by Sandra Hill
Dedication
To my cousin, Robert Kobularcik, one of the most avid supporters of my books. As an unpublished writer, I confessed to him one day that I was writing romance novels. He hugged me with excitement and said, “I’m going to say a prayer for you tonight.” The next week I sold my first novel.
To all men who aren’t afraid to read women’s fiction. They are the real romance heroes.
And a special thank you for the help from writers Kathleen Morgan and Lynn Raye Harris, as well as my good friend Bruce Heim, a handsome West Pointer and ex–Airborne Ranger, who served with the 101st in Vietnam.
Contents
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Epilogue
Reader Letter
World of Sandra Hill
The Viking Takes a Knight
Viking in Love
The Reluctant Viking
The Outlaw Viking
The Tarnished Lady
The Bewitched Viking
The Blue Viking
The Viking’s Captive
A Tale of Two Vikings
The Last Viking
Truly, Madly Viking
The Very Virile Viking
Wet & Wild
Hot & Heavy
Frankly, My Dear . . .
Sweeter Savage Love
The Love Potion
Love Me Tender
About the Author
By Sandra Hill
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter One
They want a few good men . . . and women, too . . .
“Hut, two, three, four . . . hut, two, three, four . . .”
Rafael Santiago peered up over the rim of his dark aviator sunglasses, watching the young trainees who marched like blooming idiots across the blistering tarmac in front of him.
“Eenie, meenie, minie, moe,” their platoon sergeant called out in a raspy, Clint Eastwood–style voice.
Like robots, the soldiers echoed their leader’s singsong “jody call” in time to their pounding footsteps.
“Catch a virgin by the toe . . .”
Oh, great! It’s 2015, and I’ve landed in boot camp from hell—with a bunch of grunts calling out raunchy marching cadences.
Rafe put a hand to his throbbing head and wished he could be anywhere but in the middle of the California desert, on a hot August morning. Hell, I think my hair’s startin’ to singe.
“If she hollers, let her go . . .”
Geez! I’m thirty-four years old. I have a law degree. I should be soaking in a gold-plated Jacuzzi, instead of serving in the damn loony bin National Guards. I’m gonna kill Lorenzo for screwing around with my calendar.
“On the other hand . . . hell, no!”
Rafe’s eyes widened with disbelief. He would have thought “Grody Jodies” went out with the feminist movement. Didn’t you military fruitcakes learn anything from all the sexual harassment cases? he thought with a rueful shake of his head. Some feminist is gonna slap a sexual harassment suit on you quicker’n a hometown hooker’s five-dollar trick.
But that was their problem, not his. Rafe had enough of his own. It was bad enough that he’d been forced to serve in the Guard these past twelve years to pay back college loans and to earn extra cash for bills. If he didn’t get back to his law practice, his scatterbrained legal assistant, Lorenzo Duran, would have him representing every deadbeat on the West Coast, and he’d be even deeper in debt—if that was possible.
Rafe threw the backpack holding his gear over his shoulder and made his way across the airfield toward the C-141 Starlifter. The piercing sun beat down so unremittingly that even his toenails felt like they were sweating.
He’d arrived two days ago for the usual orientation in the special forces unit, but he still had twelve more agonizing days to go. He wondered idly if he’d survive. Or die of boredom.
Then he saw the tall redhead standing at the foot of the ramp to the training jet, her straight-as-an-arrow, slim body encased in puke camouflage—the standard green, brown, tan, and black BDU, or battle dress uniform—just like his. The female officer was checking off the soldiers’ names on a clipboard as they boarded. She must be the replacement for Colonel Barrow, who’d suffered a heart attack the day before.
He recognized her immediately.
“Prissy” Prescott? My commanding officer for this ludicrous two-week military trek is Helen “Prissy” Prescott?
In that moment, Rafe knew his bad day was about to get worse.
As the woman turned her ramrod-stiff body toward the chanting soldiers, a sudden backdraft clearly outlined her curvy hips and long legs in their Army regulation pants, also camouflage chic. A few wisps of flaming hair escaped the tight bun anchored at the base of her neck like a badge of her no-nonsense personality. Then the dull gold of the oak leaf cluster embroidered on her collar caught his eye.
Gold oak leaf? A major? She must have spent the past twelve years since their college graduation in the service—a lifer. She clasped the clipboard against her body when there was a lull in the embarking soldiers. Rafe’s eyes shifted lower to her chest. And a very nice chest, it is, too, Rafe thought, glancing appreciatively at the full breasts straining against the blouse—identical to his own shirt, but immensely different.
Then he shook his head in self-disgust. The sun must be melting my brains if I’m getting turned on by Prissy Prescott.
Major Prescott, he corrected himself as she narrowed her glittering eyes at the sergeant who was calling out the offensive lyrics. Apparently, the slightly overweight, ruddy-faced senior enlisted man didn’t have the brains God gave a goose. Failing to notice Helen, or being incredibly stupid, he chose to ignore her as he began to sing out a new chant, “I don’t know but I been told . . .”
The recruits repeated his words in loud rhythm. There were no women in the company.
“Air Force babes are bought and sold.”
Oh, boy. Rafe could hear Helen’s gasp of outrage from twenty feet away. He folded his arms across his chest, waiting for the inevitable fireworks. Helen Prescott hadn’t been nicknamed “Give ’Em Hell Helen” for nothing. And he would bet his left nut that she hadn’t changed much over the years.
“I don’t know but it’s been said . . .”
Helen tucked the clipboard under her arm and straightened her shoulders, which only served to emphasize her “endowments,” Rafe thought idly, knowing full well how she would hate that he had noticed. Then she stomped furiously toward the group of soldiers who were marching in place near the edge of the field. She even stomped rather nicely, Rafe noted, her buttocks bouncing the slightest bit.
“Navy babes are wicked in bed.”
Rafe turned his attention away from Helen and back to the witless wonder. Boy, could I recommend a good lawyer for this schmuck. He’s gonna need one, and soon.
But the brain-dead sergeant had his back to Helen, who was about to tap him on the shoulder. Totally unaware that he was cutting his own throat, he
sang out, “All I know is what I hear . . .”
Before the fool could open his mouth again, Helen finished for him in a clear, disciplined, carrying voice, “Court martials are somethin’ to fear.”
Rafe smiled. Way to go, Prissy!
The sergeant spun on his heels and his jaw dropped open in surprise. “Major Prescott, I didn’t see you.” He snapped a quick salute.
“Apparently.” Helen returned the salute.
“I didn’t know . . . Hell, I didn’t know there were any women. I mean . . .” the flustered sergeant stuttered.
“AT-TEN-TION!” she yelled, real loud. Rafe was pretty sure they heard her five miles away.
Snapping leather, the flustered sergeant—who should have been the one to call “Attention” immediately—and his company obeyed without question. They stood rigid as boards, waiting for her next directive.
“The Army does not tolerate sexism, soldier,” she barked at the red-faced NCO, “whether women are present or not.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the sergeant ground out.
“If you value those stripes, soldier, I would suggest you start singing a different tune.”
“Yes, ma’am!”
She stared at him and his company for several long, drawn-out seconds, as if trying to decide what punishment to mete out. “Continue as you were,” she ordered finally, granting a reprieve.
The sergeant let out a long breath of relief. Then he saluted, waited for her return salute, did a jerky about-face, and ordered his troop to march back toward the barracks. This time, there were no chants, just the sharp click of boot heels.
After they left, Rafe watched, transfixed, as Helen inhaled and exhaled several times, deeply, as if to collect herself. For one brief second, her shoulders slumped, and Rafe knew somehow that Helen hated her job. Then she raised her face to the sunlight, eyes closed, uncaring that she might add a few more freckles to those that dotted her straight nose and clear complexion.
Rafe felt a deep pulling sensation in his chest. He had forgotten how attractive Helen was—not beautiful, but compelling. He hated himself for remembering those painful college days they had shared. He hated feeling like a horny kid again, tripping over his too-big feet the first time an Anglo girl looked his way. Most of all, he hated the memory of his yearning for a young woman who had always been beyond the reach of the token Hispanic at an all-white, private military school.
Abruptly, Helen turned back toward the plane, breaking his unwelcome reverie. She walked with brisk, efficient steps. Totally in control now, her face was a mask of military resolve.
Rafe waited for Helen to recognize him as she approached, but she just cast him an assessing glance as she passed by, clearly finding him of no importance.
That irritated the hell out of him.
He’d spent his entire life fighting condescension and outright bias toward Mexican-American “greasers.” He should be used to it by now. Not that there had been anything smacking of prejudice in Helen’s dismissing glance. Actually, she’d treated him as if he didn’t even exist. Somehow that was even worse.
Well, he’d show her.
She was already climbing the ramp to the aircraft by the time he caught up with her. With perfect timing, he waited until her hips were smack dab in front of his forehead, then asked in a silky smooth voice, low enough so the soldiers standing around couldn’t overhear, “So, Major Prescott, do you still have your tattoo?”
Tat that, baby! . . .
Tattoo? Helen stopped halfway up the plane’s ramp and cringed, clutching the rail tensely. No one had mentioned her tattoo in twelve years, ever since she graduated from Stonewall Military College. And that voice—oh, Lord—only one man in the world spoke with that sexy, Mexican-American twang.
Slowly, reluctantly, Helen turned and peered back over her shoulder. All she saw was a head of thick black hair and a pair of aviator sunglasses staring boldly, eye level, at her butt.
Aaaarrrgh! she groaned silently and fought for her usual calm composure. Then she pivoted and backtracked down the ramp. At thirty-four, Helen was rather sensitive about her hips and rear end, and the aerobics war to keep them from blossoming into Rubenesque proportions. No way was she going to wave them in the face of the lascivious, arrogant, bad-mouthed man who had been the torment of her life for four long undergraduate years at Stonewall.
“Captain Santiago,” she snapped, noting the two black bars on his collar, “your remarks are ill-timed and inappropriate under any circumstances, but very, very foolish when addressed to a superior.” She put a check mark after his name on the clipboard. “A warning,” she explained sternly, raising her eyes.
Even though she was five-foot-eight, Helen had to look up at the lean, well-muscled soldier who grinned lazily back at her, not a bit intimidated by the threat in her voice or the note she had made on her cupboard. She couldn’t make out the expression in his eyes behind the dark shades, but she could see the path they made as they appraised her from head to toe. And probably found her wanting, as he always had in the past.
Then, as if reading her mind, Rafe removed the glasses, and Helen almost staggered under the burning gaze of his pale, luminous blue eyes. Rafael Santiago threw off heat like a sexual inferno. If anything, his well-toned, dark-skinned body had improved with age. Darn it!
“So, Prissy, you didn’t answer me. Do you still have the tattoo?”
Without thinking, Helen’s palm shot to her right buttock in horror. She could have kicked herself for the betraying action and the blush she could feel creeping up from her neck. She never blushed, or, at least, she hadn’t in twelve long years. Time melted away suddenly, and Helen felt as if she were a gangly young girl again, flustered by the attention of a too-handsome, too-brash Mexican-American cadet.
She’d had a fierce crush on him all through college, although she’d made sure he never suspected. He’d dated flamboyant, easy women, and she’d been neither of those. The worst part was that, at eighteen, he’d turned her brain to mush. Now, two minutes in his company, and he was doing it again.
Helen knew by Rafe’s raised right eyebrow that her embarrassment amused him, that needling her had been his goal. Prissy! He has the nerve to call me Prissy! The man has not changed at all. “My name is Major Prescott,” she reminded him, “not that ridiculous . . . nickname.”
The rat just smiled, displaying a disgusting set of white teeth, dazzling against the contrast of his dark Hispanic skin.
“So, Major Prescott, don’t you want to know if I still have my matching tattoo?” he drawled with feigned innocence and planted a long-fingered, deeply tanned hand on his back pocket, and left it there, in challenge.
Helen had always intended to have the horrible butterfly removed from her buttock, but, in the end, she’d left it as a reminder of her one careless lapse in self-control. She looked up and glared at Rafe. The tattoo had been all his fault. They’d been seniors at Stonewall, and a group had gone to Tijuana at the end of finals week of their senior year. When a dozen of them, under the pressure of too little freedom and too many margaritas, had decided to get matching tattoos, Rafe had taunted and taunted her, in his usual fashion, until she’d agreed to join the crowd . . . to her everlasting humiliation.
She noticed the growing line of trainees and other personnel waiting to board the aircraft, behind Rafe, all of them listening with avid interest. What was wrong with her, allowing one of her men to carry on a personal conversation with her while on duty? It was strictly against the rules. And, if nothing else, Helen prided herself on attention to precise military protocol.
Bracing her shoulders, Helen belted out in her most authoritative voice, “Captain Santiago, get on this aircraft. NOW! There are a dozen paratroopers sitting up there in that sweltering tin can waiting for this parachute exercise to begin.” Then she added in an icy undertone, “I don’t know what you’re doing here, Captain Santiago, but you can be sure you will be out of my company by the end of this day.”
“National Guard, Special Forces,” he answered flatly, walking by her to climb the steps. She forced herself not to move back, afraid he might accidentally, or not so accidentally, brush against her. He didn’t, but his eyes twinkled knowingly as he explained, “I owed Uncle Sam a pigload of cash for seven years of college loans, and he decided the ‘Nasty Guard’ would be a good method of payback. Plus, I always need extra cash. This is my last tour of duty, but if you know a way to get me out now, I’d be eternally grateful.”
“Why am I not surprised?” she muttered under her breath, knowing he’d never felt the loyalty to the military establishment that she had.
“I never took you for a ‘Nasty Girl’ type, though,” he added, referring to the crude name given to women of the National Guard.
She arched a brow questioningly, which she regretted immediately when he responded, “Too much starch in your drawers.”
Helen clenched her fists at her sides and counted to ten. “That’s it, Captain. This goes on your permanent record.” She made another check mark next to his name and was about to reprimand him further, but the smirk on his face stopped her cold. Just like in the old days, he was goading her into losing her temper. This time she disappointed him by turning away.
Then she had no more time to think about the jerk as she supervised the loading of the aircraft, trying to ignore the many eyes that seemed to rivet questioningly on her behind.
Oh, Lord. Helen just knew this was going to be the longest day of her life.
Memories, like the splinters of my mind . . .
An hour later, the plane was airborne. Helen had given her unit—ten men and two women—instructions for their upcoming drop near the California/Nevada border, then checked all their equipment and jump gear. The soldiers appeared relaxed as they chatted softly among themselves, seated on the platform benches that lined both sides of the huge aircraft, but Helen knew they were pumped up with excitement. Regardless of all the precautions, there was always an element of danger, the possibility of injury or death, in any skydiving event.
Despite their usual full-time civilian status, all were experienced paratroopers who made at least one drop each quarter in order to stay on jump status and earn their incentive pay. Half of the soldiers were here today serving their annual two-week National Guard duty—so-called “Weekend Warriors”—but the others were making “pay drops.”
