Книга - The Marine

The Marine
Leah Vale


He's An Officer…When lawyer Lynn Hayes's career depends on keeping one of the long-lost McCoy heirs out of jail, she braces herself for a courtroom battle. But the defendant's rigid sense of duty is the first enemy she faces-followed quickly by her unyielding attraction to the man.And A Misguided Gentleman Major Rick Branigan's debt to his buddy shouldn't cost him his reputation, or so says the long-legged beauty sent by the McCoy clan to bring him home to Dependable, Missouri. But when the U.S. Marine Corps is your family you don't break their code of honor, even for a woman like Lynn Hayes…do you?









Lynn stared.


Rick Branigan stood there the way he had on the first day she’d met him. Stubborn. Taciturn. And utterly unimpressed with the McCoys’ billions.

The colonel gave a short nod. Decision made. “Well, I’ve only known this marine to make one mistake.” He looked at her. “If he’s doing what he thinks is best, I’ll support him until he tells me to do otherwise.”

Lynn gasped. The colonel was making the DUI hit-and-run sound like a brain burp, the same as shaking a salad dressing bottle without the lid on tight. But this was one colossal mess that Rick shouldn’t be allowed to clean up on his own.

Especially when he was most likely innocent.


Dear Reader,

Honor, courage and commitment. Necessary ingredients in the making of a hero, as far as I’m concerned. And, not surprisingly, the central values of the United States Marine Corps. Personally, I believe a marine is one of the ultimate heroes—a man who is, by definition, always faithful.

He’s the perfect man to pit against the billionaire McCoys as they try to quietly bring home the deceased Marcus McCoy’s illegitimate prodigy in this third installment of THE LOST MILLIONAIRES series.

Major Rick Branigan is an exemplary marine until his faithfulness to an old friend threatens to cost him everything. The last thing he needs or wants is to become part of the McCoy dynasty.

Lynn Hayes, the corporate lawyer sent to extract the major from his troubles and escort him back to Dependable, Missouri, lives by the motto No Ties, No Limits. But nothing could be more limiting to her plans for a secure future than Rick’s refusal to cooperate.

Only together can these two learn the true meaning of honor. Through the power of love, of course!

I’m always happy to hear from readers. Please visit me at www.leahvale.com.

Leah Vale


The Marine

Leah Vale






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


For Rod and Joan, the best in-laws a girl could ever hope for.

Not to mention shining examples of love and honor.




ACKNOWLEDGMENTS


Thank you to Orrin Grover for his legal advice and willingness to play “what if?”

An extra-special thank-you to Colonel Al Arguedas, USMC, Retired, for his knowledge, insight and much-appreciated humor.

Any errors are the author’s and probably on purpose.




Contents


Chapter One (#u4413261f-b97a-5158-a604-f10f49fa22f8)

Chapter Two (#u84678e2f-ef29-59fc-ae6b-df55892e0f06)

Chapter Three (#u671b4d4a-b6fe-5813-bd2e-1e4aae7e739a)

Chapter Four (#u969b2f26-f0d6-5880-b771-566894ceeacc)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)




Chapter One


Dear Major Branigan:

It is our duty at this time to inform you of the death of Marcus McCoy due to an unfortunate, unforeseen encounter with a grizzly bear while fly-fishing in Alaska on June 8 of this year, and per the stipulations set forth in his last will and testament, to make formal his acknowledgment of one USMC Major Rick Thomas Branigan, age 33, of 7259 Villa Crest Drive, #12, Oceanedge, California, as being his son and heir to an equal portion of his estate.

It is the wish of Joseph McCoy, father to Marcus McCoy, grandfather to Rick Branigan and founder of McCoy Enterprises, that you immediately assume your rightful place in the family home and business with all due haste and utmost discretion to preserve the family’s privacy.

Regards,

David Weidman, Esq.

Weidman, Biddermier, Stark

“I don’t have time for this right now,” Major Rick Branigan grumbled at the letter he held in one hand while he braced his other hand against the open front door of his condo.

The lawyer lady on his doorstep looked around her, as if someone might actually hear them on the second-floor landing, then nodded sagely. “That’s why I’m here, Major,” she said in a rich, smooth voice straight out of a steamy, Southern-night fantasy.

Without being asked in, she brushed past Rick and entered his condo, as bold as you please.

She smelled faintly of an exotic spice that went perfectly with her amber eyes and winged black eyebrows but was as incongruent with her beige, don’t-mess-with-me-in-court suit jacket and skirt as was her voice. Rick, in his lowly civi jeans and white T-shirt, turned to watch her stroll toward his glass-topped dining room table.

Her legs, as well as the rest of her, were shapely enough to win over any male jury. Not that he should be noticing, considering the latest complication heaped on his plate. But she was one hell of a looker despite the bun into which she’d pulled her black hair—one that would make a drill sergeant proud.

Only, he was no drill sergeant, and thanks to the felony charge he’d saddled himself with, he wouldn’t be sitting on a jury anytime soon. His butt was likely destined for jail. He glanced out into the bright sunlight at the red pickup truck sitting in his parking space, its left front bumper and side panel bashed in. Damn, how had his life become so messed up so fast?

He shut the front door and followed her. “Excuse me, Ms.…Hayes, was it?” He wasn’t certain of her name because the fact that she was a lawyer for McCoy Enterprises, sent to hand-deliver a very special and wholly unexpected letter, had caught up his interest. Along with the contents of the letter. Rick waited to feel some emotional reaction to news of his father’s death, but nothing came. He shrugged. He hadn’t even known the guy’s name.

The lawyer lady glanced up from where she was unloading papers from her sleek black leather briefcase. “That’s correct. But please, call me Lynn. Especially since we’ll be working closely for the next few days while I help represent you legally, then escort you to Dependable, Missouri.”

Despite the sickening roll his stomach performed at her blithe mention of his need for legal representation, Rick scoffed. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken about pretty much all of that, ma’am.”

She paused, a file folder half out of her briefcase, and stared at him as if he’d just claimed women were better suited to working within the home—something his mother had single-handedly disproved.

“Mistaken?” She finished removing the file and placed it on the table with a telling deliberateness. “Major Branigan, I put forth a concerted effort to never make mistakes. They’re counterproductive to my goals.”

He eyed her courtroom version of spit-polish. The woman seemed ready to argue a case before the Supreme Court, which seemed like overkill to him. Kind of like calling in a Harrier jet with full armament when a side arm would suffice. “Of which, I imagine, you have quite a few, Ms. Hayes.”

“At the moment, just three. To quickly extract you from your current situation without drawing media attention and to get you to Dependable, Missouri, in time for your grandfather’s seventy-fifth birthday party a month from now on July third.”

“That’s only two. What’s the third?”

She froze. Without looking at him, she stated, “The third is personal, Major.”

Personal, eh? What sort of personal goal would a clearly high-priced attorney have? She’d already been hired by one of the most successful general retail corporations in the United States, if not the world. McCoy stores were found everywhere and sold pretty much everything one needed in this modern world.

Wondering why she’d mention a third goal in the first place if it was personal, he fished. “But tied to the other two?”

“Yes,” she crisply admitted. Then she added, “Now, let’s review the facts of your case to ensure the information I was given is correct.”

He clenched his abs against the anger and dread starting to party in his gut. “I’m not interested in you helping me prove my innocence, Ms. Hayes.” Especially when she worked for his father’s family.

“I’m not interested in helping you prove your innocence, Major. I’m here to facilitate a speedy and un-noteworthy end to the situation you’ve found yourself in. We need to plead you down to a lesser charge of reckless driving—or best, failure to heed a traffic signal—instead of leaving you to face felony DUI hit-and-run. Then getting you discharged will be simple. Quick. Assuming the judge or magistrate and prosecutor are as agreeable as Joseph believes they will be because of your record. Granted, since I’m not licensed to practice law in the state of California, all I can do is offer advice to the lawyer we hire for you—”

“I already have a lawyer.” If only to speed up the inevitable: demotion at best, dishonorable discharge and prison at worst.

The anger and dread spread into his chest.

She shifted her weight, drawing his attention briefly to the curve of her hip. “Forgive me, but I’m not sure it’d be wise to retain council from—” she flipped open the top file and read “—Acme Legal Services.” Her mouth flattened, as if the name tasted bad. She studied him for a moment. “Please don’t tell me you picked the first firm listed in the phone book.”

So what if he had? Since he’d been pleading the Fifth nearly from the get-go, the quality of his lawyer didn’t matter. Still, he wished the man hadn’t automatically submitted a plea of not guilty at the arraignment hearing.

Rick looked her in the eyes and crossed his arms over his chest by way of answer.

She made a save-me-from-idiots noise as she pulled out a chair—the one at the head of the table—and sat down. Unconsciously or not, the woman knew how to send a message. She was the independent, in-charge type. His mother would love her.

Another reason to have nothing to do with her.

Sliding the open file in front of herself, Ms. Hayes produced a hefty black-and-gold pen from her briefcase. “Arranging for new council will be the first order of business.”

“No.”

Her pen stilled on her notepad. Without glancing at him, she asked, “Care to explain why?” Her tone was casual enough, but a hint of mounting annoyance snuck through.

Some of the Marine officers he admired the most used a similar tactic to convey their opinions.

This admirable quality aside, he was in no mood to play today. Probably never would be again. “No. Nor do I care for your help.” Though he’d done so inadvertently, he’d placed himself on this path and had every intention of reaching, with honor and dignity, whatever end it might hold for him.

Scrubbing a hand over his face, Rick fought the panic-spurred temptation to let her help him. “It’s time for you to leave, Ms. Hayes.”

“Major Branigan.” She carefully set her pen on a file that undoubtedly contained everything about him down to his regulation shoe size.

Everything but the truth.

Folding her hands in front of her, she stared at him, her amber eyes glowing with conviction. “I understand the need to accept punishment for getting into your truck and driving after having a six-pack too many beers—especially considering the extent of the injuries the woman in the car you hit suffered.” She glanced at the file. “One Emelie Dawson, forty-six, divorced mother of two. But I refuse to allow you to offer yourself up that way.”

He remembered the letter he still gripped, and looked at it again. “Because that would be bad for the McCoys?”

Her response was unapologetic. “Because it would be bad for the McCoys.”

He shouldn’t care, shouldn’t want to know after all this time. But he couldn’t stop himself from finding out more about his father’s family.

He asked, “Isn’t making known their connection to me—and the circumstances surrounding it—worse? I recall seeing a fluffy report about the McCoys on one of those entertainment news shows. The reporter said the head of the family is some sort of high-moral-standards drum banger. Revealing that one of his kids—”

“Marcus was Joseph’s only child.”

Rick frowned. “His only—? Granted, the reporter was some ex–beauty queen, but I could have sworn she mentioned—”

“Alexander McCoy is actually Marcus’s first illegitimate child,” she smoothly interrupted him again.

So smoothly it took him a moment to register what she’d conveyed in that honey-slick voice of hers.

“I’m not his only?”

“No. You’re one of four men.”

“Four!” His already low opinion of the man who’d sired him crashed and burned.

He had three half siblings. But they would never be the brothers to him that his fellow Marines were.

The lady lawyer coolly shifted the file in front of her. “While my purpose here is to—”

“I know what your damn purpose is, Ms. Hayes,” he said, doing some interrupting of his own, but not nearly as smoothly as she had. The story he’d thought he’d known was turning out to be even worse. He might as well have it all. “But the only thing I want from you is what you know about my father.”

LYNN HAYES COULD ONLY stare at the compelling, seething man standing stiffly before her, his hands fisted at his sides, the letter he should have considered his salvation crumpled in one big, strong hand. His reaction to not only the letter but to her presence stunned her. She didn’t like being stunned, and she needed every ounce of her self-control not to let the unwelcome feeling show. She couldn’t afford to mess this up. Everything she’d worked so hard for to this point depended on success.

She looked back down at the file she’d acquired from the base commander—Joseph McCoy’s connections never ceased to amaze and inspire—that detailed a military career epitomizing United States Marine Corps values. Major Rick Branigan had been awarded several medals, including a Purple Heart for injuries sustained in the first days of full-scale military action in Afghanistan. Injuries that, while in no way debilitating, now kept him from combat assignments but hadn’t made him want out.

By all accounts, Major Branigan was indeed one of the best and the brightest, having achieved his current rank mere months ago and having had a spotless record, even before joining the Corps.

So why would he throw it all away by driving drunk, then fleeing the scene of an accident he’d caused?

Some people—people like her parents—just didn’t realize how good they had it. They cared only for the buzz of the moment. Then, when they finally screwed up big and had everything taken away, they could only stand there with blank looks on their faces.

Only, Major Branigan didn’t have a blank look on his handsome face. His classic McCoy features—strong jaw, aristocratic nose (though he had clearly busted his at one time) and arresting, deep blue eyes—radiated emotions he was visibly trying to contain. Emotions that were at odds with the Marine Corps poster boy he’d first appeared to be—complete with the Corps’s emblem tattooed on his bulging left biceps.

Definitely not the one Lynn had expected. Personally, she would have given anything to find out she didn’t really belong to the family she’d been born into. A family devoid of love and support. But she couldn’t blame him for wanting to hear about his connection to the McCoys rather than about what she could do for him.

Still, she hesitated. “I’m not sure it’s my place to tell you what I know about the Lost Millionaires.” She wasn’t one of the McCoys’ advisors. Yet.

His rigid stance collapsed under the weight of his incredulity. “Lost Millionaires?”

“That’s what Joseph called you all while coordinating efforts to track you down after learning of your existence when Marcus’s will was read last Wednesday, June twelfth.”

His eyes slid closed. “Just tell me.”

She refolded her hands. “While none of this is for public consumption, mind you—”

“Imagine that.”

“Yes, well…”

He opened his eyes, and she fought the unusual urge to squirm beneath his hard, blue gaze.

Something furry brushed against her bare shin and made her jump. She glanced down in time to see a cat in the guise of a small ring-tailed lemur, its eyes as startlingly blue as its owner’s, cozying up to her. “You have a cat.”

“Yes, I have a cat.”

Momentarily derailed by the reality of a macho military type like him owning something so…fluffy, she just stared at it. It stared back.

“You were saying?” Major Branigan’s deep voice returned her focus.

She shifted her leg out of the way and met his equally inscrutable stare. “Apparently, Marcus McCoy indulged in several short-lived, clandestine relationships that resulted in children being born—all boys thus far, interestingly enough—”

“And he paid each mother a million dollars to keep the identity of her illegitimate baby’s father a secret, even from the kids themselves, right? Or was my mother simply a better negotiator than the rest when it came to her ‘consulting fee’?”

The pain in his sharp tone made her stomach tighten.

“No—” Lynn was forced to clear her throat against her unexpected and unprecedented empathy. Why in the heck should she feel for him? His mom had scored herself a butt-load of security.

All her mother had ever scored was her next high—Lynn blinked to cut off the thought and refocus. No ties, no limits.

She lifted her chin. “No,” she repeated. “All the women were paid the same sum and given the same conditions.”

His stance relaxed almost imperceptibly. “And this Alexander McCoy…?”

“Actually the maid’s son. Raised by the McCoys to believe he was Marcus’s brother.”

“So much for the McCoy stores’ motto—‘Don’t trust it if it’s not from the real McCoy.’”

Worried about the distaste in his voice, she nodded slowly.

“Unbelievable. At least my mom was always straight up with me about the circumstances surrounding why my father wanted to remain anonymous and where the money she’d used to start her architecture firm had come from.” He shook his fist holding the letter, eyeing it. “Admirable bunch.”

The McCoys were, but Lynn let his sarcasm pass and simply lifted a shoulder. What he thought of them wasn’t her concern.

“What about the other two guys?”

“One is a rancher in Colorado. The other, a contractor, lives in Dependable and was easy to contact.” Because he, too, had managed to land his rear in jail, Lynn had discovered when she’d checked in after arriving here. Merely a charge for disorderly conduct, and easily resolved. Something she’d hoped the major’s would be, too.

Determined to make it so, she continued. “Joseph had hoped to notify you all simultaneously, but I was delayed in getting all the pertinent information I need surrounding your case. We thought it best for me to have everything before contacting you.”

Thank goodness the next phase in his hearing process was also delayed because of a clogged court docket and the fact the primary witness—the driver in the car he hit—couldn’t be present yet. The woman was stuck in a hospital bed, in traction. Unfortunate for the woman, but it bought Lynn time. Time she apparently was going to require.

Relaxing his grip, he uncrumpled the paper. “So why name his sons in his will and blow the family-secrets closet wide open?”

“Joseph believes Marcus finally saw the error of his ways.”

Branigan raised his gaze to hers. “Did you know this Marcus?”

“Yes. He frequently worked with those of us in Legal preparing contracts for suppliers or for developers who wanted the McCoys to open new stores. Though more often than not, he teleconferenced or e-mailed because he was usually off somewhere handling client relations.”

“And now everyone knows the sort of ‘handling’ he liked to do.” The major gave her a quick once-over, his meaning clear in his sharp eyes.

Lynn kept her mouth shut. While she’d caught Marcus looking a little too long at her breasts and legs and he had always indulged in mild flirtation with her—as well as with a lot of other women at McCoy Enterprises—things had never progressed further. He’d either learned his lesson, or he’d considered her and the other ladies to be too close to home. He had left one other woman from Dependable, besides the maid, pregnant and rich but that woman had been the last of his fertile flings.

They hoped.

The major reread the letter. “Seems he didn’t have very good relations with grizzly bears.”

“Apparently.”

He looked her dead in the eye. “So why do you think he claimed us—the ‘Lost Millionaires’—in his will? Especially after going to such expense years ago to cut himself loose from his duty and responsibility?”

Lynn didn’t blink. “I can’t begin to speculate.”

Oh, but she had. Endlessly. And she had her theories. None of which she was going to share with the man she’d been sent to bring into the McCoy fold without scandal.

Marcus realizing the error of his ways certainly wasn’t one of her theories. Nor was guilt. That wasn’t his style—even if he’d placed his illegitimate sons in his will because he fully expected to live a lot longer than he had, a reasonable assumption on his part considering how robust Joseph still was at nearly seventy-five years of age.

Major Branigan tossed the letter onto the table. “Doesn’t matter why. I’m not going to be attending some family reunion anytime soon.” He turned and walked to the tall windows in his attractively decorated living room with its view of the distant ocean.

He was so tall and well shaped beneath his white T-shirt and jeans that Lynn had to admit she preferred the view she had from where she sat. Which was saying something, because she sure as heck wasn’t a card-carrying member of the Pocket Watchers of America.

She’d never even spoken with the girls who’d wasted their time checking out the back pockets of the boys’ Levi’s in school. Her focus was normally on her schooling or work. But the major was work.

Fortunately, the tension radiating from every lean, hard inch of the man squashed any pleasure that checking out his butt might have given her.

The breadth of his shoulders expanded as he inhaled deeply, then slowly exhaled. “Even if I were free to leave town, I still wouldn’t be interested. I’m a Marine, ma’am.”

“Not for long if you’re convicted. I’m sure you’re well aware of the fact that you’ll be dishonorably discharged before you can say ‘ooh-rah.’”

His hands fisted at his sides again. “That’s hoo-rah. And what happens to me is none of your business.”

“Your grandfather, Joseph McCoy, has made it my business. He’s not about to let a grandson he’s just found out about go to jail if he doesn’t have to.” An attitude that had shocked her, given Joseph’s morally upstanding reputation.

The major turned slowly to face her, his jaw hardened with the sort of determination only a decade in the Marines could give a man. “I said yes when the cops asked if I was driving that truck the night of the accident. I’m afraid Mr. McCoy is out of luck.”

Her knee-jerk response was Not if I can help it, but something about his admission of guilt struck her as odd. Coupled with what she knew about him from his files…

The fine hairs on her arms stood on end. Something was wrong. Did Joseph suspect as much, also? Was that why he was willing to seek special treatment for the first time that she was aware of?

She shook her intuition off. She wasn’t here to worry about right or wrong. She was here to earn the promotion Joseph had all but promised her in exchange for the presence of this grandson at his birthday party on July third. The promotion could be one more step upward. One more step toward the security she could never be too sure of.

Her third goal—a security for which she’d do anything, sacrifice anything.




Chapter Two


“You should have more faith in my abilities, Major Branigan.”

“Your abilities are not in question, Ms. Hayes.” Though Rick had tried to keep his attention fixed on the distant view of the late-morning sun glinting off the Pacific Ocean, his body was all too aware of the woman seated behind him. His gaze strayed from the older apartment complex down the hill from his condominium to his smashed red pickup truck sitting out front.

What had Pete been thinking?

But that was just it. Pete didn’t think; he simply did. Always had. When they were kids, Rick, as Pete’s best friend, had been there to divert disaster. A lot had changed between them since, yet not everything.

Needing to move, to do something, he turned from the window and headed for the door. Nothing more than a symbolic way out, but at the moment, he’d take anything he could get.

“What is in question is how we’re going to—Major Branigan?” she practically yelled.

He glanced back at her as he yanked open the front door. Her exotic eyes were wide. For the first time since she’d strolled through his door she looked flustered, no longer the queen of her domain.

Normally, he would have felt guilty about being so rude, but he’d stowed his conscience the day the cops had come knocking.

He was about to step out—

“Major!”

He relented and made up an excuse to toss her. “I have to work on my truck.” He reached back in and scooped his keys off the small table in the hall. “Just be sure you shut the door behind you after you’ve gathered your stuff. Don’t want Buddy to get out.” He pointed at the cat beneath the table, watching him with blatant interest. Rick never knew what the damn thing was going to do from one minute to the next.

The lawyer glanced from the cat, to her files, to him, opening and closing her mouth as if wanting to sputter but too polished to actually indulge in something so telling. Rick took advantage of her distress and left the condo, shutting the door behind him.

He’d barely made the landing before he heard his door open and close quickly—good, no escape for Buddy today, the slippery cat—then her heels rapped on the stairs as she hurried down.

“Major Branigan—”

His attention on finding the key to his storage closet at the back of the carport, he called, “Thank you for delivering that letter, Ms. Hayes.” He passed his tarp-covered Suzuki motorcycle and when he heard her walk up behind him, he added, “At least now I know my father’s name.”

It didn’t change the way he felt about the man, or how he intended to live his life. Duty bound and with honor. All the way to the ugly end.

“Major. Rick.”

Her imploring use of his name made him glance at her as he opened the storage closet. She visibly clenched her jaw while she stared at him, single file folder gripped in her hands, marring her smooth, perfectly sculpted face.

This one didn’t back down. He liked that. But with him, such tenacity wouldn’t help her get what she wanted. Her three goals—whatever the third one was—would not be achieved.

Mustering as much finality and sincerity as he could, he said, “It was nice meeting you, Ms. Hayes.”

She studied him for a moment. Rick had the distinct impression he was being searched, that she was trying to see through him to the truth of him. To the sort of man he really was.

Wouldn’t do her any good. That man had been sacrificed to repay a debt.

He turned away and reached into the closet for his tool kit. When he straightened, she was reading the papers within the folder she had balanced open in one hand.

She mused, “So you admitted guilt to the arresting officers—”

He shut the storage-closet door. “We’ve already covered that.”

She ran a finger across a page. “But you refused any form of testing for blood-alcohol levels despite repeated warnings that doing so would be used against you at trial, and you refused further questioning.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “How do you know what I refused?”

“I have a copy of the police report right here.”

“How did you get that?”

A finely shaped black brow twitched. “The McCoys are remarkably connected, Major.”

“You mean rich enough to buy what they need.”

She slowly raised her eyes to his. “Actually, based on my experience during the five years I’ve worked for McCoy Enterprises, people are often eager to do things for the McCoys.” She shrugged. “Whether out of hope for future business opportunities or simply to be able to say they’ve had personal dealings with billionaires.”

Not interested in either of those things, and not caring to have his life bared for perusal by anyone except the military, he shifted the large, red metal toolbox to his other hand. “What else do you have there?”

Her smile was supremely confident. “I have it all, so you might as well accept the fact that I’m here to help you. I didn’t come all the way from Missouri for nothing.”

“No way, Ms. Hayes.” He turned and headed out of the carport.

She followed, her strides remarkably long and determined despite the height of her heels and the snugness of her skirt. Which were two things he hadn’t wanted to notice, given the disaster his life had become. So he stopped and asked, “Or is it ‘Mrs.’? Don’t you have a husband or someone waiting on you? Why don’t you fly home early and surprise him, ma’am.”

She made a disgusted-sounding noise. “Afraid not, Major. It’s Miss, and even if it weren’t, even if there was someone waiting for me to come home, which there isn’t, he’d just have to wait.” She glared for several moments, then her expression softened and she shifted toward him.

His survival-training-honed instincts went on high alert.

In a beguiling tone that was a far better match to her unusual eyes and full mouth, she said, “On the other hand, the more you cooperate with me, the sooner we can get you free of this unpleasantness. And the sooner you’re free of this unpleasantness, the sooner you can be rid of me. So it’s entirely up to you, Major.”

It was Rick’s turn to make a disgusted sound as he started again toward his truck. He might free himself of her, but they both knew he’d never be free of the stain “this unpleasantness” would leave on his reputation.

Nor would he be free of the McCoys, for that matter. His mood darkened further. He wasn’t about to run to them because he had nothing else to do.

He dropped his toolbox with a bang next to the crushed left front of the once dingless Dodge.

Planting his hands on his hips, he tried to ignore the woman next to him by focusing on the truck’s damage. The lights on this side were completely obliterated, the hood had buckled and the side panel was creased and streaked with black paint.

From the other car. The car of Emelie Dawson, forty-six, divorced mother of two.

If only he’d looked closer that night, he would have realized a tree hadn’t caused the damage. His throat tightened and his stomach turned.

Focus on what you have power over.

He examined the front of the truck. He’d have to pry the bumper away from the wheel to keep from further trashing the tire if he wanted to drive the truck to the repair shop rather than have it towed—a minor concession he’d make to his restrained pride. There’d be a little too much symbolism involved in having to watch his truck being winched up onto a flatbed and hauled away.

He pushed the button on the key fob and unlocked the truck so he could get a crowbar from the space in back of the seat.

Behind him, Miss Hayes said, “I’m surprised they didn’t impound your vehicle.”

“They did. My Acme lawyer got it returned to me right after the police processed it.”

Without commenting, she said crisply, “Back to the police report. You initially admitted to having driven this truck the night of the accident. Is that correct?”

Rick stifled a sigh as he backed out of the cab and straightened, crowbar in hand. Maybe if he let her see exactly how little help she could provide, she’d leave. He shut the truck’s door. “Correct.”

He’d said the words that night; now he’d pay the price.

She moved just enough to let him get down on the blacktop to search beneath the bumper for a good leverage point. “But then you exercised your Fifth Amendment right to remain silent in order to avoid incriminating yourself. Why? Why not just ask to speak with an attorney before you answered any more questions?”

He found a notched spot and fit one end of the crowbar against it, then braced the other one on the bumper. “Because talking to a lawyer then wouldn’t have made any difference. I still wasn’t going to answer any questions.”

“Because you’re guilty.”

He grunted an answer, but the acceptance in her tone made him shove on the wedged crowbar extra hard.

“Okay, then. Let’s walk through the facts.”

“I don’t want your help, Miss Hayes.”

“Humor me. And please, call me Lynn.”

She was cozying up to him, to get him to let her into the game. The healthy male in him locked and loaded at the mere thought of cozying up to a looker like her—but no way.

“Witnesses have you leaving the Rancho Margarita Bar’s parking lot in a truck matching the description of this one—”

She stepped close and lightly kicked the tire next to his shoulder with her beige, high heeled shoe. She wasn’t wearing any hose, and her incredibly smooth, lightly tanned skin pulled his gaze upward over a slender ankle, a toned calf, a perfect knee, a satiny thigh shadowed by the hem of her skirt…

“—and heading south in the northbound lane for approximately a hundred yards before making a correction.” She humphed and shifted her weight. “Hard to claim a momentary lapse of control caused the accident.”

Rick jerked his attention back to the crowbar, practically forgotten in his hands. “That it would be,” he concurred, pretending that he hadn’t just been peering up her skirt. He knew the perspiration forming on his back and his forehead said otherwise.

He gave the crowbar a fast, hard push.

She shifted again, but this time he only allowed himself a glance. Damn, but she had nice legs. Runner’s legs. The kind that had to be earned, especially since she appeared to be about his age. Thirty-something women didn’t keep legs like that free.

He gritted his teeth and pushed again. The bumper moved an inch with a satisfying metal-on-metal squawk.

“Why don’t you just let them crank the thing up on a flatbed and haul it to a shop?”

“Because.” He grumbled and pushed at the bumper a third time. “It’s not that bad.”

She scoffed. “If you say so. But according to this, you must have been traveling about thirty miles per hour when you ran the light after getting into the right lane. No skid marks before you hit the black sedan as it was starting its left-hand turn. Just because you could back up and drive away doesn’t mean your truck isn’t trashed.”

She took a step nearer and he glanced up to see her peering into the cab. “Ah. So that’s what an airbag looks like. Can’t be easy to drive with all that hanging out of the steering wheel into your lap. Or feel pleasant when it nails you.”

Good thing he had no intention of taking his shirt—or anything else—off around this woman, because she was certain to spot that he didn’t have a mark on him other than his tattoo.

“Too bad the airbag in the car you hit couldn’t prevent the driver from getting her pelvis broken. I can’t imagine anything that would hurt worse.”

He grunted in response, using all his strength to shove the bumper outward, away from the wheel well so the tire could turn freely. He didn’t want to think about the specifics of that night, didn’t want to form a picture that would play over and over in his head. The future held enough nightmares for him as it was.

But he was a man of his word, and he’d given his word. Besides, now it was all too late.

“Interesting.”

He paused, only barely refraining from asking what?

“It says here, you refused a breathalyzer and blood test at the station, but exhibited no signs of inebriation. Even though they were able to track you down within the hour from the partial plate number the victim noted as you were backing away and the fact that you were holding a beer when you opened the door. Care to comment?”

“Nope.” Man, he’d needed a beer after taking one look at Pete.

“Didn’t think so.”

She didn’t sound thwarted at all. Or even perturbed. She sounded intrigued, like a woman unwilling to butt out.

Not good. Not good at all.

THE LATE-MORNING SUN glared off the papers within the folder and made Lynn too warm in her suit coat. Still, she stood there next to the truck and read through the rest of the faxed copy of the police report, using far more care than she had the first time in her hotel suite while familiarizing herself with the case after she’d finally received all the documentation. Now that she’d met the soon-to-be-ex-Major Rick Branigan, different things were jumping out at her. Things that didn’t make sense. Things that were making her instincts go nuts.

While she was no defense attorney or any kind of a trial lawyer, she didn’t get to work for McCoy Enterprises’s Legal because she was just good at contracts. She’d worked her tail off at the University of Missouri and Columbia Law to be the best of the best. A regular G.I. Jane of law up against all the Ivy League grads. Her instincts had yet to fail her, and she’d learned to trust them.

Once again she squinted through the dirty driver’s window at the deflated airbag, very much like a big white balloon that had been popped and forgotten. Then she realized the window wasn’t dirty on the outside, but coated with residue left by the powder from the airbag. Drivers often had burns as well as bruises and abrasions on their arms and faces from an airbag’s violent inflation.

She looked down at the mile of man stretched out at her feet. No sign of injury of any kind, old or new. Just muscle, sinew and a bullheadedness she might normally have respected.

The copy of the mug shot in the file she’d barely glanced at earlier—she’d simply registered a McCoy family resemblance then—was of a disturbingly handsome face marred only by a heartbreaking stoicism. It was the face of a man prepared to give nothing but name, rank and serial number.

She searched through the police report for any indication that he’d had injuries from the accident or bore evidence of taking an airbag in the kisser, which, for whatever reason, wasn’t visible in his picture. She didn’t find anything.

She knew drunks often walked away from horrific wrecks without serious injury because their bodies were so relaxed that the jolt of the impact didn’t harm them. But she doubted being relaxed would save someone from the punishment that an early-model airbag—which this truck surely had—could dole out.

She chewed on her lip for a minute. Branigan was tall. His chest could have taken the brunt of the force. She could ask him to remove his shirt so she could check for bruises…A trickle of sweat ran down between her breasts.

Instead, she asked, “Have you done laundry lately, Major?”

He paused in his battle with the bumper and squinted up at her. “What?”

The guy had nice teeth. Among other things. “I was just wondering if you’d washed the clothes you were wearing the night of the accident.”

He went very still. “Why?”

“Because I’d like to see them.”

“Why?” he repeated, but with even more suspicion.

“To check if there’s residue on them from the airbag. The same stuff that’s all over the inside of your truck.”

He squinted up at her for a moment more, then used his strong leg to push himself farther beneath the bumper. “Sorry. Laundry day was yesterday.”

Liar.

She had no idea why she was so certain, but she was. And he had no reason to lie to her. He knew his guilt or innocence didn’t matter to her. If he didn’t want her to see his clothes because he didn’t want her help, he could just tell her no.

So why lie to her? Unless he was lying about other things…Or copping the Fifth to avoid having to lie…

She snapped the folder closed and leaned her shoulder against the side mirror. “So what were you celebrating?”

“Celebrating?”

“Yes, celebrating. There was nothing in your files about any sort of drinking problem, so you must have been celebrating something to tie one on like that.”

More clanking, more protesting metal. “Guess it’d been a good day.”

“A good day? Hmm.” She flipped to another page in the file. “Let’s see. It says your MOS is 0302. What does that mean?”

There was a long silence, and just as she was deciding he wasn’t going to answer, he said, “MOS stands for Military Occupational Specialty, and 0302 is Infantry.”

She already knew as much, having spent several late hours the night before she flew out to California poring over the USMC’s Web site. By the time she finished, she’d wanted to join up. But she needed to draw him out.

“Thank you. I imagine you form quite a few strong bonds in the infantry. So who were you with? You know, at the bar? Who were you drinking with?”

Silence from beneath the truck.

Lynn’s confidence in her gut instinct grew. “Or were you drinking alone? The witnesses said there’d been just one person in the red pickup. And if you’d been with friends, they wouldn’t have been very good friends to let you get into your truck and drive away drunk enough not to recognize your right from your left. So were you at the Rancho Margarita Bar drinking alone?”

While she didn’t expect one, she gave time for an answer.

When enough time had passed, she continued. “Though the cops wouldn’t have bothered checking, because you’re making their job easy as hell, I’m sure the bartender will remember you. Definitely the cocktail waitresses. I mean, a guy like you—” She caught herself before she elaborated on his very memorable traits.

No need to let him know she found him attractive. She was there simply to get him out of this potential disaster with the civilian authorities and have him discharged from the Marines fast.

She straightened away from the side mirror. If there was more to this story—namely, that Major Rick Branigan hadn’t been driving this truck when it plowed into another car—then she could either get him free of the charges quickly, or she’d end up dragging the investigation out for months. Especially if he continued to behave like a jackass and withhold his cooperation.

Considering the clock always ticking in the back of her mind and what she had at stake, did she dare risk finding out?




Chapter Three


“What do you mean, a guy like me?”

His speculative tone from beneath the truck snapped Lynn out of her dire musings. She realized the major wasn’t wrenching on the bumper anymore.

Still conflicted over what she wanted to do about his potential innocence, she tried for a casual approach, as if she were stating the obvious. “The type waitresses remember.”

“Which is?”

“Are you looking for compliments, Major?”

“Only if you’re in the mood to give them, Miss Hayes.”

What she was in the mood for was an open-and-shut case. A case that wouldn’t give her a moment’s pause but would earn her one more notch in her belt. One more promotion to insulate her from the numbing chill of her past. One more reason to be able to sleep at night. If she shut down her instincts about his innocence right here, right now, this case could garner her the security she craved.

But could even she, a woman perfectly willing to dart in front of a more tenured co-worker to get the next promotion, let an innocent man plead guilty to anything to get him where he needed to be on time? Could she sacrifice him for her own selfish needs?

The man in question pulled himself from beneath the truck and eyed her. “I was beginning to think you’d left.”

She hadn’t. She couldn’t.

“Just searching for a suitable compliment.”

He snorted and pushed himself to his feet. “If you have to try that hard, then don’t bother.”

Surprised by his sense of humor, she laughed. He stared at her, his brows raised. She did her best to ignore the fact that the man had beautiful eyes. “What?”

It was as though her question startled him back into action, and he brushed off the seat of his jeans and the back of his T-shirt. “I have to admit I didn’t take you for the laughing sort.”

Surprised at herself for being susceptible to him in any way, she raised her chin. “Sorry to disappoint you, Major.”

“Trust me, I’m not disappointed.” But he didn’t sound happy, either. “I’ll walk you up to my place so you can get the rest of your stuff.”

So he was back to trying to get rid of her. Fine. She was ready to go. She had some serious thinking to do.

Lynn held up a hand. “That’s okay. I can manage on my own. You stay down here so your tools don’t go for a walk, too.”

He turned his attention back to the truck. Planting his hands on his hips, he blew out a breath. “I still have my work cut out for me with this thing.”

“Do you have something against body shops?”

His gaze flicked over her in a way that made her very conscious of her own body. In particular, what lay between her hem and the modest neckline of her buttoned blazer. Another bead of sweat erupted from the overheated skin at the top of her cleavage and started its slow progression down to her bra.

He met her eyes again. “Not a thing. But since the main base pool is closed today, I’ve nothing better to do.”

“Are you a swimmer?” She couldn’t help taking another visual inventory of his body. Thick biceps—with that eagle-globe-and-anchor tattoo that drew the eye—muscle-capped shoulders and strong-looking chest and legs. All of which she’d automatically attributed to his being in the military.

“All Marines are amphibious, ma’am.” His delivery was deadpan, but the teasing light in his deep blue eyes derailed her for a second. He was joking.

Her look must have mirrored the one he’d given her after she’d laughed, because he raised his eyebrows again and said, “What?”

“I didn’t take you for the joking sort.”

“Sorry to disappoint, ma’am.”

They exchanged a silent acknowledgment that there was more to each other than either had first thought.

Terrific. Lynn’s heart started to pound.

The major widened his stance and crossed his arms over his chest. “But I’d be at the pool because I was relieved of my normal duties and temporarily reassigned to Recreational Aquatics Thermal Regulator.”

She didn’t have the chance to ask for clarification before he provided it.

“I have to check the pool temperature every hour.”

“Really.”

“It was either that or handing out basketballs in the gym.”

She winced. Talk about humiliating for a major to be reduced to such menial duties. And while it beat the heck out of sitting in jail, why in heaven’s name wouldn’t he want to be free of being the pool boy?

He watched her with his jaw jutted, clearly daring her to pity him.

Lynn contained the twinges of exactly that emotion by gripping the file folder to her chest. She cleared her throat. “Well, I’ll leave you to your repairs while I go grab my briefcase and files.”

He studied her, then gave a short nod. “Just be careful of the cat. Make sure it doesn’t bolt out the door.”

No worries there. The only one who’d be bolting out the door would be her.

“I’ll keep an eye out for it.” She turned away, then stopped. “Um, what’s its name?” Why she’d thought to ask, let alone care, was beyond her. She wasn’t the fuzzy-creature type. She wasn’t any creature type.

“Bud.”

“As in a flower or the beer?”

His mouth quirked. “As in Buddy.”

A masculine name from a masculine guy. Still didn’t make the cat any less fuzzy.

She nodded in acknowledgment and headed for the stairs to his second-story condo, her brain unnaturally sluggish given the choice she’d have to make.

If she could keep him out of jail, there would be nothing to prevent him from coming with her to Dependable.

If he pleaded guilty or she finagled the lesser charge and he paid the fine, the Marine Corps would be glad to be rid of him and she could give Joseph what he wanted, and he in turn would give her what she wanted.

But what if Rick Branigan was innocent?

She’d told him she didn’t care about his innocence or guilt, but she’d lied. She’d once been innocent and had had to pay the price for someone else’s actions. An injustice that had festered deep in her chest.

Lynn tucked the file folder under her arm and rubbed at one temple in an attempt to clear her thinking as she climbed the stairs. When she reached the major’s door, she opened it and entered quickly to keep the cat from escaping. She scanned the room as she latched the door behind her. Buddy was sitting on the glass-topped dining-room table, smack-dab in the middle of her files, and looking very much in control of his world.

A personal challenge if she ever saw one.

Lynn marched to the table. “Get off, cat.”

Not so much as a blink in response.

She picked up her briefcase and jammed the file containing the police report inside.

The cat stood, but only to stretch, raising his fluffy rear end in the air and digging his claws into her folders and papers. Lynn planted a fist on her hip and waited for him to finish. Once the claws were back in, she snatched a couple of the bottom files out from under him.

Buddy wasn’t impressed.

She muttered, “Stupid cat.”

The black phone on the kitchen bar rang, and they both jumped, Buddy off the table and Lynn back a step.

The phone rang again, and she glanced at the closed front door, wondering if she should let the major know he had a call. After the third ring and before she could decide, the answering machine kicked on and Rick Branigan’s voice, just as deep and compelling as it was in person, announced that he was out and instructed the caller to leave a message.

No “How’s it hanging?” or even “Hi,” but not rude, either. Just to the point, without embellishment. The man would not be an easy one to figure out.

She shouldn’t want to try.

The machine beeped and a woman’s voice filled the room. “Rick, honey, it’s Mom. You realize, don’t you, that it’s been ages since we talked. I called the base and all they would tell me was that you were unavailable. So, to keep from worrying about you, I’ve been convincing myself your answering machine must be broken.” A telling pause. “If you get this, please call me. And even if you don’t get this, you should still be checking in with your mother more often than this. The way you normally do.”

The woman was clearly striving to be light and joking, but there was a definite undertone of fear.

“I love you. Bye.”

Lynn stared at the blinking red light, the simple endearment making the backs of her eyes burn. Lynn would never have received a message like that from her mother, even if she were still in her life. It’d been years since the longing for family had been this bad.

Feeling ambushed, she swept the rest of the files into her briefcase with a careless hand and turned toward the door.

His mom didn’t know.

The thought stopped Lynn. She forced herself to consider. Why hadn’t he told his mother that his career, and freedom, were on the line? Because he didn’t want to face his mother’s disappointment?

Lynn shook her head. No. He struck her as the type who’d take it on the chin, sobbing momma or not. So why was he putting off the inevitable?

Because he doesn’t want to be talked out of doing what he’s doing.

The specter of his innocence rose again and made her conscience shudder. She shoved the uncomfortable sensation aside.

Maybe Major Branigan might find it easy to tell a stranger to go take a flying leap, but ignoring his mother’s pleas to make the best of the situation and get on with his life was another thing.

Hopefully, he’d be willing to get on with his life under the protective wing of the McCoys in Dependable, Missouri.

An idea bloomed in Lynn’s head and a renewed sense of determination surged through her with a power she’d come to depend upon.

She had no choice but to do anything she could to get Major Branigan in Dependable by July third.

Even if his momma had to drag him there.

WAITING IN HER hotel’s sunny, tropical-themed coffee shop the next morning for Ann Branigan to arrive, Lynn stared at the concentric rings of white that the cream formed as she poured the thick liquid into her coffee. She’d already dumped in the contents of two packets of sweetener.

She used to not allow herself the luxury of making what she considered a nasty drink more palatable, worried that she might be perceived as less tough somehow for not taking her coffee strong and black. But after meeting with such steady success at McCoy Enterprises, she’d lightened up a bit. She swirled her spoon around the cup until the coffee was a pale brown.

Maybe she’d lightened up too much.

Was that why she was having such a hard time sticking with her original neutrality regarding the major’s innocence or guilt? And was that why she’d agreed to wait until his mother could fly down from San Francisco to meet with her in person and talk at length about her son?

Lynn blew out a breath at her own foolishness and pushed the cup and saucer toward the center of the table, bumping the slender vase and its little purple orchids to the side. She’d only accepted being put off by Ann Branigan—after first telling the woman everything she knew, including the details of Marcus McCoy’s will—because it had become plain to Lynn less than two minutes into the conversation that the major’s mother was a woman to reckon with.

Ms. Branigan had not been happy to discover she’d been outed, that the secret she’d kept for so long was no longer a secret.

Thanks to the files Joseph McCoy’s lawyers and private investigators had compiled after the reading of Marcus McCoy’s will naming the women he’d paid off, Lynn had already known that Ms. Branigan was the owner of a very successful architectural design firm. Which was also how Lynn had known to get ahold of her. But Lynn had had no idea how strong a personality the woman would have.

Ms. Branigan had refused to give Lynn any insight into her son until they had a chance to meet face-to-face. Apparently holding on to a million-dollar secret for thirty-three years made her play things dang close to the vest.

But the major’s mom had promised in exchange not to see Rick or talk to him until after that meeting.

She’d better not. Lynn needed her firmly in the get-this-over-quick-and-quiet camp before Ms. Branigan spoke with her son.

And then Lynn could put the specter of past wrongs and the moral consciousness he’d stirred in her to rest for good and go back to never thinking about what was over and done with. She wanted to think only about her future.

A bright one without shadows or fear.

The sound of wooden chair legs scraping on tile brought her out of her thoughts and her head up. An attractive, petite older woman with close-cropped brown hair was pulling out the chair across from Lynn. She wore a tailored leather jacket that matched her hair, over a tan blouse and slacks. A bright red scarf tied jauntily around her neck gave her a splash of color and style.

“Miss Hayes?” she asked, even though she’d clearly assumed she had the right table. Her smile was striking, but tight—so similar to her son’s.

Lynn extended a hand. “Yes. And you must be Ann Branigan.”

“I am.” She slid into the seat with the ease of a woman used to breakfast meetings. The deep grooves on either side of her full mouth and her worry-clouded blue eyes made it obvious this was no regular business meeting to her. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”

“Thank you for flying down here.” Assuming you prove to be a help, not a hindrance.

“How could I not?” She settled in and waved away the waitress and her coffeepot. “While he might not believe it, Rick is the most important part of my world.”

Before Lynn could process the implications of Ms. Branigan’s statement, she asked, “So tell me, how could this have happened? Who has Rick been mistaken for?”

Lynn blinked. His mother had automatically assumed him innocent, despite all the facts Lynn had relayed to her during their telephone conversation the night before.

Lynn’s instincts reared up and shouted, Ha, I told you so! She stubbornly ignored them. “Ms. Branigan, your son confessed. Why would you think it’s a mistake?”

“Please, call me Ann. And I’m positive there’s been a mistake because I know my son, Miss Hayes.”

“Lynn,” she said, leveling the playing field. This woman was obviously the type who would cooperate only if she considered Lynn her equal.

Ann acknowledged her with a nod, then leaned forward, her round face radiating the strength of will her peppy attractiveness would normally belie. “Rick would never drive drunk, and he would never, ever, leave the scene of an accident, whether he caused it or not.” She settled back again. “You see, Lynn, my son is all about duty and honor.”

Lynn’s spirits plummeted. So much for losing moral consciousness.

Through tight lips, she admitted, “I noticed.”

“Hard not to. He lives and breathes the Marine code of honor, courage and commitment. Pretty much always has. When he was a teenager and found out that Semper Fi meant ‘Always Faithful’ he enlisted in the Marines’ college-bound program the next day.”

“Why?”

Ann inhaled deeply as she straightened the silverware in front of her. “When I asked him that very thing, he said he felt he had something to prove—whether to the world or himself, I’m not sure. What he didn’t say—would never say, but it’s something I’ve always known—is that he resents the choices his father and I made when I accidentally became pregnant.”

“You and Marcus McCoy,” Lynn clarified in a low voice.

“Yes. Neither of us wanted a long-term commitment. Marcus, understandably, didn’t want his identity revealed. I agreed to his terms because I’d be able to secure my child’s future by investing the money he was offering in my business. My hope had been that Rick would grow up and take over the company. He had different ideas. And I respect that.”

Different ideas that would cost Lynn her chance for guaranteed security. “But now that his ideas about his future have been effectively demolished, will you help me convince him to take the easiest way out of the trouble he’s in?”

“No.”

Shock loosened Lynn’s jaw, and she fought not to gape.

It must have shown, because Ann’s expression softened and she leaned near. “Not because I don’t want to, Lynn. But Rick—who I know loves me dearly—nevertheless deep down doesn’t respect me. He doesn’t realize that I’m aware of his feelings. And I believe that he struggles with them. But the truth is there in the choices he makes.”

Ann’s sigh held a mother’s regret. “I’ve never been able to influence him. Fortunately, his choices are always ones that I can be proud of. Though they’re not always in his best interest, as far as I’m concerned.” She shook her head. “If he’d chosen to work for me he’d be very rich by now.”

A gloominess stealing over Lynn, she muttered, “He already is very rich, thanks to the inheritance from his father. Very, very rich.”

Ann slumped back. “I suppose he is.” She shook her head again and tsked. “Poor Marcus. A grizzly bear. How awful.”

Feeling as though there was a grizzly bear of her own slobbering down her neck, Lynn clarified. “So you don’t believe you can convince Rick to accept my help or change his mind about this silent acceptance of whatever the punishment might be?”

“I wish I could. And I wish there was some hope that you could convince him yourself.”

Lynn sat up straighter. “What makes you think I can’t?”

“Because I can already tell that he’s going to react to you the same way he reacts to me.”

“Which is?”

“By doing the exact opposite of what you suggest.”

Dread churned in Lynn’s stomach like acid from the coffee she hadn’t drunk. “Why?”

Ann’s blue eyes glowed with certainty. “We’re too much alike, you and I.”

Lynn clenched her jaw. So she was on her own. Nothing new there. It appeared she’d have no choice but to discover the truth about Rick’s accident.

Then she could decide what to do.

RICK DREW STRENGTH from his frustration and lifted the heavier-than-normal weights away from his sides, his hissing breath loud in the deserted fitness room across the parking lot from his condo. While he’d never really thought much about the convenience of having a place to exercise at his condominium complex because he normally worked out on base, he’d found it a godsend in the days since he’d been released on bail. He probably would have exploded with frustration had he not been able to release some of the steam as sweat that drenched his white sleeveless T-shirt and black shorts.

Today he could have given Hercules a good go. It was already midmorning, and he was still going strong.

He couldn’t believe Lawyer Lady’s gall—

The door leading out to the parking lot opened. “Ah, it is you.”

Rick faltered and nearly dropped the dumbbells. Man, now she’s showing up when I think about her. Talk about a reason to stop thinking about her.

He turned to find Lynn striding toward him. Though how she practically marched in those heels was beyond him. The pale blue color and feminine cut of her suit coat and matching pants screamed girly-girl, but her in-charge walk, tightly pulled back hair and set jaw belied the packaging.

She was an interesting contradiction. And so not for him.

He turned away and readjusted his hold on the weights. “Butt out of my life, Miss Hayes.”

She came as close as she could without risking his hitting her as he went back to lifting the weights out to his sides. Not close, considering his arm-span, but close enough to make him unable to count as he raised and lowered the weights. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her cross her arms over her attention-grabbing breasts.

“I’m afraid that’s not an option, Major.”

The metal weights clanked as he brought them together in front of his hips. “Respecting other people’s privacy is always an option.”

“Not when your privacy is a matter of law—”

He jerked the weights upward. “I can’t believe you called my mother.”

“You’ve spoken with her?” Her tone had a sharp edge.

Boy, was she mistaken if she thought she could control Ann Branigan. No one put achieving her goals above all else like his mom.

He lowered his arms and brought the weights together. “Briefly.”

“So what did you two talk about?” She sounded as though she was worried about competition for the Supreme Commander seat.

He had to admit, Lynn Hayes was the first woman he’d ever met who might actually give Ann a run for her money.

He answered, “She called me this morning to tell me she was flying down to meet with you.” He tossed her a glare as he lifted his arms again. “Then she expects me to explain everything.”

“Will you?”

The hope in her voice had him gritting his teeth. She still didn’t get it.

“No. Why did you call her?”

“Her previous involvement with Marcus McCoy made contacting her a logical choice. I felt it was only right to inform her of his death, regardless of your level of cooperation.”

“You mean ‘lack thereof.’”

“Yes.”

The ghost of a child’s yearning for a deeper connection between the people who’d made him piggybacked on his unquestionable love for his mother and had him asking, “How’d she take the news that he’d been killed?”

“In stride.”

He scoffed. “That’s my mom.”

“It’s been a long time since she and Marcus were involved, Rick.”

He ignored her soft use of his name, the way it tempted him to see her as more than another problem he really didn’t need right now.

Aiming for a snide tone, he said, “Thirty-three years and nine months, to be exact.”

She shifted in front of him and looked him in the eye. Looked deep in him again. “Ah.”

He hated when she did that. “What do you mean, ah?”

“The whole ‘Always Faithful’ thing.”

To hide his surprise, Rick took his time setting down the hand weights. She would make a hell of an intel officer. “What are you talking about?”

“Just something your mother mentioned.”

“What my mom mentioned? About that—I don’t want you talking to my mother, or anyone else I know, for that matter.” He’d say the words, but he doubted she’d listen—

“Can’t do that,” she shot back.

He heaved a sigh, then told her flat-out, “You can and you—”

“I’m going to find out the truth about the accident, Rick.” She squared her shoulders and her stance, her jaw at a belligerent angle. “I’m going to uncover the truth, then I’m going to use it to find a way to get you out of trouble and back to Dependable so the terms of your father’s will can be executed. And give Joseph McCoy the gift of one of his grandsons for his seventy-fifth birthday.”

He mimicked her pose, but improved on it with a squadron’s worth of testosterone. “Like hell.”




Chapter Four


“You should have told me the truth.”

Pete Wright’s pale blue eyes and battered face didn’t show any sign that he was surprised by Rick’s choice of greeting, or by finding the best friend of his youth on his doorstep for the first time in months. Not since Pete had left the Marines for what he swore would be greener, less “confining” pastures. He simply lifted a bony shoulder in his typical shrug. A gesture that, as Rick matured, had begun to bug the hell out of him.

Now it made him sick to his stomach.

Pete raked his long, dark brown bangs back from his face, his once-military cut gone wild. “Dude, I barely knew my own name that night, let alone the truth. I’m barbecuing out back.” He turned and walked away, but left the front door to his apartment open by way of invitation. The stylized, but no less rude, gesture printed on the back of his black T-shirt sent a different message.

Rick pulled in a calming—and pretty much useless—breath and followed. The front room of the small, two-bedroom, first-floor apartment went as dark as a tomb when he closed the door behind him. The thick beige curtains were drawn over the large window to shut out the hot late-afternoon sun as well as the view of three green Dumpsters Rick had noticed in the small parking lot as he’d waited for Pete to answer the doorbell.

A stream of light knifed through the tiny eating nook when Pete elbowed his way past the same type of curtains that covered the sliding-glass doors. The screen door scraped along its metal track as he went out onto the patio.

Rick followed, clinging to his composure. He’d finally come here for the answers he hadn’t wanted before. He couldn’t have stopped the train once it’d started to come off the tracks and the details only would have haunted him more.

But now he had to know exactly what had happened that night, had to arm himself against the barrage of questions Lynn Hayes was sure to unleash on him.

He had to know everything, to stay one step ahead of her in her quest for the truth.

And deep down, he still held out hope that Pete would come to his senses and act honorably. He’d done it before—only at Rick’s urging—but maybe he’d do it again. A stupid thing to hope for, because Rick doubted he’d be able to allow Pete to even try. They’d dug themselves in too far already, with Rick’s initially taking responsibility.

The sharp smell of cooking meat along with the glare of sun on the six-by-six slab of concrete that constituted Pete’s patio hit Rick when he stepped through the slider, as it had countless times before. Only this time he wasn’t making a social call.

Pete was already back to manning the charcoal-briquette grill, spatula in hand. “Shut the screen door behind ya. Marissa hates flies.” He pressed the spatula against one of two thick hamburger patties. “Better yet, close the slider. The heat’s been getting to her. Those of us at the bottom of the hill don’t have the luxury of working AC.” Fat and juices sizzled and spat.

The ancient temptation to feel guilty about being among the haves when Pete had always been among the have-nots stirred in Rick’s belly, but he refused to let Pete toss him on the barbie along with the burgers. Nevertheless, the pounding that had started in his head after Lynn’s visit intensified to bomb blasts as he reached to close the sliding-glass door.

With heartfelt sincerity he asked, “How is Marissa?”

“As big as a house.”

A feminine voice called from inside the apartment, “I heard that!”

The curtain on the other side of the sliding door Rick had been closing was moved out of the way by a very attractive, very pregnant blonde.

Rick automatically searched her warm brown eyes for any sign of accusation. “Hey, Marissa.”

“Rick!” She greeted him with a wide smile softened by contentment. “Long time no see!” She pushed the patio door wide enough to hug him as best she could.

The intensity of his headache lessened as he hugged her back. When she pulled away, he glanced at the eight months’ worth of baby under her pink maternity tank top, and managed a crooked grin when he returned his gaze to hers. “I’ll say. And you’re growing more beautiful by the inch.”

She’d been pretty, petite and trusting when Pete had first met her on the beach last summer. From what Rick could tell, only the petite part had changed, by at least forty pounds, all of it sticking out in front of her. The thought of destroying her trust made his stomach turn.

“Boy, Rick, that smile of yours is enough to flip a heart or two on a normal basis, but combined with these pregnancy hormones…” She sucked air through her teeth. “It’s a good thing I’m a happily married woman.”

God, he hoped so. He slid Pete a look.

Pete’s attention was on the burgers.

Marissa said, “Jeez, we haven’t seen you since the wedding. Can you stay for an early dinner? We’ve been eating our bigger meal around now so I have plenty of time to digest before I try to lie down. It’ll just take me a second to make another patty—”

Rick held up a hand. “No, I can’t. Sorry, Marissa. But thanks anyway.”

She pouted, but she didn’t seem all that disappointed. “I understand. Now that you’re officially a major, you’re probably as busy as all get out.” She smiled brightly again. “Hey, congrats on that, by the way.” She cuffed him lightly on the shoulder.





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