense of his country. Maybe he’d left a young wife behind. And children who’d grown up with only a few faded black-and-white photos to shape their memories of their father. Parents who’d never known what had happened to the son they’d sent off to war.

Slowly, Tess pushed to her feet. Spine straight, shoulders back, wrist as stiff as a pine plank, she brought the fingers of her right hand to her brow. She held the salute for several seconds in silent tribute to a fallen comrade before slicing her hand down to her side.

Only then did the soft whir of Quinn’s camera pierce her intense concentration. A snarl rose in her throat. She whirled, ready to rip the damned camera out of his hands and smash it against the rocks.

Quinn read the fury in her face. His own expression hardening, he issued a soft, lethal warning. “Don’t even think about it.”

“You’re starting to piss me off, fella. You want to know what you can do with that damned camera?”

“I’ve got a good idea. You wouldn’t be the first one to suggest it, either.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

“What’s your problem?” he countered. “We made a deal, remember?”

“The deal didn’t include me,” she spat, snatching up the knapsack.

Oh, yeah, baby, Quinn thought. It did.

More and more his gut told him Sergeant Tess Hamilton formed the heart of his story. Or maybe that was his libido talking. No doubt about it, the woman had snagged his interest. Not once, but twice. The first time when she’d poked her hand into his pockets. The second when he’d landed on top of her down there on the ledge.

He could still see rain slick on her cheeks. See the surprise in her green eyes, their dark red lashes spiked together with the wet. He’d had to battle the almost overwhelming urge to dip his head and take a taste of her full, ripe mouth.

Matter of fact, he was still battling the urge.

That surprised him, considering his tastes usually ran to softer, more cuddly females. He’d never tangled with one who probably knew a dozen different ways to inflict bodily pain using only her thumbs.

Wondering how it would feel if she applied her thumbs to one or two of his more strategic pressure points, Quinn looped the camera strap over his head. Maybe he’d give her a call when he got back to Hawaii. Catch her between missions and find out if she looked as sexy in civilian clothes as she did in that figure-hugging green bag. Better yet, find out how she looked wearing nothing at all. His gaze lingered on her trim rear as she stood with her back to him and radioed the C-130.

“Raven Two, this is Raven One.”

“Go ahead, One.”

“I’ve secured the recovery box. Has the team returned to the plane?”

“That’s a rog, One. The gang’s all here. We’re just waiting on you.”

“Tell the aircraft commander to rev the engines. I’ve got one more little task to attend to, then I’ll join you.”

When a bullet splatted into a rock just inches from his head, Quinn’s vague plans for the future morphed into gut-clenching immediacy. The bad guys were back. It was time to get the hell out of Dodge!

The next moments were a frantic blur as he and Tess bumped and jumped back down to the cave. Quinn got in a couple of quick shots of her loading one of the thin, twenty-two-pound heat-seeking missiles into the launcher before he helped her set fire to the wooden crates.

“Okay,” she panted, thrusting the tube at his chest. “You take the Tweet and head down the slope. I’ll cover you.”

Smoke billowed out from the burning crates. The air above cracked with the sound of rifle fire. Quinn’s eyes stung and his heart thumped against the launcher, but he didn’t budge.

“How about I cover you?”

“I’m a whole lot better shot than you are.”

“Yeah, well, you haven’t seen my pictures yet, lady.”

It was a feeble joke, but the best he could do under the circumstances. He knew she was right, knew she was doing the job she’d been trained to do, but everything in him balked at the thought of leaving her.

Another fusillade from above underscored the danger of staying where they were. He was jeopardizing her as well as her mission by delaying the inevitable. Clutching the thirty-plus pounds of missile against his chest, he prepared to scuttle over the ledge.

Her fist gripped his arm. In full commando mode, she held him in place and issued one last instruction. “Get down to where the slope levels off and you have some cover. If I don’t follow you within the next ten minutes, fire the missile.”

“No way, lady.”

Her eyes burned into his. “Think how many innocent lives these weapons could take. Think how many they may have already taken. Fire the missile, Quinn!”

Before he could answer, she spun around and let rip with the SAW.

“Go now!” she shouted between bursts of fire. “Now!”

She’d left him no choice. He went.

With the Tweet cradled awkwardly in his arms, he half stumbled, half slid down the lava bed. The jagged edges sliced at his calves. Bullets zinged down all around him. Quinn now knew exactly how the emperor must have felt when one of his more intrepid young subjects pointed out that he wore no clothes.

He was naked. Absolutely naked.

His blood hammered in his ears and his breath came in wheezing pants by the time the lava thinned and the jungle took over. He dodged behind a tree, whipped around and searched the rocks above.

The smoke from their bonfire was thick now, so thick it formed a hazy cloud. He couldn’t see the ledge. Couldn’t see Hamilton.

How long had it taken him to reach the trees? Three minutes? Five? Where was she?

His hands shaking, he swung the Tweet out and held it at arm’s length. It looked simple enough to operate. The sight was at the front, right next to a square, boxy antenna. The arming mechanism consisted of a single lever. The trigger hung down from the barrel.

If he remembered right from those weeks he’d spent with the 101st, all he had to do was activate the antenna, aim it at the heat source, wait until it pinged to signal a lock, and fire. Once launched, the missile would look for the infrared light put out by the targeted heat source and follow it in.

That was the general idea, anyway.

Resting the launcher on his shoulder, Quinn sweated for another minute. Two. Three.

The breeze off the ocean caught the smoke, blew it down in gusts. He wanted to curse the gray blanket but knew it provided Tess the cover she so desperately needed.

His heart pounded out the seconds, the minutes.

Where was she?

His muscles twitching at each crack of rifle fire, he pushed up the lever to activate the antenna. It hummed in his ear. Hands sweaty on the slick tube, he peered into the scope and aimed for what he hoped was the source of the gray smoke.

Suddenly, the launcher emitted a distinctive ping. Quinn experienced a second of sheer exultation. Damned if the radar hadn’t locked onto the burning crates. His hand went to the trigger.

The next instant, it dropped.

No way he was firing the missile. And he wasn’t sitting here on his butt while GI Jane fought off a small army alone. Flicking the lever to de-activate the radar, he hefted the missile higher on his shoulder and started back up the slope.

He’d climbed maybe five yards when a figure in silver-green emerged from the haze of smoke above him. She had the gray knapsack slung over one arm, the SAW over the other. She’d lost the clip that held her hair. The damp, curling mane made a flag of dark copper against the glistening black rock.

Quinn was grinning like an idiot when she covered the last few yards toward him. The sight of several more figures plunging down out of the smoke wiped the grin right off his face.

“Fire the Tweet!” she shouted, racing toward him. “Now!”

The lever went up. The radar hummed. Quinn aimed, waited two agonizing lifetimes for the ping that indicated a lock. Fired.

He felt the jolt when the missile left the tube. Heard the hiss when the launch engine separated. Saw the trail of white smoke as the rocket cut through the sky in a graceful arc.

Then he dropped the launcher, grabbed Teresa’s hand, and ran like hell.

The first explosion sounded like a deep, bellowing roar of outrage from Vulcan, god of the underworld. The second was even louder.

Tess spun around, saw the jagged peak come apart, and punched a fist in the air.

“Yes!”

Quinn didn’t even bother to look. He was more concerned with putting as much distance as possible between them and any of their pursuers who managed to survive the shower of rock and debris from the disintegrating mountain. Yanking on Teresa’s arm, he jerked her after him. Side by side, they dodged the humped roots of giant strangler figs and whipped around ferns the size of small houses. They’d traveled only a few dozen yards before her radio cackled.

“Raven One. This is Raven Two.”

Pulling her arm free of Quinn’s grip, Tess fumbled for her mike. She didn’t key it fast enough for Boyle. He came back on, his Alabama drawl sharp with urgency.

“This is Raven Two, chief. Come in, please.”

“Raven One here. Go ahead, Two.”

“What in blue blazes is going on? From where we stand, it looks like the top of the mountain just blew off.”

“That’s what it looks like from here, too.”

“Was that your doing?”

“Actually,” she panted, aiming a goofy smile at the man chugging along beside her, “it was Quinn’s.”

“Come again?”

“The newspaper guy. Our guide. Look, I’ll explain things when we get to the plane. Ask the a/c to have the plane ready to roll, will you? We may have a few unfriendlies hot on our tail.”

“The props are turning as we speak.”

Quinn didn’t think he’d ever seen a more beautiful sight than the C-130 Hercules sitting at the end of the crushed shell runway. Its four turboprop engines stirred up clouds of white dust. The short, squat fuselage vibrated with restrained energy, like a champion quarter horse at the gate, ready and eager to run. The rear ramp was up, but he saw three or four figures spread out beside the gaping side hatch. They had their weapons at the ready and were scanning the jungle in different directions.

Beside Quinn, a now seriously gasping Tess keyed her mike. “Raven Two, this is…One. We’re coming in…at…eleven o’clock.”

The figures whirled, searched the tangle of trees. “We have you, One. Come home to papa.”

When they burst out of the jungle and raced across the clearing toward the airstrip, Quinn did the emperor thing again. He felt totally exposed, completely naked.

Like Tess, his breath was coming in gasps. A sharp little stiletto plunged into his side with every pant. But when he dropped back, intentionally lagging a few yards behind, it wasn’t because he was fast running out of steam. It was to shield her back.

She wasn’t having any of it. Whirling, she grabbed his arm and dragged him with her. They were within shouting distance of the transport when the crack of rifle fire split the air and a plug of dirt flew up a yard or so to the left.

“Down!”

Tess dropped to her knees, dragging him with her, then went flat on her face. Quinn’s nose hit the dirt just as her team answered with a barrage of fire.

Over the whine of the Herc’s engines, he caught the thud of boots. Within seconds, a small phalanx had planted itself between them and the jungle. Quinn wasn’t stupid. He kept his head down. But the newsman in him had him reaching for the camera still looped around his neck.

Thank God for technology. He used to tote a monster Nikon, along with a dozen different lenses, various filters, and a month’s supply of film. This little digital miracle with its quartersized spare disks had replaced two suitcases of equipment. Contorting his body, Quinn snapped off four quick shots before Tess shouted in his ear.

“Okay! Let’s hustle.”

They made for the open side hatch. Hands reached down to haul Tess up. Quinn provided an assist by planting both palms under her bottom and heaving. He flopped inside next and had barely rolled out of the way when the rest of her team vaulted in.

By the time he scrambled to his feet, the plane was already rolling. Tess was suspended half out the hatch, hanging onto a cargo strap with one hand and firing her SAW with the other. Her team crowded beside her and provided protective fire while the Herc gained power.

Quinn didn’t let the opportunity pass. He got in several fantastic shots before the C-130’s nose went up and the tail dropped. Grabbing at the cargo netting draped over a pallet of equipment, he held on until the jungle fell away, the rattle of automatic fire died, and the transport soared into the sky.

For several moments, the only sound in the hold was the roar of the engines and the whistle of the wind coming through the open hatch. Only after the loadmaster cranked the hatch closed did one of Tess’s crew let out a wild whoop. The others pounded her on the back.

“That was some show you put on, One.”

“Yeah, it was.”

Raking her tangled hair out of her face, she turned to the bristly-cheeked journalist. Her green eyes were alive with the thrill of having beat the odds. “Way to go, Quinn.”

He didn’t even try to fight the urge this time. Wrapping both hands around her upper arms, he hauled her against his chest.

Her jaw dropped. Her eyes widened in surprise. While her crew watched with varying expressions of astonishment, Quinn bent her back over his arm and covered her mouth with his.

Chapter 4

Having made the flight from Hawaii to Namuoto just yesterday, Tess knew the return trip would take sixteen hours, with a stop en route at Wake Island to refuel. Plenty of time to decompress after the wild events on the island.

Her first priority was to brief the aircraft commander and her team members on the stash of arms she’d found in the cave. Once the plane was airborne and on course to Wake, the pilot climbed out of his seat and came back to the belly of the plane to hear the details.

Pitching her voice to be heard over the roar of the four turbo-prop engines, Tess gave him and the dirt-streaked team members a brief recap of what had happened.

“Let me get this straight,” the pilot said with a grin. “You blew up the whole cache with a single Chinese Tweet?”

“Well, technically Quinn here blew it up. His hand was on the trigger. I just provided, uh, a few words of encouragement.”

The eyes of everyone on board turned to the newcomer in their midst. Tess hid a smile at their varying expressions of disbelief. In his gaudy tropical shirt and wrinkled shorts, Quinn had that effect on people.

“I’ll radio ahead to Hickam,” the pilot told her. “They’re going to want a full report when you land.”

No kidding! Tess figured she’d spend the next week filling out forms.

Still hyper from their close escape, both the recovery team and the Phoenix Raven crew wanted to hash over events on the island. First, though, they conducted a simple, heart-wrenching ceremony.

“I’ll take that,” Dr. Courtland said, relieving Tess of the gray knapsack slung over her shoulder.

Her sunburned face solemn, the anthropologist retrieved the wooden recovery box from inside the bag and passed it to the senior military representative on her team. The lieutenant stood at attention, the small wooden container in his hands, while the rest of the recovery team lined up on one side of a plain, coffin-like transfer box. The Phoenix Ravens flanked the other side.

With a nod, the lieutenant signaled for the lid to be raised. Slowly, step by deliberate step, he moved forward and placed the recovery container inside the larger box. Once it was securely nested in the foam liner, the lid came down. An American flag was unfurled with a snap and draped over the coffin.

The lieutenant stepped back. As Tess had done up on the mountain, he raised his arm in a slow, measured salute. A silent observer, Quinn was struck by the centuries of symbolism and tradition embodied in the gesture.

Sixty years separated the two warriors. One was young, black and dedicated to recovering the remains of fallen comrades. The other had died alone, consumed by a fiery crash and mourned by a family who’d never known where he rested all these years. Yet, with a simple salute, the lieutenant rendered the gratitude and respect of an entire nation.

The scene stirred emotions in Quinn’s chest he hadn’t felt for a long time. Admiration for a generation who gave everything in them in defense of their country. Respect for their sacrifices. A vague longing for the days when there were no shades of gray; there was only the sharp, clear white of duty. Honor. Country.

He stood back, well away from the small cadre, framing his shots with an artist’s eye. The drone of the engines drowned out the quiet click of his camera’s shutter. He’d get the names of everyone on the team later, enter them in his Palm Pilot. The device’s memory contained names, dates, notes from the various interviews he’d conducted, outlines of the stories he was working. This one, he decided as he lined up another shot, would get top priority.

When the simple ceremony was done, the passengers in the back of the C-130 sloughed off their weapons, wrung out their wet socks, and tried to make themselves comfortable for the long flight home. One of the Ravens broke out a case of MREs—the army’s ubiquitous Meals-Ready-to-Eat. Lifting the brown foil packages one by one, the sergeant read the labels.

“Okay, troops. Listen up. We have hearty beef stew. We have cheese tortellini. We have chili macaroni and chicken with rice.”

Quinn put in a bid for chili macaroni and caught the package the security specialist tossed him. He’d dined on MREs during his weeks with the 101st Airborne and knew each meal pack came with an entrée, a side dish, dessert, crackers, cheese spread, a beverage powder, a spoon, gum and a towelette. Although his conscious mind balked at the idea of eating food that had been cooked and packaged as much as six or seven years ago, his stomach rumbled in eager anticipation.

He found a place on one of the fold-down web side seats. The friendly—and very curious—Sergeant Boyle hunkered down next to him.

“So where do you know Tess from?” the sergeant asked casually, ripping open the foil of his MRE.

“From Namuoto.”

“You mean you never met before today?”

“No.”

Boyle hooked a brow. His glance drifted to his team chief, curled into one of the fold-down web seats.

“You two sure got friendly in a couple of hours.”

“Yeah,” Quinn murmured, following the direction of his gaze, “we did.”

And he planned to get a whole lot friendlier.

Staff Sergeant Teresa Hamilton had gotten to him in a way no female had in a long, long time. The woman had the heart of a lion and the body of a temptress. Quinn got hard just imagining all the ways to exploit that potent combination.

Digging his spoon into the package of cold chili macaroni, he started thinking ahead. To Hawaii and a breeze-swept hotel room. A steaming hot shower. Cool, clean sheets. A certain slender redhead stretched out under him.

Tess felt an odd sensation ripple along the nerves just under her skin. Seeking its source, she threw a look over her shoulder. She caught Quinn’s gaze, hot and intense. She held his eyes for a long moment while the ripples intensified to became a river of pure sensation.

Shaken by its intensity, she jerked her attention back to her chicken and rice. This was crazy! She’d met the man all of…what? Four or five hours ago? In those short hours, she’d formed a less-than-favorable impression of his character, his morals and his motivation.

And yet…

He’d stuck with her, toughed it out up there on the mountain. More to the point, he’d fired a Chinese-made missile and destroyed a store of arms that would have supplied international terrorists for years. That alone raised him several notches in her estimation.

And, she admitted with a funny little quiver low in her belly, he’d pretty well blown her away with that kiss. Obviously he’d been working on his mouth-to-mouth technique for a long time. No doubt he’d perfected it with Miss Red Lace Thong.

Fighting a traitorous desire to discover just what other techniques Quinn had perfected, Tess spooned out a chunk of chicken. She was halfway through her meal when Raven Three brought his over and joined her. Like Danny Boyle, Jeff Anderson made no effort to hide his curiosity.

“Funny thing, Peter Quinn popping up on Namuoto like that. I thought he was still in Kandahar.”

Tess slanted the lanky Texan a quick look. Anderson had just rotated onto her team a few weeks ago following a tour in Afghanistan.

“Did you bump into Quinn at Kandahar?”

“No, but I heard a few tales about him.”

“Like what?”

He hesitated, obviously unsure how much to spill after the lip-lock the journalist had laid on his team leader. Loyalty to one of his own won out. His warning was oblique, but definitely designed to give her a heads-up.

“Rumor is,” he said with a shrug, “Quinn figured out how to get past more than one sweet young thing’s veil.”

Tess gave a small snort. “So tell me something I don’t already know.”

“Well… Do you know about Al Sharif?”

“Who or what is Al Sharif?”

“It’s an isolated village in the mountains west of Kandahar.”

She flicked a curious glance at Quinn. “What’s our newsman’s connection to this village?”

“It was caught between two vicious warlords,” Anderson related in his slow Texas drawl. “They rounded up every male over the age of ten and forced them to fight for one faction or another. They also rounded up every pig, goat and sack of grain in the village. The women, children and old folks were left behind to starve.”

“Nice guys.”

“Quinn heard about the village and went in. Just him and a driver. They had to travel through a hundred miles of hostile territory and almost drove off a mountain road in a blizzard, but finally reached Al Sharif.”

“Anything to get a story,” Tess murmured.

“Yeah, well, in this case Quinn got more than a story. He sent back digital photos via a commercial news satellite. The stark photos convinced various relief organizations to organize an emergency airdrop of food and medicine. They sent in enough to get the village through the winter. Quinn probably saved two, three hundred lives. Back where I come from, that classifies him as an okay guy.”

That pretty well tagged the man, Tess admitted silently. Pig-headed. Too prone to take risks. A pain in the butt about his so-called exclusive. But…okay.

“I was surprised to see him on Namuoto,” Anderson continued. “What was he doing there?”

“Following the trail of al-Qaeda-supplied arms.”

“The ones he blew up?”

“The very same.”

The journalist’s role in the dramatic events on Namuoto grabbed the interest of everyone on the plane. The recovery team drifted over to join him, as did the other Phoenix Ravens and the aircrew members not confined to the cockpit. Soon Quinn was in the middle of a lively discussion punctuated with offers to stand him several rounds of drinks when they touched down in Hawaii.

He also received an invitation from Dr. Courtland to visit the military’s Central Identification Laboratory on Hickam Air Force Base.

“Our mission is straightforward,” the blond, sunburned scientist said, “and unbelievably complex. Simply put, we want to find and identify the almost ninety thousand Americans still classified as missing in action and presumed dead.”

“Hang on a sec.” Dragging out his Palm Pilot, Quinn punched a few keys. “Ninety thousand?”

“If you want more exact figures, there are seventy-eight thousand still missing from the Second World War. Another eight thousand from Korea. About two thousand from Vietnam and a hundred and twenty from the Cold War era.”

“Good grief! I didn’t realize we had so many still unaccounted for.”

“Most people don’t,” the lieutenant on the recovery team put in. “They also don’t know our lab employs the largest staff of forensic anthropologists in the world. And the most qualified. Dr. Courtland and her colleagues hold the highest possible board certification.”

“Tell me more.”

Tess stayed where she was, her legs out-stretched, her back curving in the web seat, as fascinated as Quinn by the recovery team’s description of their state-of-the-art computers, radiographic imaging, odontology procedures and mitochondrial DNA testing.

She’d heard about the Central Identification Lab, of course. But until this mission she’d had no idea of the lab’s scope or the utter dedication of its staff to recovering the country’s lost warriors. Maybe, she admitted grudgingly, it wasn’t such a bad idea for Quinn to do a story on the lab, give its people the kudos they deserved.

She just wished he’d give up the idea of making money off of the dead American they were bringing home.

The short, incredibly moving ceremony when they landed in Hawaii some sixteen hours later should have convinced him of the solemnity of the occasion.

Dawn was just breaking. Streaks of red flamed the sky above the Punchbowl, turning to gold as the transport taxied to its designated parking spot. Evidently, word of their arrival had been broadcast across the base. Despite the early hour, a crowd of military and civilian personnel had congregated at the flight line. At their forefront a USMC honor guard in full dress uniform stood at attention, waiting to render honors to their fallen comrade.

Tess felt a catch in her throat as the plane rolled to a stop and the flight engineer lowered the rear ramp. The sight of the American flag fluttering in the morning breeze straightened her spine and brought her shoulders back.

The red and gold flag of the United States Marine Corps flew beside the Stars and Stripes. The flag was weighted down with battle streamers. The colorful ribbons signified the major wars Marines had fought in, from the bloody conflicts on American soil to a host of foreign wars.

The American Revolution. The War of 1812. The Civil War. The Barbary Coast Wars. The Nicaraguan Campaign. The Yangtze Expedition. The First and Second World Wars. Korea. Vietnam. The Gulf.

As she swiped her palms down her flight suit to remove the worst of the dirt and blood and sweat, Tess wondered how many men and women had answered their country’s call to arms during all those conflicts. She thought of her granddad, remembered his tales from the trenches and honored his memory along with that of the warrior they’d brought home. Shoulders back, chin high, she stood at attention with the others as the band struck up the Marine Corps Hymn and the honor guard marched forward.

From the halls of Montezuma

To the shores of Tripoli

The music called to mind two hundred years of sacrifice. Two hundred years of service by men and women who left their homes and their families to contribute to the defense of their nation. Her throat tight, Tess kept her gaze locked on the flags as a small phalanx marched toward the lowered ramp in rigid lock step.

“Detail, halt!”

The crisp command carried over the last strains of the hymn.

“Color guard, to the left, harch!”

The five men carrying the flags wheeled left, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip.

“Funeral squad, forward, harch!”

Six white-gloved marines marched up the ramp, their cadence slow and deliberate. Following another series of commands from their leader, they halted beside the flag-draped casket. Each marine executed a razor-sharp turn. They stood at rigid attention while their leader brought his arm up in a solemn salute.

Slowly, so slowly, the six men lifted the flag-draped casket to their shoulders. Step by measured step, they carried their fellow marine off the plane.

The entire crew on board the plane and the assembled crowd remained at attention while the casket slid into the bed of a waiting hearse.

A moment later, the clear, clean notes of a bugle cut through the absolute quiet. Tess blinked furiously to hold back tears while the mournful call of Taps drifted across the morning air. Her throat was raw and aching when the last, somber notes died away.

A white-gloved marine gently closed the rear door of the hearse. The vehicle moved slowly across the ramp. The crowd parted to let it through.

A lost warrior had come home at last.

Chapter 5

After the heart-wrenching ceremony, the crew stand-down and mission debrief was definitely anticlimactic, but unfortunately, necessary. Tired all the way to her bones, Tess grabbed her gear and started down the ramp. Quinn caught up with her halfway to the crew bus.

“I need to fill in some details about the Phoenix Ravens for my story. How about you and I get together later?”

She angled her head, studying him through gritty eyes that were probably as red as his. She didn’t have a clue how the man could look so sexy with his flowered shirt ripped to shreds, his hair styled by wind and rain, and his cheeks covered in black bristles.

But he did. He most certainly did.

“I’m staying at the Outrigger,” he told her. “You could meet me there for dinner. Or better yet…” He waggled his black brows in an exaggerated leer. “I could come to your place. That way you could take a shower and slip into something comfortable.”

“Like a red lace thong?”

“Christ, woman, don’t give me a heart attack!”

She couldn’t hold back a laugh. “You never let up, do you?”

“Nope.”

Tess actually considered the offer for all of a moment or two. Now that she was back in Hawaii, though, she had a chain of command to answer to.

“I’d better check with the Public Affairs Office before I provide you any more details about the Phoenix Ravens. I’m probably in enough hot water as it is for letting a journalist in on this mission without proper clearance.”

Not just for that, she discovered when a jeep squealed up to the flight line and her supervisor climbed out. Heavily muscled and tested by fire, Senior Master Sergeant Steve Jenkins wore his blue Phoenix Raven beret like the badge of honor it was.

“The squadron commander wants to see you, Hamilton.”

“Before the team debrief?”

“Before the team debrief.”

Uh-oh. She’d expected this summons, but had hoped to clean up and get her mind out of exhausted mode before she reported to the C.O.

“I suppose he wants the details of that little incident on Namuoto.”

“You got it.” Jenkins’s glance cut to Quinn, then back to Tess. “He also wants to know how you ended up with an unauthorized civilian on your team.”

Quinn stepped forward. “Look, if this is about me, I’ve worked with the military before. A quick call to my boss in Los Angeles will verify my security clearances.”

“No, sir. This isn’t about you.” He looked to Teresa, his expression deadpan. “It’s about the formal protest the White House received some hours ago from the President of Namuoto. Seems the search and recovery mission we sent into one of his islands turned into a search and destroy. The squadron commander would like a full report, Hamilton. Now.”

“I’ll come, too,” Quinn volunteered. “I was part of that little fracas.”

“Sorry, sir. At this point, the matter is strictly a military affair. Where can we find you if the C.O. wants your input?”

“At the Outrigger.” He turned his attention to Tess. “About getting together later…”

“I’ll call you.”

Maybe, she added under her breath as she climbed into the jeep.

And maybe once she’d finished her report, had a shower and grabbed a few hours sleep, she’d realize scruffy, opportunistic journalists weren’t really her type.

That’s exactly what she might have done if her squadron commander hadn’t taken a hand in matters.

Tess debriefed him and a whole room-full of other officials, some uniformed, some not. They listened intently to her report, took notes of the type and make of the arms she’d seen in the cave, and didn’t appear all that concerned that she’d destroyed a good chunk of the island along with the arms. She was starting to breathe easier when the gaggle filed out and left her with her squadron commander.

“I’ve got enough to send off the initial Situation Report,” he told Tess. “But we’ll need to follow up with a more detailed report.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’d also better get with this Quinn character and make sure there aren’t any significant deviations between his story and ours.”

Well. Nothing like having a decision made for you.

“I’ll take care of that, sir.”

“Good. That’s all, Hamilton.”

Nodding, she collected her gear and started for the door. The colonel stopped her with a few gruff words of praise.

“That was a helluva job you did there on Namuoto.”

She tipped him a grin. “Piece of cake…for a Phoenix Raven.”

“Yeah, right.”

It took Tess two hours to complete the full post-mission debrief with the rest of her team. Another couple to clean, inventory and turn in her equipment.

Her tail was dragging by the time she claimed her car and drove the short distance to the off-base apartment she shared with two other female sergeants. The rent for a condo ate a hefty chunk out of their paychecks, but they considered the spectacular ocean view from their fifth-floor apartment worth the bite. They rationalized the cost by the fact that the breeze coming in through the lanai saved a bundle on air conditioning. Plus, by supplying a great party pad, they could talk their friends into bringing the eats and drinks.

Tess loved the place. After a mission like this, the sound of the sea murmuring outside her balcony soothed away the jagged edges. Dumping her gear in her room, she headed for the kitchen.

Both of her roommates were at work, but one of them had left the remains of last night’s pizza in the fridge. Blessing them both, Tess took the cardboard carton with her to the bathroom. Between bites of cold pepperoni and cheese, she scrubbed off Namuoto’s dirt, shampooed her hair, and, as an afterthought, shaved her legs. Not because she wanted to impress Quinn with the short, swishy halter dress in a hot-pink Hawaiian print. Only because the strappy sandals that complemented the dress called for smooth, bare legs.

Her thick mane took too long to blow dry, so she just scrunched it into damp waves and left it loose. A few daubs of makeup hid the tired circles under her eyes. A spritz of her favorite perfume made up for the sweat she’d been forced to endure for the past thirty-six hours.

“There,” she announced to her reflection in the bathroom mirror. “You’re a whole woman again. Or as close as anyone in combat boots ever gets.”

Tucking the initial report of the events on Namuoto into a straw clutch bag in the same dazzling pink as her dress, she went out into a breezy dusk.

She expected to find Quinn at the Outrigger’s bar, regaling the patrons with his version of the explosion. Instead, a friendly desk clerk let drop that Petey had just gone upstairs and directed her to his room.

Petey, was it?

The clerk was young, dewey-eyed. Just the right age, size and shape for a red lace thong.

Tess stabbed the elevator button, both amused and more than a little chagrined. Not only had she shaved her legs, she’d resorted to a scrap of white lace of her own. Talk about lame!

She’d show Quinn the report, she decided as she marched down the corridor to his room. Get his chop on it. Depart the premises. That was the plan, anyway, until the blasted man opened his door.

Tess gaped. That was the only word for it. Her jaw dropped. Her eyes widened. She flat-out gaped.

He must have just showered and shaved. The bristles were gone. So were the dirty, tattered shorts. Instead he wore only a towel draped loosely around his waist, the cotton stark white against the dark oak of his skin. Damp swirls of black hair shadowed his chest. His very broad, very muscled chest.

But it was his welcome that stopped the breath in Teresa’s throat. He didn’t say a word. Not a word. Just slid a hand under her hair, drew her inside, kicked the door shut, and picked right up where he’d left off on the C-130.

Chapter 6

Lord, the man could kiss!

Tess had already sampled Quinn’s talent in that particular arena. That, she now realized, had just been a taste. A teaser.

This was the full-course banquet.

His mouth angled over hers, hard and hungry. The hand he’d tunneled through her hair held her head steady. The other wrapped around her waist. In response to his silent demand, she opened her mouth under his. He tasted of mint-flavored toothpaste, whiskey and hot, hungry male.

She braced her palms against his still-damp skin, felt his muscles coil under her fingers. She could feel him against her thighs, her belly, her breasts. Tess wasn’t prepared for the need that slammed into her. It caught her by the throat, sent her mind spinning.

She must have made some sound or given some other signal that told him he’d gotten to her. With a grunt of pure male satisfaction, he shifted his stance. The arm around her waist tightened, drawing her up against him.

Tess couldn’t remember the last time she’d been plastered against six-feet-plus of solid male. Wait! Yes, she could. About eighteen hours ago, in the belly of a C-130. Then, as now, the experience had left her gasping for breath.

Pulling her head back, she dragged in some air and tried to clear the chaos this man was making of her senses. Quinn took that as a green light to go to work on her neck.

“Damn, you smell good,” he muttered, nuzzling the spot just under her ear.

“Better than on Namuoto, anyway,” she managed with a shaky laugh.

His tongue traced a trail from her ear to the curve of her shoulder. “You taste better, too. Not as salty.”

“Thanks. I think.”

He was too busy to pay any attention to the dry response. He’d just discovered the knot at the back of her neck.

“I have to say, this dress is a considerable improvement over your flight suit.”

“Somehow I suspected you’d think so.”

“Do these straps untie?” He tugged on the knot. “Well, what do you know? The gods are smiling on me. They do.”

Whoa! This was going way too fast. Tess put a hand on his chest and pushed. It was like pushing against a solid, muscled wall.

“Quinn. Wait.”

“Okay.” He lifted his head and grinned down at her. “What am I waiting for?”

He looked as though he didn’t have a worry in the world except getting her naked. He probably didn’t, Tess thought wryly.

Suddenly, inexplicably, she didn’t either.

It was probably a delayed adrenaline surge. A belated spike of excitement generated by the wild hours they’d shared on Namuoto. Whatever it was, it took Tess straight past cautious and hesitant to hungry. Going up on tiptoe, she slid her palms up the smooth planes of his chest and wrapped them around his neck.

“This, big guy. You’re waiting for this.”

He was more than willing to let her pull his mouth down to hers. This time she was the one who angled her head. She found his tongue with hers. She started the mating dance that soon had them locked together once more.

And, when her nerves were on fire and her belly tight with hunger, she snared a hand in his towel and tugged it loose. It pooled at his feet, cool and damp. Quinn filled her hand, hot and hard.

She tipped her head back, laughter in her eyes. “You sure you didn’t pull a hitch in the military yourself, Quinn? You certainly spring to attention fast enough every time I touch you.”

“I’ve never been frisked by anyone like you, Hamilton. You’re— Ah!—” his breath hissed in as she slid her hand down his satiny length “—good at it,” he finished through gritted teeth. “Very good.”

“I get better with practice,” she murmured, her own breath coming fast as he swelled in her hand.

She drew his head down again, locking her mouth on his while she tormented him—and herself—with slow, gliding strokes. A sweet, seductive feeling of power swept over her, fanning the heat already crawling through her veins. She reveled in the heady sensation…until Quinn abruptly reversed their roles.

“My turn.”

Naked and proud as an ancient warrior claiming his prize, he swept her into his arms. She formed a fleeting impression of a sitting room decorated in rattan. Of cushions covered in red hibiscus jungle print. Of a bedroom dominated by a king-size bed on a raised platform.

Somewhere en route to the bed Tess lost one of her shoes. It took Quinn only a few seconds to deposit her on the mattress and dispose of the other, along with the knot tying the straps of her halter. He peeled her dress down to her waist, skimming the tips of her breasts as he did. Her nipples tingled at the touch, and hardened to tight little buds when he teased them with his teeth and tongue.

Tess arched under him, gasping as streaks of pure sensation shot from her breasts to her belly. Her womb clenched tight, so tight she raised up eagerly to let him work the hot-pink dress over her hips.

“Oh, baby…”

His awed reverence had Tess fighting a grin. “What is this thing you have about lace panties, Quinn?”

“It’s called appreciation.”

His hot gaze swept from the flat plane of her stomach to the hair tumbling down around her shoulders.

“Do you have any idea how gorgeous you are?”

Now that, she decided, was exactly what every girl needed to hear after spending thirty-six-plus hours in heavy boots and a hot, sweaty flight suit. Smiling, she traced a fingertip along his jaw.

“You’re not so bad yourself without all those bristles.”

Not bad at all.

His hand made a slow trip from her breasts to her belly. She thought he’d hook a finger in her panties and pull them down over her hips. Instead, he slid his hand under the elastic waistband and found the damp folds between her legs.

Within moments, she was wet and gushing. Moments more, and she was ready, so ready.

“Quinn!” she gasped. “Any time now…”

“Yes, ma’am.” His grin was wicked as he withdrew his hand and stretched out beside her. “We’re here to serve. Just let me get some protection for you.”

Tess decided not to tell him she’d brought her own. She always carried a condom in her purse, just in case. It had probably dried out and cracked months ago. Work had been seriously impinging on her love life.

But things were looking up considerably, she decided when he’d sheathed himself and kneed apart her legs. His whiskey-colored eyes smiled down at her as he positioned himself at her hot, wet center.

“Who woulda thunk it, Hamilton? You. Me. About to fire another missile.”

“You’re not supposed to make me laugh when I’m in this position! You’re supposed to… Oh!”

A single thrust of his hips brought him inside her. Tess hooked her calves around his and took him eagerly, greedily. Hips lifting, muscles clenching, she strained against him.

His hard, sure strokes brought her swirling close to the edge. Pleasure spread through her in waves, surging, receding, pounding in again. Muscles clenching, she clamped her legs around him.

Burying his hands in her hair, he covered her mouth with his and quickened the rhythm. He drove into her now, one stroke after another, until Tess couldn’t hold the crashing waves back any longer. Arching her back, she let the pleasure slam through her.

Quinn held himself rigid while she climaxed. Only after she’d drifted down from her high and lay limp in his arms did he pick up the rhythm once again. Slowly at first, then faster, until the friction and the incredible, glorious woman under him pulled a groan from the back of his throat and every ounce of strength from his body.

Since Quinn hadn’t eaten and Tess had consumed only a couple of slices of cold pizza, he insisted on ordering from room service. While they waited for the broiled mahi-mahi, pineapple rice and white wine to be delivered, they got hot and sweaty again.

Only this time Tess was on top and Quinn was at the mercy of her busy hands and hot, clever mouth. The result was so spectacular and her ultimate climax so shattering that Tess abandoned her superior position to flop down at his side.

“I don’t think I can ever move again. I know I can’t get off this mattress.”

“You don’t have to,” Quinn promised, dropping a kiss on her shoulder as he rolled out of bed to answer the knock on the outer door. “We’ll have dinner here.”

While he padded across the room to retrieve his towel, Tess cradled her head on her bent arm. The man had one tight set of buns, she decided. Tight and neat and intriguingly pale where his tan lines ended.

He also had one helluva technique. She was trying to remember exactly how she’d ended up naked and in his bed when all she’d been intending to do was get his chop on the report and…

Oh, Lord! The report. She’d forgotten all about the damned thing.

“Quinn,” she called when the front door closed behind the room-service attendant. “Bring my purse in here with you, would you?”

He rolled it in on the cart loaded with covered dishes.

“Here.”

Tossing her the straw clutch, he lifted the stainless-steel domes and sniffed appreciatively. “I’ve probably eaten every fish known to man in every hotel in the Pacific Rim, but no one—no one—does mahi-mahi better than the chef at the Outrigger.”

As if to echo his sentiment, Tess’s stomach gave a long, loud rumble. They’d eat first, she decided, then go over the details of the report. Setting the clutch aside, she curled her legs crosswise under her.

“Roll that cart over here where I can reach it.”

Quinn obliged. Positioning the cart within easy reach of the bed, he dragged over a chair for himself and set to work on the cork in the wine. Tess found herself watching the towel wrapped low around his hips, wondering if the knot would come loose, hoping it would.

“So how did you get into the cop business?”

She dragged her gaze from his lap. “It was either law enforcement or aircraft maintenance when I joined up. Since I don’t know one end of a wrench from another, I opted for a badge.”

“No prior experience?”

“Nope.”

The cork gave with a pop. Quinn filled two glasses and passed one to her.

“What do your folks think about your chosen profession?”

“My folks died in a plane crash when I was two. My grandfather raised me.”

The pain she hadn’t quite grown used to clutched at her heart. She missed Big Mike so much. His big, booming laughter. His sense of adventure. His endless store of war stories.

“I think my grandfather was prouder than I was the day I graduated from basic,” she murmured. “He served, too.”

“In the air force?”

“The Marine Corps. He was an aviator.”

She took a sip of her wine, letting the fruity white glide down her throat while memories of her grandfather filled her thoughts. When she looked up, Quinn was watching her with a small, satisfied smile, as if he’d just solved a riddle.

“Your grandfather flew Corsairs, didn’t he? In the South Pacific.”

“Why would you think that?”

“Just a guess.”

“Based on what?”

“A gut feel. I knew there was some reason you took this mission to recover the pilot’s remains so personally.”

His insight unnerved her. She didn’t think she’d laid herself so open. Setting aside her wine, she picked up her fork and played with the mahi-mahi. Soft and succulent, the fish flaked under the tines.

“Well?” he asked. “Was I right?”

She lifted her gaze and locked on his. “Yes, my grandfather flew Corsairs during the war in the South Pacific. And yes, I took this recovery mission personally. That could have been his wingman up there on that mountain, Quinn. His squadron mate. So you understand why I don’t particularly like the idea of you cashing in on his story.”

“Back to that, are we?”

He, too, set aside his wine. His face was serious when he leaned across the table.

“I’m a journalist, Tess. That’s my job. Like you, I get paid for what I do. In my case, I get paid well.”

“So you’re going to sensationalize this story and splash it across the front pages?”

“Give me some credit! I was there. I heard the band strike up the Marine Corps Hymn. I saw the flags flying. Do you think I wasn’t as choked up as the rest of you when those marines carried that casket off the plane?”

“How could anyone tell what you were feeling? You had your camera to your face the whole time.”

He raked a hand through his hair. “Why don’t you wait until you read the article in tomorrow’s papers before you pass judgment?”

“Tomorrow’s papers?” Her fork clattered down beside her plate. “You mean you’ve already filed your story?”

“What did you think I’d do? Sit on it until it’s old news?”

“I thought you’d at least have the decency to wait until Dr. Courtland and her team identified the remains and notified any surviving next of kin!”

“Gimme a break, Hamilton. I know what I’m doing.”

“Yeah, I guess you do.”

Shoving the cart to one side, Tess yanked the sheet free of the mattress, wrapped the wrinkled cotton tight under her arms, and stood up.

“My boss sent me here tonight to make sure your report of the events on Namuoto didn’t contain any glaring inconsistencies or differ substantially from ours. Since you’ve already filed your story, I guess it’s a moot point. Now if you’ll excuse me…”

She intended to sweep past him, grab her clothes, and march into the bathroom. He blocked her with a single sidestep.

“You want to run that by me one more time?”

“Which part needs repeating?”

“The part about your boss sending you here.”

Her chin came up. She couldn’t believe she’d tumbled into bed with an insensitive, opportunistic voyeur who filtered everything through a camera lens.

“What?” she jeered. “Did you think I came up here just to sample your admittedly spectacular bedroom technique? You’re good, Quinn. Damned good. But not good enough.”

His jaw locked. Hooking a finger in the sheet, he jerked her toward him. “I didn’t hear any complaints a few minutes ago.”

“Let me rephrase that. You’re good in bed. And a sonuvabitch out of it.”

Yanking the sheet free of his hold, she stalked past him. She was in and out of the bathroom in five minutes. Quinn still stood beside the cart, looking every bit as angry as Tess felt. She scooped her straw clutch bag off the bed and flipped it open. Her mouth set, she held out a sheaf of papers.

“Here’s a copy of our initial report. It went over the wires a few hours ago. Let’s hope it agrees with your story.”

“Hold on a minute. I want to be sure I have this right. The air force has already sent in its version of what happened, yet you’re pissed at me because I filed my story?”

“We’re required by regulation to do an initial report of any international incident within twenty-four hours.”

“Yeah, well, my deadlines are just as tight.”

“Ask me what I think of you and your deadlines, Quinn.”

“I don’t have to. You’ve made your opinion abundantly clear.”

Since he didn’t seem inclined to take the report, she tossed it on the bed.

“Don’t call me,” she said by way of good-bye, “and I won’t call you.”

Quinn watched her leave, his jaw so tight he thought it would crack. He’d never met a woman who could rile him and rouse him at the same time.

She’d just about wrung him inside out with her busy hands and mouth. Then, when he was still feeling the aftershocks, she hit him again with that slam about his professional ethics.

Well, Ms. High-and-Mighty Sergeant Teresa Hamilton had one thing right. He damned well wouldn’t call her. But that didn’t mean she’d heard the last from him.

Stalking to the bedside phone, Quinn punched the number for the front desk. The sweet young thing who’d gone out of her way to make him feel welcome during his weeks at the Outrigger answered.

“Hi, Petey. What can I do for you?”

“I need a wake-up call for 5:00 a.m., sweetheart.”

“You got it.”

“And two copies of the L.A. Times delivered to my room by five-thirty.”

“I’m not sure…”

“The Pacific edition hits the newsstands around four. You should have the hotel copies soon after that.”

“Okay, I’ll see what I can do.”

“Good girl.”

Rolling the table to his chair, Quinn polished off both helpings of mahi-mahi. The wine he left in the bottle. He wanted a clear head for what he had to do in the morning.

His stomach full, he dragged off the towel wrapped around his hips and dropped into bed. The sheets still held Tess’s scent and the faint, sweet spoor of their lovemaking. Quinn fell into sleep with his face buried in the pillow and Tess Hamilton in his thoughts.

Chapter 7

Both roommates were home when Tess arrived back at their shared condo. Lani gave her a hug and a warm, welcoming smile. Joanna interrupted her scan of the contents of the refrigerator to hook an arm over the door and survey her roommate from head to toe.

“Okay, kiddo. Report. When did you get back from Namuoto and why are you looking like you just ran over the neighbor’s pet schnauzer?”

“I got back this morning and it’s not a schnauzer I wish I’d run over.”

“Oh-oh. I smell man trouble.”

Joanna popped the refrigerator door shut. The tall, sun-streaked blonde moved with the grace of a natural athlete. More than once, Tess and Lani had considered taking the scissors to her Spandex running shorts and sports bras. No woman should be allowed to look as good as this one did after a ten-mile run.

The fact that Joanna also had a love life that made her rooomates feel as though they’d just finished a long stretch on the dark side of the moon didn’t help matters, either. Joanna went through more men than a virus.

Dropping into a chair, she draped her long, tanned legs over the arm. “All right, girl. Tell Auntie Jo. Who put that scowl on your face and why?”

Tess sank onto the couch with a sigh, kicked off her sandals, and propped her bare feet on the coffee table. “His name’s Quinn. Pete Quinn.”

Lani’s dark eyes rounded. “The photojournalist?”

“You know him?”

“I’ve seen his work.”

Since the petite brunette was a military photographer, Tess supposed she shouldn’t be surprised.

“He’s good,” Lani said in a tone that bordered on reverence. “Really good. The story he sent back from Al Sharif last year won all kinds of awards.”

“He’s also a self-serving, opportunistic jerk.”

“Aw, cm’on,” Joanna put in with a grin. “Don’t hold back. Tell us what you really think about the guy.”

“What I really think would take all night.”

“All right. Give us the condensed version. Tell us how he got you into bed.”

Tess’s feet hit the floor with a plop. “What makes you think he did?”

“Oh, I don’t know. It might be that thoroughly kissed look you’re wearing. Or the fact that you’ve got your dress on inside out.”

“What?”

She looked down at the wild pink print. It looked right-side out to her. Flipping up the hem, she examined the other side. Sure enough, the print was darker on the inside, but she was damned if she could see how Joanna had noticed the difference.

“You’re wearing the tag on the outside of your strap,” her roommate pointed out sweetly. “Not a big deal, you understand. I’ve come home with a few tags showing myself. But it does make one wonder…”

“Okay, okay. I had sex with the guy. That’s all it was. Hot, meaningless sex.”

The other two women exchanged glances, which told Tess she’d made her point a tad too vehemently. Deliberately, she tempered both her tone and her expression. She wasn’t ready to admit those mind-blowing hours she’d spent in Pete Quinn’s arms had constituted more than just sex. That he’d made her laugh at his silly jokes and almost weep with pleasure.

“I met him on Namuoto,” she told the other two, knowing they’d never let her hit the sack until they’d wormed every detail out of her. “He was there researching a story and we sort of blew up a mountain.”

Retelling the tale for the third or fourth time that day drained the last of Tess’s reserves.

“I’ve got to get some sleep. I’m exhausted.”

“I would be, too,” Joanna purred. “Sounds like this dude you picked up on Namuoto is hot stuff.”

“He certainly thinks so.”

With that tart observation, Tess dragged herself off the couch and headed for her room. A quick shower washed away the residue of several hours of lovemaking. A thorough workout with her toothbrush almost—almost!—removed the taste of white wine and Quinn.

Pulling on a sleeveless, well-washed Phoenix Raven T-shirt cut off just below her breasts, she cracked the lanai door open to let in the breeze and dropped into bed. She expected sleep to come crashing down the moment she closed her eyes. Instead, the image of Quinn’s clean-shaven face imprinted itself on her eyelids.

Damn the man, anyway. Why couldn’t he possess even a few scruples? Tess knew the story about the recovered remains was a tear-jerker, sure to appeal to his readers. Still, after spending so many hours with the recovery team, Quinn should have gained a real appreciation for the sanctity of their mission. The bits of bone they’d brought home weren’t just a story. They were all that remained of a living, breathing man, a marine who’d served his country and died in a fiery crash.

Angry and frustrated and bitterly disappointed in one Pete Quinn, Tess rolled over and thumped her pillow with a fist.

Damn the man, anyway!

The insistent buzz of the doorbell dragged her from sleep some hours later.

Grunting, Tess raised her head and peered bleary-eyed at the sliding glass doors to the lanai. Dew from the ocean breeze misted the glass. Weak, hazy light filtered in through the open crack. It was morning, but just barely.

Turning her head, Tess squinted at the clock on the nightstand. Oh, God! It wasn’t even 6:00 a.m. With a groan, she dropped her face back into the pillow. Her roommates could deal with whoever was at the front door.

She heard the flop of bare feet on the parquet floor. Joanna’s cool voice raised in inquiry. The sound of the chain rattling off the slide.

She listened a moment more. There were no screams. No shouts. Nothing to rouse the cop in her.

She went back to sleep.

The next thing she knew, something fat and hard whacked her in the butt.

Her face came out of the pillow, her body twisted and her feet hit the floor all in one lithe spring. Shoving back her tangled hair, Tess stared in disbelief at the male facing her across the bed.

“Quinn!”

“’Morning, Hamilton.”

Blinking the last vestiges of sleep from her mind, she took in the shoulders stretching the seams of a white knit shirt, the jeans riding low on lean hips, and the rolled newspaper in his right fist.

Fire came into her eyes. “Did you just smack me with that newspaper?”

“I did.”

“Care to tell me why?”

“It seemed appropriate.”

“You’ll have to do better than that,” she warned in a low growl. “Assuming you want to walk out of here with the same basic equipment you walked in with, that is.”

A speculative gleam came into his eye. He slapped the newspaper against his open palm and issued a soft challenge.

“You’re not wearing your riot gear, Red. Think you can take me?”

“I know I can.”

A muffled sound from the door spun Tess around. Her accusing glance went to Joanna, who paid not the slightest attention to it, then to Lani, goggle-eyed and standing on tiptoe to peer over her roommate’s shoulder.

“Did you let this jerk in?” Tess demanded.

“I did,” the blonde replied breezily.

“Why?”

“He’s got great buns.”

Quinn shot her an amused look. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

His amusement deepened. “You sound as though you might be an expert on the subject.”

“I am. Believe me, I am.”

“Excuse me.” Ice dripped from Tess’s voice. “Could you two take this conversation into the other room? Some of us would like to get some sleep here.”

“I’ve got a better idea.” Grinning, Joanna nudged Lani away from the door. “Lani and I will go put on a pot of coffee while you and Pete finish your conversation.”

Pete. It hadn’t taken Joanna long to get to his first name. Petey couldn’t be far behind. Thoroughly irritated, Tess crossed her arms.

“Okay, what’s all this about?”

He took a while to reply. Long enough for his gaze to make a slow trip from her tangled hair to the slice of bare midriff under her cut-off T-shirt to the sensible cotton panties she’d pulled on after her quick shower last night. They were not of the lace thong variety.

“This is about you,” he said at last. “And me.”

“There is no you and me.”

“There was last night.”

“Last night was fun, Quinn. The first part of it, anyway. What came after our little roll in the sack kind of ruined things for me.”

“Yeah, I got that impression.”

He tossed the newspaper down on the rumpled sheets.

“Lead story, front page, continued on 7A. Read it, Hamilton.”

She seriously considered picking up the paper and tossing the damned thing over the lanai railing. She was in no mood to see the story about the as-yet-unidentified Corsair pilot splashed across the front page.

“Read it, Hamilton.”

“If that’s what it takes to get you out of my bedroom,” she muttered.

Giving in with something less than graciousness, she plopped down on the bed and unrolled the paper. The picture that leaped out at her had her gritting her teeth.

It was a profile of her, her automatic weapon to her cheek, pumping out a steady stream of fire. Dirt and sweat streaked her face. Her hair was a mess. The Phoenix Raven insignia stood out in stark relief on her blue beret, but that was the only thing in the picture that looked good.

She threw Quinn a withering glance. “Couldn’t you have picked out a more flattering shot?”

“That one told the story I wanted. Read the text that goes with it.”

Jaw tight, she started the first paragraph. The prose was stark, the descriptions of her team and their mission terse and unnervingly accurate.

Quinn had done his homework in the short hours after they’d touched down in Hawaii, Tess saw. No doubt he’d pulled most of the information about the Phoenix Ravens off the Internet. However he’d come by the facts and figures, he’d used them to good effect. Those first few paragraphs painted a dramatic picture of the air force’s supercops.

Pulled into the story despite herself, Tess turned to page 7A. The pictures there were of the recovery team. Dr. Courtland with her blue steel Beretta in hand. The lieutenant rendering honors over a flag-draped casket in the belly of a C-130. The weary orthodontist carrying what was left of his gear to the crew bus after the mission.

The accompanying text went into detail about the mission, and the organization and operation of the Central Identification Lab. The article included profiles of the staff, statistics on the number of open cases they were still working, and poignant examples of field recoveries they’d conducted.

What it didn’t include, Tess belatedly realized, was information or speculation about the remains they’d brought back from Namuoto. Quinn hadn’t even mentioned the F-4 Corsair or the victim’s branch of service.

Chewing on her lower lip, Tess read the last few paragraphs. By the time she’d finished them, the suspicion that she’d made a world-class fool of herself last night had morphed into absolute certainty. She blew out a long breath, closed the newspaper and looked up.

“I owe you an apology.”

“Yeah, you do. You also owe me a follow-up.”

“What?”

“My editor loved the piece on the Phoenix Ravens. Cops are hot right now. Military cops get double points. He wants a more detailed feature story on the training you go through and the kind of missions you fly. I put in a request last night to have you assigned as my liaison. It came back approved this morning.”

Tess’s jaw dropped. “Already?”

“Already. Evidently blowing up a stash of Chinese Tweets gets the brass’s attention. They were only too happy to expedite the request.” His mouth kicked up in a smug grin. “You’re mine, Hamilton, all mine.”

“For how long?”

“For the next three weeks.” His grin took on a wicked tilt. “Maybe longer, if you promise to dump those cotton panties and wear only that little lace number you had on last night.”

“Well…” Tess tapped a finger to her chin, considering his request. “Okay.”

She had the sensible cotton briefs off in two or three wiggles. A quick wad and a long toss sent them sailing through the open doors of the lanai.

“Consider them dumped.”

Laughter lit up his eyes. “You’re a woman after my own heart.”

“Funny, until five minutes ago, I didn’t think you had one.”

Oh, yeah, Quinn thought as he tugged his knit shirt up and over his head. He did. And if he wasn’t real careful, he just might lose it to a green-eyed, gun-toting GI Jane.

Epilogue

Three weeks and five months later, Tess stood beside Quinn on a windswept ridge overlooking the National Memorial Cemetery of the Pacific.

The cemetery occupied the center of Punchbowl Crater. The crater was formed from an extinct volcano known as Puowaina, Hawaiian for Hill of Sacrifice. Local legend had it that the Punchbowl was the site of many secret burials of Hawaiian royalty. It had also supposedly witnessed the sacrifice of offenders of certain taboos. Now it served as the final resting place for veterans of the Second World War, Korea, Vietnam and the Gulf War.

Tess couldn’t imagine a more serene site for a national cemetery. The city of Honolulu sparkled like a jewel below, hemmed in on three sides by Oahu’s steep green hills. Beyond the city, the Pacific rolled in on turquoise waves. She needed only to turn a few inches to the right to pick out Pearl Harbor and the glistening white Arizona Memorial. The sight tugged at her heart, as it always did.

Slipping her arm through Quinn’s, she brought her gaze back to the lush park below. The cemetery was so beautiful in its breath-taking simplicity. Only a round, flat expanse of green dotted with trees, a soaring marble monument, and wide stairs flanked on either side by the ten Courts of Honor—monuments to the thousands of Americans still listed as missing in action.

After today, there’d be one less name on the list.

She and Quinn didn’t intrude on the solemn ceremony taking place at the base of the marble steps. This time belonged to the family of the man whose remains had been positively identified, and who was now, at long last, being laid to rest among his fallen comrades. His son was there, mourning for the father he’d known only through faded photographs. His grandchildren and great-grandchildren as well.

Tess stood silent, her throat tight and her thoughts on her grandfather. Big Mike would have liked Quinn. Tess certainly did, now that she’d come to know him better. In fact, she was pretty sure she was going to marry him. He’d asked her twice, the last time with just a hint of impatience.

She’d already admitted that she loved him. Several times. Once even out loud. He’d pounced on that like a dog on a steak bone and had started making plans to permanently move her into his bed. Not that they’d occupy it at the same time all that much. His job took him on the road almost as much as Tess’s did. Where they slept didn’t matter, though. No matter where she and Quinn had met these past five months or how long they’d had together before one of them had to jump on a plane again, they were home.

A little curl of warmth spread through her veins. She squeezed Quinn’s arm. When he glanced down at her, she answered the question in his eyes with a soft whisper.

“Yes.”

“Does that mean what I think it does?”

“If you’re thinking wedding rings and honeymoons, it does.”

His smile melted her heart. His hand right hand closed over the one she’d tucked in the crook of his left arm. Together, they turned their faces to the wind and their attention to the ceremony unfolding below.

IN LOVE AND WAR
Copyright © 2003 by Harlequin Books S.A.

ISBN: 978-1-4268-6271-7

The publisher acknowledges the copyright holders of the individual works as follows:

A MILITARY AFFAIR
Copyright © 2003 by Merline Lovelace

COMRADES IN ARMS
Copyright © 2003 by Eileen Nauman

AN UNCONDITIONAL SURRENDER
Copyright © 2003 by Candace Phillips Irvin

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the editorial office, Silhouette Books, 233 Broadway, New York, NY 10279 U.S.A.

All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

® and TM are trademarks of Harlequin Books S.A., used under license. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Trade Marks Office and in other countries.

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Table of Contents

A MILITARY AFFAIR

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Epilogue