Mitch had learned early on that you either did what you said or you didn’t. Good intentions didn’t count for shit and actions did all the talking. That’s what he embraced about the military—there was no room for the bullshit he’d grown up with. Life in the armed forces was cut and dried. Black and white. You knew exactly what was expected of you and you knew exactly where you stood. There was a rule and regulation for everything.
If not for going to live with his grandparents and pursuing his own military career, he might have followed in his parent’s footsteps.
“So, you think you can make dinner Saturday night?”
Mitch pulled off the boots and followed with his sweaty socks. “Can’t. I’m heading down to Charoux for a couple of days. The old man—” his grandpa liked being called that “—is turning eighty and I’m bringing in some of his Army buddies for his birthday. There aren’t a whole hell of a lot of them left.”
Mitch was looking forward to it. He only made the trip back home about once a year. Anything more and the old man accused him of “hovering” although Mitch always suspected his grandfather was determined not to be a burden. From the day Mitch had left Charoux, home had become whatever base he was stationed at for that moment in time.
“You flying?”
“Yeah.” He stripped out of his pants. His briefs followed. “No time for a road trip.” He enjoyed driving.
“I’ll let Tara know.”
Mitch snagged a towel and a bar of soap and headed toward the showers, leaving Murdoch in the locker room.
He turned on the water and stepped under the warm spray.
It’d be nice to take a break from the women Tara Murdoch kept throwing at him.
Chapter Two
EDEN’S PALMS BEGAN TO SWEAT as she approached the wooden sign that proclaimed, “Fort Bragg, Home of the Airborne and Special Operations Forces.” But then again, maybe it was just because she had to pee and not because she was entering the confines of Uncle Sam.
She’d flown in last night, picked up a rental car and checked into her hotel. She pulled up to the manned gate and waited behind three cars ahead of her for her base clearance. She’d been offered on-base lodging but had opted to shell out the money for a hotel room in civilian territory. She tapped her finger against the steering wheel, keeping time with the song on the radio. She was going to be late.
Time management wasn’t her strong suit. She’d started out in what should have been plenty of time considering she was only fifteen minutes from the base. But she’d taken a wrong turn and wound up on some back road, then she’d passed the man selling late-season watermelons out of the bed of his pickup on the side of the road and the setting had such a quintessential Southern feel about it, she’d had to stop and chat with Junior Budgeton—that’d turned out to be his name. She’d taken a couple of photos and even a few candids when Junior’s grandson had wandered down to the highway from a clapboard house squatting on a hill for one of his “Pap’s treats”—a bright red slice of sticky, juicy watermelon with its green-rimmed rind. Bottom line—she was late.
Finally, she pulled up to the gate manned by a soldier wearing the signature maroon beret of the 82nd Airborne. He was polite but definitely not Hot Jumper calendar material. After checking his list and her ID he waved her through with instructions on how to get to where she was going.
Twenty minutes later—finding a parking spot had turned out to be far harder than finding the building itself—she hurried down the stretch of spotless military hallway as fast as her three-inch heels and pencil skirt allowed.
Being late, and was she ever, was considered heresy at Fort Bragg’s Special Ops command center. Yet another aspect to love about the military—not. She was making the public relations, “thank you for having me here” call to the big office and then she’d meet with the public affairs people. She’d change afterward into jeans and flats.
Thirty whopping minutes on base and she already felt stifled. For the hundredth time, she lamented getting stuck with this Army Paratrooper calendar.
Damn Patti’s black little soul to hell for rooking Eden into this with limoncello and tarot cards. Her father would put it down to “artsy fartsy hyperbole” but she swore she could already feel the military’s rigidity shutting down her brain.
Late, late, she’s late for a very important date. As The Alice in Wonderland refrain echoed through her head, she chuckled to herself—after all, stressing wasn’t going to turn back the clock—and put on a burst of speed as she turned the corner.
Thwump.
She collided with another moving force. She bounced straight off of a solid wall of soldier and her feet flew out from under her. Windmilling her arms uselessly, Eden landed on the polished gray-specked tile floor on her well-padded derriere. All the air whooshed out of her body.
Winded, she looked up past long legs, lean hips, a flat belly and a wall of chest, to a face that defined sinfully handsome. Chiseled lips, lean cheeks bisected by a sharp blade of a nose, and piercing eyes that were the most curious mix of gray and green, like cool, velvety moss on a stone statue.
A shock of recognition coursed through her quickly followed by a warm flush of desire. Mercury. He bore a striking resemblance to the statue in her garden except he wasn’t naked and his wings were on a shoulder patch rather than on his feet. The thought that she’d like to see him naked chased through her head.
Sprawled at his feet ignominiously, quite suddenly Eden felt light-headed as if her brain was oxygen deprived. That had to be why she continued to sit on her ass in the middle of the hallway and stare open-mouthed at the man who’d literally knocked her off her feet.
Lieutenant Colonel Mitch Dugan—she wasn’t so flustered that she missed the silver oak leaf cluster on his shoulder or the name badge on his broad chest—leaned down, extending a helping hand.
Without considering it, she took it and suffered further indignity when it became apparent that her high heels and narrow tight skirt didn’t lend themselves to being pulled to her feet. With a faint shake of his head he stated the obvious, “That’s not working. Let’s try this,” he ordered. In a span of seconds, he released her hands, hooked his arms beneath her armpits and effortlessly stood her up.
For an instant she was against his hard body, his arms muscled bands around her, her breasts pressing against that unrelenting chest, her hips lined up with his, his chin—with a faint cleft, the photographer in her noted—at eye level. Flesh and blood. Yowza, he was hot. She tilted her head back to look at him and his enigmatic gray-green gaze snared hers.
A tremor jolted her from the soles of her feet to the top of her head. She was breast to chest with Mercury incarnate. He was a beautiful piece of flesh-and-blood man and Eden rolled with her impulse. It was a big base, after all. Who knew when she’d have this opportunity again?
She stood on her tip-toes, sliding another inch up Lieutenant Colonel Hardbody, and kissed him. A slow, deliberate press of her mouth against his lips. Firm, cool…magic.
As she pulled away, something indefinable flickered in his eyes. Laughter, whistles, and even a catcall erupted behind them. Oops. For a second she’d forgotten they weren’t alone. A quick glance showed at least half a dozen men had witnessed that kiss. Definitely time for her to get to where she was going.
“Thanks, soldier,” she said, stepping back and around where he stood like a stone statue. She headed down the hall.
“I’d suggest you avoid going around kissing soldiers,” he said. Ah, the Lieutenant Colonel was touchy about his rank. She stopped and pivoted to face him. “It could get you in trouble,” he continued. His crisp voice carried a hint of Southern