Soldier, Come Home

by Quinn, Jane Leopold

  "Okay."

  "You reported a prowler?" the dark-haired deputy deadpanned, joining the conversation. "Can we come in? We need to look around. I can take the bat now."

  "Okay." She handed it over readily enough. Riightt. The prowler. That's why they're here. Pulling the robe's sash tighter around her waist, she stood to the side and silently motioned the deputies in.

  They stomped past her, leather gun belts creaking, boots clomping on the hardwood floors. Everything about them shouted huge, especially their massive guns.

  Now, in the light of the living room, she got a good look at the dark-haired deputy, all strong jawed and sculpted lips. Heavy eyebrows, night black like his hair, hovered over melting, deep brown eyes. A bump on the bridge of his nose only added the slightest bit of an interesting imperfection. She shifted her gaze when he caught her staring.

  Long-buried hungers seeped from her hidden heart, and nerve endings that hadn't tingled in quite some time screamed for attention. She tamped all those feelings down. This was not the time or place for physical desire to rear its ugly head.

  "I'm Pete Rayne." The blond one cocked his head toward his partner. "And he's Hank Crossman."

  "Um…okay. Hi." Heat flashed over her skin and roiled up her neck onto her cheeks like little pinpricks. Pull your wits together. You're acting like a ninny. "Was anyone out there?" She finally remembered why she'd called for help. "Did you see anything…uh…Deputy…?"

  "Pete Rayne," he reminded her.

  "Nickie Grace." She drew her fingers along her throat as if that would relieve the tightness.

  "Ms. Grace," Deputy Rayne said. "Are you all right? Did anyone get in?"

  Her stomach wrenched. "No, no one got in."

  "Why don't you sit down in the kitchen. I'd like to ask some questions." The voice of the dark-haired one rumbled low and seductive even saying the most ordinary things.

  Crossman. He's Crossman. She acquiesced, and Pete Rayne urged her into the kitchen, his hand resting protectively on the small of her back. He was handsome, too, but his looks didn't sizzle through her body like the other one's did.

  Seated at the kitchen table, she watched the dark-haired deputy flip open a small notebook, click open a pen, and poise his hand over the paper. So NYPD Blue.

  "Name."

  Her heart raced. He already knew her name. She'd just told them, but this all had to be done professionally. They did this every day. But she didn't. "Nicole Grace."

  He dutifully wrote. "G-R-A…?"

  "C-E," she finished. "Nickie."

  "Nickie," he repeated. "This your house?"

  "Yes. Well, my great-aunt's."

  "Where's she?"

  "She died six months ago."

  "Sorry."

  His detachment oddly calmed her. A little. "Thanks." Maybe that was his purpose.

  "How long have you lived here?"

  "I moved out here two weeks ago from Chicago. I'm rehabbing the house."

  He finally glanced at her then. "By yourself?"

  His question was unusually intense. Pete stood back, hands resting on the heavy equipment belt at his waist. He was doing no investigating, just watching, his head switching back and forth between them. That pissed her off. She addressed them both. "Can you ask me this stuff later and look around outside now? The prowler will get away."

  "If someone was there, he's long gone by now," Crossman said.

  "What do you mean if? You don't believe me?" Now she really was full-blown angry. "I'm not in the habit of imagining things like that."

  "I'll go check out back," Pete offered.

  As soon as Pete banged out the back screen door, Deputy Crossman continued his interrogation as if he'd never been interrupted. "Married?"

  She paused. "No, but that doesn't have anything to do with this."

  His chocolate gaze heated her. She forced herself not to lick her lips. Cute didn't begin to describe him. Rugged, movie star, masculine hunk described him. Feeling slightly flustered, she qualified, "Well, not anymore." This is none of his business.

  "You're from Chicago? What do you do there?" He asked questions but hadn't written anything down since he'd asked her name.

  "Aren't you even taking notes?"

  He tapped his temple. "Memory, ma'am."

  "Hm."

  "So, what do you do in Chicago?" Now he rested his hands on his hips and dropped all pretense of official questions, his voice going from bland to interested.

  "Not that it has anything to do with any of this, but I do architectural rehab. Painting, moldings, floor finishing."

  "Convenient."

  "How so?" She frowned.

  "That you do that, and your aunt's house…"

  "What does that mean?"

  "How long have you been divorced?"

  He changed the subject again and to something not at all pertinent. Where was that other guy? "You know, I want to put some clothes on." She flushed hot, feeling perspiration pop out on her upper lip, under her breasts. Being almost naked under this robe was becoming more and more uncomfortable by the minute. His questions were too personal, and he asked them for no earthly reason than…well, she didn't know why. "I'm going upstairs."

  "Better not. The prowler might be up there."

  "Well, you don't seem concerned enough about it to quit asking me nonsensical questions and check for yourself, so I'm not going to worry about it either." She took the stairs to the second floor two at a time.

  Ripping open the closet door in her bedroom, she grabbed a pair of jeans and struggled into them hopping first on one foot then the other. A T-shirt that she'd taken off earlier lay on the bed. She started to pull it over her head. A bra. The robe was bad enough; she couldn't go back down without a bra.

  Hands shaking and in a rush, she hooked the snap between her breasts, jiggling a little to settle herself in the cups. She rubbed at the burning prickles on the back of her neck. Crossman. It was Crossman. She knew it was him before she turned around.

  He stared at her from the darkened hallway, his rapt gaze heating her skin. She crossed her arms over her breasts. To give the devil his due, he drew his gaze up to her face. She wondered if he was married, because the way he looked at her made her hope he wasn't. She didn't want to get involved in any complication like that again.

  Suddenly, he was gone.

  Whoa, back up there, girl. Prowler. Remember? The whole reason for all this. A couple of good looking cops have ridden to your rescue, and you're vulnerable right now. Yes, she was vulnerable physically and emotionally. She yanked the T-shirt on and headed out the door. How had things gotten so out of hand?

  A foot shuffling sound caught her attention. There he was at the end of the hall, leaning his behind on the window sill. She couldn't see his expression for the dark shadows, thankfully. His eyes were dark enough in the full light.

  "I'm sorry."

  She shivered at his deep-voiced apology.

  "The door was open. I was just checking on you."

  He sounded sincere. "Okay," she managed to respond grudgingly before she headed for the stairs. She still had the prowler situation to deal with and another deputy in the house.

  Back in the kitchen, said deputy swung open the back door and stepped inside. "Someone was out there."

  "Whoa!" She collapsed onto a dining chair, leaned her elbow on the table, rubbed her forehead.

  "There were footprints and broken twigs on the bushes below the kitchen window. I checked the shed and garage. They're clear. The woods are another matter." Pete gestured with his big flashlight. "We'd need more people and daylight. The day shift can do a look-see tomorrow."

  She glanced at Hank Crossman, his expression unprofessional and blatantly sensual. She tried to blink him away, but the sight of him was such an enjoyable distraction. With him around, nothing could harm her. His dark-haired forearms were as muscled as his shoulders and biceps. He'd hooked his thumbs into his gun belt like an old western gunfighter and pumped his chest out a
ggressively. Khaki uniform pants clung closely to his hips and long legs. He was immensely drool-worthy.

  "Ma'am, do you have anyone in town to stay with tonight?" Pete said. "There is evidence that someone was out there. He's probably gone by now, but you shouldn't be alone."

  "No, I don't want to leave the house. I'm sure I'll be all right. The person would be crazy to come back now. I'll just lock the doors and put a chair against the doorknob of my bedroom. And I do have my bat." From their expressions, it was easy to see they didn't think too much of her plan. Well, that's their problem. "Will someone come out in the morning?"

  "Yes, ma'am," Pete assured her. "I'm going back to the station, Hank. I'll write a report. See you later?"

  "Yeah," Hank responded absently to Pete's retreating back before turning again to her. "You're sure you'll be all right, Nickie?"

  His deep voice rumbled through long dormant nerves. It had been a long time since she'd slept with a man—not that this one had even asked her, at least not in words.

  "I am sorry about…upstairs," he muttered.

  He sounded rusty, apologies probably something he didn't do much. His presence was overwhelming. She didn't know what to make of it.

  Home to Stay at Loose Id

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  Preview of Ancient Ties

  Chapter One

  Aquae Sulis

  Mensis Iunius, AD 161

  "Step inside, my dear girl."

  How odd. The sensuously potent female voice danced through Janney Forrester's mind.

  "Your destiny awaits."

  "That's just cheesy," she muttered aloud. "What in the world…" She shifted her eyes suspiciously from side to side. "It was in ruins a minute ago. How can this be?" She held her breath, blinking, wondering if she was losing her mind. How was it possible that now there was a fountain bubbling musically, the mosaic floor was intact and ablaze with vivid colors? The walls, too, were rich with cleverly painted scenes of men and women, or gods and goddesses, she didn't know which. It was amazingly beautiful. Strange. Captivating. But she was really starting to freak out.

  "This is crazy." With a strangled gasp, she turned around. "What the hell is going on?" A wooden door filled the portal. "I didn't come through a door." Unbelieving, pressing shaking fingers to the center of her forehead, she turned back to the room. Her scalp prickled. Disoriented, she struggled to make sense of things, and fought to fill her lungs with air. Tried to calm her racing heart. She heard voices over the burbling fountain, but couldn't catch the words. Her gaze flew to the other end of the room, and she froze stock-still as a man appeared in a doorway. Broad shoulders filled the frame. He wore what looked like a tunic. She'd seen enough gladiator movies to recognize it. Strapped, lace-up sandals wrapped his large feet. She gaped, pressing her lips together.

  Are they making a movie? There hadn't been any trucks or people outside, but how else to explain this man?

  My God, he's as stunning as a movie star.

  From head to toe, he was all man. Short dark hair salted with strands of silver, broad cheekbones, and a masculine, square chin with a delicious cleft. Then there were the lips. She bit her own. How would those firm, full lips feel skimming across her body? She angled her head. Hot, she felt hot. And sweaty. What am I thinking? Thank goodness, he hasn't seen me yet. It would be too embarrassing to be caught drooling.

  The man's wrist was draped casually over the hilt of a sword. He's armed! A copper and silver belt hung around his hips, the sword on the left side and a dagger in an enameled sheath on the other. Before she could even think what to do or say, his gaze met hers. She tried to turn away, but his dark chocolate eyes held her enthralled. She should be afraid. A stranger with a sword stared back at her. She opened her mouth intending to say hello, but his eyes narrowed in breath-stealing suspicion as he mumbled unintelligibly.

  "Marek, who is it?"

  She had no idea what he said, but she understood the woman behind him. His name is Marek.

  The woman was also dressed as an ancient Roman; a floor-length tunic covered her from shoulders to feet.

  Janney's mind whirled with questions. "I don't understand this. From outside, this place looks deserted."

  The man had held her gaze at first, but now he slowly, and oh so thoroughly, inspected her. The resulting heat scorched her from the inside out.

  Her heart thudded in her chest. It was no time to be turned on. She broke their eye contact. Locking her shaky knees, she glanced over to the fountain and then took in the rest of the room. From outside, it had looked dull and dusty. Now it wasn't. The walls and mosaic floor wore bright, rich colors. They were real.

  He was real. Very real.

  The man—Marek—spoke again, "What are you doing here?"

  The sexy, low thrum of his voice startled her. Now I understand him? This is too weird. It was like a play, and she didn't know her lines. Fantasy and reality fought in her head, and as reality won, she regained her senses.

  Oh, for crying out loud, it's a re-creation, a museum. These people are museum guides, something like that. Forgetting for the moment that she'd driven out into the English countryside and that this place appeared to be in ruins, she grasped onto what seemed to be the most logical explanation.

  "And why do you have that?" He pointed to the object she held in her hand. "Where did you find it?"

  She balanced the wide gold bracelet in her upturned palm, squinting at it as if she'd never seen it before. The dull gleam of the jewelry wedged between stones in the outer wall of the villa had caught her eye. She figured it had to be a costume piece, because it was unlikely that a real gold bracelet would be lying around in the dirt. "This? I found it outside."

  "That's yours, Marek," the woman said. "You thought you'd lost it."

  "Well, here." Janney held out her hand. He strode to within arm's length and snatched it from her. In those brief seconds that their fingers touched, she felt it—searing, sizzling heat spiking across her skin, through her veins; the hair on her arms stood on end.

  He felt it, too, if the stunned gaze locked on hers was any indication. She had to tip her head back to keep eye contact. Their toes almost touched, hands still inches apart. She was aware of his chest expanding. His parted lips mirrored hers. God, she couldn't breathe. His eyes burned with a smoldering intensity she'd never imagined directed toward her. The heat from his body almost swamped her.

  Abruptly, he snapped the gold cuff bracelet on his wrist. The click of it broke the spell, his dark eyes shuttered, and he turned away.

  "Marek." Chiding him, the woman deftly moved him aside. "I am Augusta Luken Paullinus. This is my home. Welcome."

  Janney focused on the woman's genuine smile and tried to make sense of what was happening. "Um, okay," she said carefully. "My name is Janney Forrester. You have a lovely home." She'd play along. Her gaze, though on the woman, was soon drawn magnetically back to the man, gauging his reaction. It wasn't good.

  "May I present Marek Benin Verus, Primus Pilus of the Sixth Legion of Rome."

  "Where do you come from?" he demanded, glowering at her.

  She definitely understood that. This was the oddest house tour she'd ever been on. This guy looked older, maybe close to forty, because his face was tanned like he'd spent a lot of his time outdoors.

  Maybe he's an out-of-work actor, and that's why he's so surly. This is all he could get right now. Oh, cripes, don't feel sorry for him.

  Massive shoulders, sculpted muscles in his upper arms, strong sinewy legs. Even through the cloth of his tunic, she could see that his chest was broad, his stomach trim and flat.

  The woman was friendlier, but Janney's gaze kept going back to the man. His face looked lived-in, little fans of lines beside his dark chocolate eyes, shallow grooves on the sides of those hard lips. Her breath caught sharply.

  I should leave now. I shouldn't be looking at his lips. This situation is extremely weird, and I need to get out of here.

  "I have to go. Th
ank you." She whirled around and headed back to the front door, the wooden door that hadn't been there when she came in. Jerking it open and crossing the threshold, she was startled to see people in a large, walled courtyard. People. Horse-drawn carts filled with food and pottery. She heard people talking and laughing and shouting orders. People in ancient Roman clothing.

  "Um, wrong door," she muttered as she ducked back in.

  The man had moved to stand by the fountain, his arms folded across his chest.

  "This must not have been the door I came in." She briefly made eye contact with him, trying not to broadcast her growing fear. Just calm down and find the outside door. Darting a glance around the reception room, she saw only two doorways, the one she was in and the one Augusta and Marek had come through.

  "Listen, how do I get out? I need to get back to town. People are expecting me." She spoke slowly with a false composure and hoped the little lie would give her some protection. In truth, no one in Bath knew where she was.

  "There. That is the outside door." He nodded toward the door behind her.

  "But when I came in, nothing was out there. It was a field overgrown with weeds and bushes." Her voice rose to a panic pitch. "Now there are people and animals." Scowling, pressing her lips tightly together, watching the man out of the corner of her eye, she backed along the wall away from him.

  There must be a hidden door. Calm down. She heard her mother's voice warning her against the dangers of traveling alone in a foreign country. Damn!

  Taking a deep breath, hoping for calm, she said, "Look, I'm meeting some people. If you'll just show me the way out, I'll be on my way."

  "Janney Forrester, where are you trying to go?"

  Now he sounded confused, too. Maybe this wasn't some kind of trick after all. Or maybe he was a better actor than she gave him credit for. "I want to leave. Please just show me how to get out." If she heard that velvet-over-gravel voice one more time, she'd melt into a puddle at his feet. Even though he sounded confused, and she was bewildered, her heart skittered at his primal sensuality.