Excerpts

Julie Miller

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WOUNDED WARRIOR K-9

Protectors at K-9 Ranch #7

Permission to reproduce text granted by Harlequin Enterprises

Excerpt

A scarred Marine and his one-eyed mutt try to stay invisible—until a shy ER nurse draws them into the light. But when a stalker turns deadly, it’s not just their hearts on the line…it’s their lives.

The walls were closing in again.

Daniel Travis pressed his palms to his thighs, anchoring himself to the metal chair beneath him, trying to remember where—and when—he was. Saint Luke's Hospital. Kansas City, Missouri. Lower-level meeting room C. Tuesday night PTSD support group.

He wasn’t back there. He wasn’t on patrol. He wasn’t—

Pirate let out a low huff beneath the table and gently rested his scruffy head on Daniel’s knee.

The mutt’s fur was wiry and too long around the ears. His nose sat like a big, black button on the end of his snout, and his ears were brown, his chest was white, and the rest of him was a mixture of tan and gray. His one good eye blinked up at Daniel, calm and focused, the black eyepatch over the other giving him the look of a lopsided cartoon outlaw. Pirate didn’t care about the tension in the room. He didn’t need words or therapy. He just needed Daniel to breathe.

Several of the other veterans had brought their service dogs tonight, too—Labradors, retrievers and shepherds. Ben Hunter’s black German shepherd, Rocky, lay still but alert beside his chair, ears twitching at every new voice or shift in the air. The dogs were quiet, steady presences, anchoring their handlers like weighted lines in a rising tide.

Daniel tried to focus. To keep listening. To just be here.

But the smells—disinfectant from the janitor’s cart outside the door. That sharp snap of a plastic water bottle being opened. The sudden clatter of a clipboard dropped in the hallway.

Too much like—

Boom.

He jerked.

The sound wasn’t real.

But the pounding in his ears sure as hell was. So was the shiver of muscle memory that rolled across his shoulders, tightening his spine, drawing every nerve in his body taut.

Daniel stood abruptly. The legs of his folding chair screeched across the tile floor. Every head in the circle turned. Their expressions blurred, but he felt the weight of them. The pity. The recognition. The fear.

Their facilitator—Peter, or Phil, something soft—called out his name. “Daniel? You want to take a break?”

He couldn’t answer.

Someone else stood. A shadow with a familiar hook at the end of his prosthetic arm glinting in the overhead lights.

“Easy, man.” The voice was gravelly. Calm. Ben Hunter.

The Army vet stepped between Daniel and the door, not close enough to crowd him but enough to remind him where the hell he was. Half his left arm ended in a polished titanium prosthetic. He wore his usual camouflage jacket with the sleeves pushed up, and his calm blue eyes were steady. “Breathe. You’re not there,” Ben said. “Nobody’s shooting. Nobody’s bleeding. It’s just us. You’re safe.”

Safe.

That word scraped against something raw inside Daniel. Safe was what they’d told him right before the roadside bomb exploded and took three of his Marine Force Recon buddies and most of the left side of his face with it.

He couldn’t talk. Could barely breathe. The walls were too close, the air too sharp. His chest squeezed like someone had cinched a strap around it.

Someone else in the circle started talking. A younger guy, probably National Guard, sharing his story about driving supply routes and watching a kid no older than ten trigger a homemade device with a cell phone.

That was the final push.

Daniel’s fists clenched. His lungs burned. Even though there were no nerve endings on that side of his face, his prosthetic eye throbbed in sync with his pulse. His skin crawled.

He had to get out.

He shoved past Ben, hard enough that the man had to plant his feet to stay upright.

“Daniel,” Ben called. Not angry. Just concerned. “Don’t leave like this, man. Talk it out.”

Daniel didn’t answer. Couldn’t. He stormed out of the room. Pirate followed at his heels, silent but alert.

Daniel didn’t stop moving until he’d put three turns and one short flight of stairs between himself and the group room. Pirate trotted silently at his side, ears flicking, his one-eyed gaze sharp and alert. He didn’t bark or nudge again. He just stayed close, a shadow with muscle and fur.

Daniel found a dim side corridor off the main hallway, the kind that housed storage closets and overflow exam rooms. He planted a hand against the wall, bracing himself.

In through the nose. Out through the mouth.

Still didn’t help. The fury bubbled under his skin, hot and too familiar. Rage at the memory, rage at himself, rage at the uselessness of words that never came when he needed them.

He drew his arm back and slammed his fist into the wall.

Drywall cracked. Pain flared. Skin split across his knuckles.

Pirate let out a sharp whine, pacing in a tight circle behind him.

“Dumbass,” Daniel muttered, flexing his bleeding hand. “Real smart move, Travis.”

“Are you—?” A voice rang out from behind him, light but urgent. “What did that wall ever do to you? You’re bleeding pretty badly.”

Duh.

Daniel turned—and froze.

The woman approaching him wore blue ER scrubs and a no-nonsense expression. She had a tray of medical supplies in one hand and a familiar ponytail curling down the back of her neck.

Polly Cooper.

He’d met her a few months ago. Sweet voice. Sweeter curves. That tumble of blond curls she always tried to tie back like she didn’t want to be noticed. But Daniel had noticed. He wasn’t dead. Just mostly numb.

That night, she’d been shoved by a jumpy patient being treated for a gunshot wound. Turned out the guy, who was a fugitive from the law and probably high, had stolen the evidence container with the bullet extracted from his arm and bolted. Polly had hit the floor. Hard. Daniel had been passing through the ER waiting area when it happened. He’d helped her to her feet and walked Polly to her car afterward.

Ben Hunter had apparently been meeting with her stepdad—Sergeant Jedediah Burke, leader of the KCPD K-9 Unit—when Polly had called her father figure to report the incident. Ben had told Sergeant Burke that Daniel wasn’t good with people, but he was good at watching someone’s six. Stepdad had approved of the impromptu protection assignment. Polly had thanked Daniel for making her feel safe.

And he’d responded with something like, “Sure,” or possibly a grunt—and then walked away.

Now here she was again.

Polly set down her tray on a rolling stand outside one of the ER bays and stepped closer. “You’re from the PTSD group,” she said, voice calm. “Daniel, right?”

The gleam of intelligence in her soft green eyes told him she probably recalled his name. But she wanted him to answer a question, to talk. Or maybe she was just shy, and that was all the conversation she could come up with on the fly.

He nodded once.

“I’m Polly. Again. Or still. In case you don’t remember me. I’m not sure what the right word is in this case.” Yeah. Words. He wasn’t going to be able to help her much. Her mouth curved slightly. “ER nurse? Klutz you walked to her car for a couple of nights after that guy I was treating ran?”

“I remember.” Then he felt compelled to add, “Not a klutz. He pushed you.”

“That’s me.” Damn. She shouldn’t keep smiling at him like that. Or looking up into his good eye, as if she couldn’t see the fake prosthetic one or the scars that distorted the left side of his face. “You didn’t have to do that. But I appreciated it.”

She didn’t say you didn’t talk much, or you scared the hell out of me. Just, I appreciated it.

Daniel adjusted his stance. “I’m fine.”

“You’re dripping.” Her brows rose as she glanced at his hand. “That’s technically a workplace hazard. Which qualifies you for treatment whether you like it or not.”

He couldn’t tell if she was serious or teasing. But she didn’t wait for him to argue. Instead, she gestured toward the open door of the nearest exam room.

“Come on. Let me patch you up before you start scaring patients.”

He hesitated. Was that an insult? Or more teasing? She probably shouldn’t be saying anything to him. But Pirate was already heading toward the room, tail high and wagging, posture relaxed.

Traitor.

Daniel followed, stepping inside. “Don’t want to be any trouble.”

“Kind of what I do for a living.” Polly turned on the overhead light and motioned toward the chair beside the bed. The bay was private and clean—a single bed, sink and storage cabinet packed into a compact space.

He sat. Pirate lay down beside him without command, his one good eye watching the pretty nurse with polite curiosity.

Polly pulled on gloves and gently took Daniel’s injured hand in both of hers. Her fingers were warm against his chilled skin.

“Looks like you didn’t break anything,” she murmured, inspecting the blood and swelling. “But you opened yourself up pretty good.”

Daniel didn’t answer. Just watched her work.

She washed his skin with saline, then cleaned the wound with antiseptic, unbothered by the blood or torn skin. She moved with practiced confidence—wiping, dabbing, assessing.

“You’ve got good reflexes,” she said softly.

He blinked. “What?”

“Last time,” she said, glancing up. “When that guy shoved me. You were fast. Barely said a word, but you were there as soon as I hit the floor. You could have walked on by the room and not gotten involved.”

“I didn’t like the way he talked to you. I sure as hell didn’t like him touching you.”

Polly blinked. Her cheeks flushed a little, but she didn’t look away. “Neither did I.”

Several more quiet moments passed. With her head bent over his hand, he studied the variations of colors in her hair—wheat, caramel, honey—every bit of it natural and curly, as far as he could tell. He inhaled the scents coming off her, too—soap, antiseptic and something milder and more enticing from her hair itself, like a crisp green apple.

He mentally shoved aside those observations and focused on the stark, white cabinets on the wall. Yeah, he was attracted to Nurse Polly Cooper. But he shouldn’t be. And he wasn’t going to do a damn thing about it. A relationship would never work. Hell, a date wouldn’t work. But maybe she could be a friend. Or, at least, a friendly acquaintance. If she didn’t see him as a hotheaded jerk who punched walls and didn’t say much.

“I was…off tonight,” Daniel admitted. “Some kid in group started talking. I know everybody there’s got issues. But it just…hit me wrong.”

“You don’t have to explain.” Her voice stayed gentle but firm. “I’ve worked trauma. I’ve seen what it does. No judgment here.”

He didn’t respond—but something loosened in his chest.

Polly reached for gauze and began wrapping his hand. “Sorry if it stings.”

“It’s fine.”

“You always say that?”

“Only when I’m bleeding in public and trying to be a tough guy.”

She chuckled, and the happy sound went straight to parts of him he didn’t think reacted to things that were soft and beautiful anymore. “You and Pirate make quite the team.”

Of course she’d remember his dog’s name, too.Daniel glanced down. “He’s the smart one.”

“I like that he wears a patch.”

“He only had the one eye when my unit adopted him overseas. One of my buddies named him. He was a scrounger roaming the streets where we patrolled. Don’t know if he lost the eye in an accident or fight or something else. Then, when I lost mine…” He hesitated as the past tried to overwhelm him again. “They let him ship home with me. Twinsies, you know.”

She didn’t laugh at his weak attempt at humor. “You don’t seem like a guy who tells many jokes.”

“I’m not.”

He’d never been the big cutup on the team. That honor had belonged to his buddy, Little Al—until those IEDs had silenced Al’s gift for laughter forever. Little Al had been the one to come up with Pirate’s name. Daniel squeezed his eyes shut against the image of his dead friend’s body, crushed beneath the chassis of what had once been their LMTV—Light Military Tactical Vehicle. But he couldn’t block out the moans of pain or the smells of blood, and the pungent scents of vinegar and motor oil from the IED itself that surrounded him. Those memories were harder to shake.

“So, I get the extra effort, hmm?” Polly’s fingers lingered a beat longer as she taped the wrap in place. As if she was petting him, trying to pull him back to the here and now, with her. “I’m honored.”

Once he blinked his eye open and looked up at her, she peeled off her gloves and dropped them in the biohazard bin. Then, to Daniel’s surprise, instead of asking where his mind had gone a few seconds earlier, or even asking if he was okay like most people did when he blipped out like that, she crouched beside Pirate and ran a hand gently along the scruff of his neck.

“Hey, handsome,” she murmured to the dog, scratching behind his ear. “You’re doing a great job taking care of your guy.”

Pirate thumped his tail and leaned into her touch like he’d known her for years.

Right. He shouldn’t be wishing she’d talk to him the same way she talked to his dog. Daniel cleared his throat and stood, accidentally crowding her, and forcing her to lean back to keep a polite distance. “What do I owe you?”

Polly looked up. She had to. The top of her head barely came to his shoulder, and she was wearing those thick-soled clogs, which added half an inch or more to her height. “Nothing,” she answered, gathering the soiled items she’d used. “It’s on the house.”

“Yeah?”

“You’ve got enough to deal with. Consider it a professional favor.”

“Favor?” He hesitated. What the hell did she think he could do for her?

She laughed. But it was a nervous sound. And suddenly she was extremely busy gathering every last item on her work tray. The hackles at the back of Daniel’s neck pricked to attention.

Polly crossed to the trash and tossed everything in. When she faced him again, her smile had faded. “I was going to ask…if you could walk me to my car tonight. Like, you know…before.”

There was a flicker of something behind her eyes—something unsettled. Wary.

“Did that guy come back here? Is he harassing you again?” he asked, his voice lower now. He remembered the name from the news and the warnings KCPD had put out on him. “Cayden Thornhill?”

“No,” she said quickly, the smile returning too fast to be natural. “I mean, I don’t know that he is. I’m sure Cayden Thornhill is long gone from Kansas City. Everyone else in his crew was arrested. I doubt he’s hanging around waiting for the police to find him. Especially in a place as busy as an urban hospital.” Her expression sobered and she faced him again, tilting her gaze up to his. “I mean, surely he’s smarter than that, right?”

Was she trying to convince him that Thornhill wasn’t a threat? Or herself?

Something else was bugging her. He could see it in the way her shoulders tensed just a little, in the way her hand hovered over Pirate, as if she wanted to pet him again.

But she didn’t elaborate, didn’t pet his dog. And he didn’t push to find out what or who she was clearly afraid of. He didn’t want to get to know her—didn’t want to be attracted to her more than he already was.

Didn’t mean he wasn’t going to help her out, anyway.

“I usually get out of group around eight. When does your shift end?” he asked, after a beat.

“Usually, by now. But I’m covering part of a shift for a friend who went home sick. I’m here ‘til nine.” Her gaze dropped to the middle of his chest. “That’s probably too late.”

What else did he have to do? What else did he want to do? “If you want… Pirate and me… We’ll be around.”

Polly nodded, brushing her hand down her scrub top and trying to keep the relief out of her smile “I do. Thanks. Tonight about nine, then?”

“Yeah. Tonight.”

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THE McCORMICK MARINES: ETHAN

Julie Miller

(Excerpt)

A found family of heroes...

“I NEED A WOMAN.”

Major Ethan McCormick paced across his Pentagon office, needlessly adjusting the gold oak leaf on the impeccably pressed epaulet of his khaki shirt. He attacked the imaginary speck of lint on his sky-blue slacks next. Nervousness was a whole new experience for him.

He’d graduated at the top of his class from Annapolis. He’d traveled the globe and protected presidents and prime ministers and ambassadors. He’d trained the finest troops in the world. He’d even foiled an attempted embassy takeover by a local terrorist faction.

But his newest assignment left him flustered.

He crossed to his desk and picked up the memo from General Craddock again. Damn. He hadn’t misread the message. He tossed the paper onto the desk and sank down into his chair, tapping his fist against his chin and striking a thoughtful pose. “The general wants to use tomorrow’s Cherry Blossom Embassy Ball as an opportunity to meet my wife or significant other.”

“Um, I know I’m not the smart one of the family, but, I see a slight problem here.” A younger, badder version of Ethan leaned back in the chair across from him, grinning his wiseass face off. His brother, Travis. ‘‘Does Craddock know you’re not married? Not engaged? Not seeing anyone—significant or otherwise?”

‘‘Ergo, my problem.” Ethan dropped his fist and counted off the competition on his fingers. “Doug Sampson is married with two kids. Ty Richards is a newlywed. Regina Moffat has been engaged to that doctor of hers for almost three years now. I have to at least show up with a date if I want to stay in contention for the lieutenant colonel promotion.”

“You really want a Quantico training school assignment?” Travis, a captain with a Marine Force Recon special forces unit, still possessed the wanderlust that had once driven Ethan to apply for transfers to embassies on nearly every continent. Travis loved the action of serving in the military, while Ethan thrived on the discipline.

“I want to run that program,” Ethan clarified. And since Quantico, Virginia was the Corps’ main training base, it was no small-potatoes assignment. “I’m thirty- five years old. I’ve seen enough of the world. Now that Dad’s retired and Caitie’s out of grad school and settled in Virginia, I want to stay close to home and see something of my family for a change. And the idea of heading up a task force to train embassy protection units really appeals to me. Plus, it would put me in line to eventually lead a regiment of my own.”

He drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair, letting his gaze slide across to that damned memo. “But they won’t put me in charge of anything on any base unless I can provide a suitable hostess. All this time I thought I’d joined the Marines to protect my country and United States citizens. Now I find out I should have joined the country club, instead.”

Travis smoothed his palm over the top of his closely cropped dark blond, almost brown, hair. Ethan’s hair was equally short and a shade darker. He outranked his younger brother, stood an inch taller and outweighed him by twenty pounds. But Travis had the looks and the charm. And the women.

Ethan had, well, he had his career. A damn fine, exemplary one, at that.

“So, what, exactly, are you asking me?” Travis was enjoying this way too much for Ethan’s peace of mind. “You need me to hook you up?”

Hook him up? He wanted to hire him a hooker? Surely not. Hell. Ethan had been out of circulation for so long, he didn’t even know relationship terminology anymore. He had a real situation here. And it required a well thought-out plan of action in order to be resolved. “I’ve been stateside for what, all of five months? That’s hardly enough time to meet somebody, much less marry her.”

“Uh, hello? Speak for yourself, big brother. Five months? If all you need is a date, I can line one up for you in five minutes.” Damn, but little brothers could be annoying sometimes. Why had Ethan thought asking Travis for help with his nonexistent love life would be a good idea?

“Thanks for rubbing it in.” Ethan stood and resumed his pacing. Travis was the poster boy for the Marine Corps’ lean, mean fighting machine image. He was equally adept at being a love machine, if his reputation was even halfway accurate. But Ethan had developed other skills at the expense of learning how to finesse a woman. Self-discipline. Multilingual communication. Razor-sharp strategy. Diplomacy.

Travis could build a bomb out of gum wrappers and coffee grounds. He could infiltrate an enemy post and knock out their communication system before the guards even blinked. He could sweet-talk a woman and have her in his bed faster than most men could even get her phone number.

Ethan could talk to a world leader and command his respect. He could placate local authorities who thought U.S. troops were taking over their jurisdiction and defiling their culture. He’d safeguarded ambassadors, princesses and sheikhs and the men under his command. He could direct massive security missions behind the scenes without a party guest ever seeing anyone but the uniformed M.P. at the door.

But sweet-talk a woman?

Bed her?

Propose marriage—even a fake one—to her?

The last time Ethan had sex with a woman had been New Year’s Eve—one year, four months, two weeks and a handful of days ago—in Cairo, Egypt. Of course, Bethany Mead had turned out to be Mrs. Mead, the junior ambassador’s young trophy wife, not his daughter as she’d claimed. Ethan thought he’d been navigating a tricky point in his career, getting involved with a woman he’d been assigned to protect. But he’d been willing to take the risk for love.

The sex between them had been great. Frequent. Naughty. Fun. But that’s all Bethany had wanted.

Mrs. Mead had traveled to Egypt two months ahead of Mr. Mead to have an affair with someone—anyone—lots of anyones—to retaliate against her philandering husband. She’d targeted Ethan before they’d even finished the limo ride from the airport to the embassy. He’d fallen for the lonely, vulnerable daughter act. Fallen hard. But when he uncovered her masquerade, the bitter, vindictive wife gave him a new understanding and appreciation for the Corps’ focus on rules and discipline.

He’d salvaged his career without a black mark on his record. But he hadn’t salvaged his heart. Or his trust.

Self-discipline was like breathing for Ethan. The whole experience had prompted him to make a vow to avoid all serious relationships—to avoid the temptations of sex— until he could find the right woman to commit to and guarantee that she was his alone.

Almost a year and a half and counting... and he hadn’t found her yet.

No wife. No fiancée. No friend with benefits. Not even an old gal pal he could call in a favor from.

“I need more than a date,” Ethan reasoned, seeing the words of that memo playing over and over in his head as a sorry reminder of his personal life. Or lack thereof. “I can’t show up at one function with a blonde, and the next one with a brunette. General Craddock and the review board are looking for stability. I need a cultured, classy lady who’s willing to donate a few weeks of her time to me.

“Donate?” Travis’s expression was doubtful as he rose and scooted aside a file on the top of Ethan’s desk to lean his hip there. “Didn’t you inherit any of the McCormick charm?”

Ethan splayed his hands at his waist and puffed out a frustrated sigh. “I think it all bypassed me and got dumped on you.” He couldn’t resist a dig. “Lord knows, you’re full of it.”

The double entendre earned a fake laugh. “You’re too clever for your own good, big brother. But I’m sure you have some raw materials in there somewhere we can work with. Good bone structure. Respectable bank account. Power.”

Ethan groaned at the compliments that sounded more like teasing than flattery. “I see you neglected wit, intelligence, sex appeal. You don’t think I can pull this off, do you?”

Travis shrugged. “You called me for help. That makes me think you’re the one with doubts.” He pointed his cap at the newspaper lying on Ethan’s desk. “Maybe you should have written that relationship columnist, Dr. Cyn. She can tell you what a woman wants and needs in order to go to bed with a man.” He spread his arms wide and made a pity face. “Or commit to a two-week engagement.”

“I’m not about to lower myself to asking advice from some tabloid columnist.” Ethan snapped his opinion with the succinct force of a commander dressing down a non-com.

But Travis had known him for thirty-two years. He didn’t bat an eye at the righteous bluster in his voice. “She’s more than an Internet and tabloid sensation. I’ve read some of her stuff. The woman, whoever she really is, is a licensed therapist with several college degrees. One of the guys in my unit joined an online chat with her—he says it saved his marriage. Hell, I even picked up a few pointers.”

“You need pointers?” Was it freezing over somewhere?

“Well, it was more of a validation that I was doing things the right way.” Travis grinned one of those what-was-good-for-the-cat-must-be-good-for-the-cat’s-big-brother grins. “Sounds like she’s got the answer to all your dating woes.”

“I doubt it.”

Travis picked up the newspaper and started thumbing through it. Good God, he was actually going to quote the woman. Travis located the column and folded the paper to highlight the suggestive heart and fig-leaf logo that marked the sinful play of words in the headline. “Have you ever actually read Dr. Cyn? She’s insightful. Honest. Funny. She knows what she’s talking about.”

Ethan questioned Travis’s defense of the anonymous woman who had the entire East Coast talking about her views on men and dating and sex. The woman probably wasn’t getting any of her own. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have time to write so much tripe and create such a stir.

Okay, so technically, he hadn’t actually read any of her columns beyond their teasers, like, Boy Toy or Manly Man? Which Do You Have? and Pleasure All Night Long—How To Give It, How To Get It. But he’d overheard enough gossip to know this Dr. Cyn pushed the boundaries with her sex and relationship advice. She was hardly the type of woman who could understand conservative values or the appeal of old-fashioned romance and honor.

Ethan snatched the paper, rolled it up and swatted the air in lieu of his brother. “I don’t need advice. Not from this Dr. Cyn and not from you. What I need is a woman willing to act a part for a couple of weeks. She needs to take direction, and she needs to deliver.”

‘‘Man, you didn’t get any charm, did you?” Travis grabbed the paper back and tossed it onto the desk. “This isn’t a military exercise, Ethan. You can’t just command a woman to be yours. You have to seduce her.”

‘‘I don’t want to have sex with her.” Travis raised a skeptical eyebrow. Ethan clarified that it wasn’t sex he objected to, just the casualness of it. And how sex for lust’s sake could muddy up a man’s thinking, keep him from seeing the truth about the woman he was with. “It wouldn’t be right. I’ll save that kind of attention for a real relationship. I’m talking a strictly business proposition here.”

Either he’d just said something very profound, or something very amusing, judging by the way Travis kept shaking his head. “I’m not even going to ask you the last time you made love to a woman. I’m not talking about sexually seducing her, numbskull, though that’s always an option if you find someone you click with. I’m talking about luring her into your plan. Enticing her into being your steady for a couple of weeks.” Travis raised his hand and curled his fingers as if he was holding an imaginary apple, symbolically cupping the idea in the palm of his hand in a way Ethan understood in theory, though not in practice. “You have to give her a reason to want to spend time with you.”

“You think I need to arrange some kind of cash reimbursement?”

Travis crushed the imaginary apple in his fist. “God, bro—you need more work than I thought. When was the last time you even went out on a date?”

Ethan circled his desk and thumbed through the catalog of engagements on his desk calendar. “April 18. General and Mrs. Schuck hosted a dinner party. I took Colonel Hoffner’s wife because he was overseas on assignment.”

Travis turned to face him. “No, you escorted Mrs. Hoffner. You did your duty.” He shook his head again. “When was the last time you took a woman to someplace intimate or fun? A movie? Dinner? A walk on the beach? Where it was just about the two of you?”

“Well…” Ethan reached for his calendar again.

Travis reached across the desk and stilled his hand. “If you have to look it up, it wasn’t a date. You should be able to give me a name. Either you had a nice time, and you want to remember the lady—or you had a lousy time, and she made a lasting impression you wish you could forget.”

Ethan jerked his hand away and thumped the desktop with his index finger. “I’m a damn fine Marine. I’ve earned that promotion. It shouldn’t hinge on whether or not I can dig up a fiancée on short notice.”

“I won’t argue with you there.” At least he’d concede that point. “But the fact remains it does hinge on that. Now, I can dress you down in casual clothes and take you someplace where the women are nice and willing. Where they have a particular fondness for picking up men in uniform.”

“Picking up?” Ethan had his doubts about this plan already. “That sounds trashy. I need a first-class lady who can pass muster with the brass.”

“If this ball is tomorrow night, and you called me instead of some sweet thing in your contacts list, then I’m thinking you can’t be too choosy right now.” Travis had him there. He hated when his pesky little brother was right. “I can guarantee you someone attractive, and I can guarantee you someone willing to consider your proposition. They might not be the same girl, though. To be honest, I don’t know that I can guarantee you this paragon of dream-girl virtue you want on such short notice.”

Ethan had been prepared to make concessions. Calling Travis had been the first one. “Looks are optional. If she’s female and her age is compatible with mine, I’ll consider her. I just need someone reliable. Someone convincing. Can you help me?”

“All right.” Travis checked his watch and strode to the door. “I’ll be at your place at eighteen-thirty hours. We’ll scruff up your hair, take the shine off your shoes and find something denim for you to wear.” He paused with his hand on the doorknob and glanced over his shoulder. “But I tell you what, big brother. I can get you in the door and introduce you. But, ultimately, it’s going to be up to you to get the girl to say yes.”

Ethan nodded. “Understood.”

Travis rolled his eyes as if that answer revealed just how hopeless this whole find-a-fake-fiancée-for-the-major project was.

After Travis left, Ethan stared at the closed door for several moments, trying to ignore the symbolism. The man in him who hadn’t been with a woman for over a year wondered if this mission was hopeless.

But the Marine in him refused to say die.