The Surgeon's Convenient Husband

by Amy Ruttan

  NY Doc Under the Northern Lights

  A Date with Dr. Moustakas

  A Mommy for His Daughter

  All available now!

  Keep reading for an excerpt from Rescued by Her Rival by Amalie Berlin.

  Join Harlequin My Rewards today and earn a FREE ebook!

  Click here to Join Harlequin My Rewards

  http://www.harlequin.com/myrewards.html?mt=loyalty&cmpid=EBOOBPBPA201602010002

  Did you know that Harlequin My Rewards members earn FREE books and more?

  Join

  www.HarlequinMyRewards.com

  today to start earning your FREE books!

  * * *

  Connect with us on Harlequin.com for info on our new releases, access to exclusive offers, free online reads and much more!

  Other ways to keep in touch:

  Harlequin.com/newsletters

  Facebook.com/HarlequinBooks

  Twitter.com/HarlequinBooks

  HarlequinBlog.com

  Join Harlequin My Rewards and reward the book lover in you!

  Earn points for every Harlequin print and ebook you buy, wherever and whenever you shop.

  Turn your points into FREE BOOKS of your choice

  OR

  EXCLUSIVE GIFTS from your favorite authors or series.

  Click here to join for FREE

  Or visit us online to register at

  www.HarlequinMyRewards.com

  Harlequin My Rewards is a free program (no fees) without any commitments or obligations.

  Rescued by Her Rival

  by Amalie Berlin

  CHAPTER ONE

  FIREFIGHTER AND SMOKEJUMPER trainee Lauren Autry jogged with the rest of the herd to the large field behind the main hall at the old twentieth-century 4-H camp the Forest Service had repurposed for spring training facilities.

  Every year since the nineteen-fifties new recruits and veteran smokejumpers alike descended upon a handful of camps littering the Northwestern United States for the intense training required to prepare them for the coming wildfire season. The elite firefighting service only took the fittest, the most capable of conquering and surviving the remote, treacherous terrain where wildfires tended to explode—parachuting in with simple tools and supplies to fight and contain big, dangerous blazes, only to be rewarded with a long hike back to civilization after the job was done.

  Only the best made it through, and if Lauren had been lacking two years ago, she’d made up for it since then, throwing herself into every kind of study and training she could conceive of—even things not required, at least when her job and family responsibilities hadn’t gotten in the way. She’d trained harder, pushed herself beyond her already insane standards. If only she could’ve figured out how to grow a few more inches, everything would be perfect. And if she’d gotten to complete the civilian skydiving course she’d been counting on. That was something she should’ve better controlled. Better planned for. Not required, she’d get to learn it here, but still. Prepared. Making up for any deficiencies. That had been the plan.

  If she made it to a crew—when she made it to a crew—no one would be able to question whether she was capable. Whether she was tall enough, or strong enough, or good enough. Never again. Not her brothers. Not her father. None of the hundreds of dead ancestors who’d been serving the same San Francisco fire station since its founding in the nineteenth century...not that she could hear their critiques, at least.

  No more of those questions she’d been suffering the six years since she’d become a firefighter. No more of the insinuations her failure two years ago had amplified.

  No more holding pattern of derailed life plans.

  This year she’d made it through the selection process, even under the authority of Chief Treadwell, the same man who’d passed her over before and given the last spot to a no-neck marine.

  None of that mattered. She was here now.

  This was really happening!

  The thought sent a jittery, tingling wave washing over her scalp again, every cell in her body seeming to light up at once. It had taken every ounce of willpower to sit still and pay attention through orientation, before she began the endurance test she’d been primed for two years to run. The simple act of moving again, letting her body do what it had been conditioned to do, was the kind of physical relief she’d like to also have mentally.

  The crowd stopped in the grass, and so did she, but behind a sea of broad shoulders and crewcuts, she couldn’t see what was going on.

  Right. Identify the problem, find the solution.

  Turning sideways, she slipped and ducked through the crowd to reach the front, and the unexciting view of three older men with clipboards quietly conversing while everyone else waited. More waiting. More need to move crawling over her knees. An itch to get started. Prove herself. Prove to Treadwell he’d made a mistake passing her over for what’s-his-face.

  Soon enough, they began calling names and sorting those assembled into three different groups. When that was done, one look around confirmed: her group was peopled with rookies—she could tell by their yellow badges. All new people. All new dudes. And her. Which was fine. Expected, even. It was the smallest group, which was also fine. She’d get more attention that way. The right kind of attention. Training attention. Proving-herself attention.

  Her group split off, moving to the side of the large dirt track to hear the rules again.

  Endurance test, first. Mile and a half in under eleven minutes. Easy-peasy. She barely needed to stretch for that, but did anyway.

  “Ellison!” Treadwell barked the name just as she’d caught one ankle behind her to stretch her quads, causing her to pitch to the side then scramble to stay upright.

  “You’re late!”

  Chief. Shouting.

  Someone late the first day?

  Ellison.

  The name caught up with her and she jolted again.

  Beck Ellison. Her nemesis! Who likely had no idea he was her nemesis... The Golden Boy she’d only quasi creeped on online because when a girl had a secret nemesis... Well, social media was far too easy to peek at. Not that she’d been hoping to see anything bad. In fact, she hadn’t seen anything at all in terms of a profile for the man. She’d just seen posts about him doing this and that, articles in different newspapers used as PR for the service. Stuff she couldn’t help but see and feel the knife twisting in her spleen every time he did something else wonderful. Smoke Charmer nonsense.

  She could do her job without an ego-stoking nickname.

  Smoke Charmer.

  Then again, if she had to lose out to someone, better he be astounding than abysmal. If she had to lose.

  Positive thoughts. Positive thoughts. Maintain habit of sending good intentions out to the universe.

  Maybe he was there to teach them all how to become one with the fire, Smoke Charmer style.

  She turned slightly from her position at the starting line to catch sight of a tall, shaggy-haired man jogging onto the track to join the group. Curls. That was new. The man had shiny black curls, wafting on the breeze as he jogged to the track—the only trace she could see of his past life as a marine was his fitness. Also new? He had a neck now.

  And he was coming to run. Not there to teach. There to run. With the rookies.

  His badge was yellow.

  Rookie yellow.

  He was being placed with the rookies?

  Not again. He’d made it two years ago. He didn’t need to weasel into her group now and start showing off.

  She took a breath and got back in position at the track. In through the nose, out through the mouth.

  This wasn’t a competition. Not one that he knew about, at least. She just sort of...wanted to do better than he did. Today. And every day for the next six weeks.

  “Did we inc
onvenience your plans to sleep in?” Treadwell barked, but Ellison—or the beefy, bipedal sheepdog now impersonating the formerly chisel-cut marine—didn’t respond. He just dropped something black and plastic beside the track and got himself ready to run.

  With. The. Rookies.

  Let it go. Let it go and focus. She could tumble down some kind of rookie revirginization rabbit hole later, after she smoked him on the track. His legs might be longer, but hers would be faster.

  The chief blew a whistle and she launched forward. All the anxious energy that had made her squirm in her seat through the arduous sixty-three-minute orientation finally freed.

  She ran, everything falling into place as she pounded down the dirt track, her sneakers giving only the slightest slide on the hard-packed earth and gravel as she flew down the center lane. The heavy feeling of worry she’d been carrying with her for days suddenly lifted.

  She’d always been a runner. The intense conditioning she’d put herself through was built on a lifetime of running, ever since she’d started T-ball and soccer, because her brothers had all played and they hadn’t taken it easy on her, even at six.

  Doing what she was meant to do, made her strong. With the track underfoot, she felt peace. She felt in control of her destiny. Able to overcome that small mistake she’d made on her application...

  In a matter of seconds, the group she’d started with thinned. Sixteen started at her heels, and before her lungs even began to burn, she no longer heard feet pounding beside her. Or behind her. Even when listening hard.

  Nope. No one. She was alone.

  Which was when she remembered: this wasn’t a race. She wasn’t supposed to be outrunning anyone. Not even Ellison. She was supposed to be outlasting them. This was an endurance test. And speed ate up endurance. Endurance she’d need to make it through the day.

  It took some effort to slow herself down, she felt it every clap of her heels against the packed earth, jarring her bones.

  Six laps was the expected minimum. She’d go longer just to show she could. Not faster. Longer. Longer than them. Longer than Ellison.

  She made it to the third lap before she gave in to temptation to look behind her. The closest to her, who seemed to be moving at a much steadier lope? Ellison. Of course, he was taller. Longer legs didn’t need to run as hard for the same speed.

  Never mind.

  By the fourth lap her lungs were pretty warm.

  By the sixth she legit wanted to stop. She could still finish first, but she wanted to finish best.

  By the seventh lap, he’d caught up to her and when she gave in to the temptation to look up at him, she was met with one arched brow that said three things.

  I know you.

  I remember how competitive you were last time.

  I still think you’re an idiot.

  For the briefest second, her vision swam with a lovely little brain movie of her throwing one leg to one side and sending his curly arrogance into the dirt. But then her vision cleared, and the sweeter side of her nature took over. She looked back to the track, and kept running.

  Eight.

  When was he going to stop? Were they actually racing now? Was this a thing that was happening?

  Other people had already stopped.

  Eight and a half... Treadwell whistled again, loud and shrill. A call to stop. She let inertia carry her forward a few more yards to slow and stop naturally.

  Hands on her knees, she kept herself up and gulped air, sweat plastering her shirt to her back, and the grit she’d kicked up from the dirt track rubbing like sandpaper against her bare legs. Should’ve stopped after the seventh.

  “Not a race, Autry.” Ellison panted too, where he’d stopped a couple lanes away, the curls she hated to admire a little crisper from the light sweat he’d built.

  Of course he’d have better hair too.

  And not the point. Not a race, he’d said, but he’d still kept up with her ridiculous pace.

  “Tell yourself.”

  She straightened, less inclined to bear the grudging respect she’d built for him since he’d turned out to actually be something special, someone she could feel better about herself for having lost to, and walked much more slowly to center field, where the chief gathered his group again.

  Ignore Ellison. What was next?

  Maybe water. Please, let there be water.

  * * *

  Beck followed Autry off the track, his breathing more rapid than his sluggish thoughts. He’d been in a haze all week, trying to decide what his life was supposed to be, and had quietly hoped that once he’d made his decision the fog would lift, and he’d know whether he still had it in him to be what he’d felt called to his whole life.

  No such luck. The only thing clear was his broken life compass. And that he’d somehow annoyed the woman he’d briefly met two years prior.

  She seemed fit. Maybe a little harder than she had been. Normally, he’d say harder was a good thing—harder emotions meant distance, control, better decision-making in dangerous situations. But annoyed was just another flavor of the same emotional unsteadiness he’d seen in her when she’d gone teary after not making the ranks.

  She’d sworn to Treadwell she’d be back next year. Last year. Was that another fail? Surprising, but probably no more than it was for her to see him as a rookie this year too.

  Didn’t matter. Once training was complete, she’d be off to her own unit and her emotionalism wouldn’t be his problem. He had his own issues to focus on.

  Before joining the others, he stopped to retrieve the radio he’d dropped earlier and wedged one earbud in to get another update on the wildfire he’d been monitoring since yesterday. A dry winter and an even drier spring meant the fire season had come early. When rain and runoff existed, spring wildfires were easier to handle and didn’t grow at the vicious speed this one was. The team would be called in today, for sure. If luck was with him, the call would come before he’d spent himself on the rookie field, while he still had enough energy to give Treadwell a reason to stop looking at him like he was the embodiment of all human disappointment.

  The radio crackled and he stopped en route to the coolers, but no report followed. Maybe luck wouldn’t be with him. It certainly hadn’t been with him last season.

  He grabbed a drink and joined the others, half listening to Treadwell go over the next exercise, the other tuned into the earpiece. It was the first day, and his attention was rightly divided. He didn’t need to hear the physical requirements, he remembered them. Listening for the call was an act of team spirit, for his true team. Not these rookies. Besides, no one was a spirited teammate on day one. Team-building took more than a day.

  He worked better alone anyway—fewer distractions. Fewer people to worry about. Something that hadn’t been a problem until last season. One mistake had turned the chief’s opinion of him upside down.

  Turned him upside down too. Getting back out there today would help in a way that four months tending his forest territory had somehow failed to help.

  If his chief didn’t also take the rookies every year, he might not have even had the opportunity to try again, and he wasn’t ready to picture a future where this wasn’t his job. That meant he had to show up, do whatever Treadwell demanded for the next several weeks. Wear his rookie badge. Take his lumps.

  Be like Autry.

  She stood so straight and stiff she might as well have been in a muster, her attention narrowed on the chief with laser precision. Though none of what he said could’ve been news to her, the physical requirements were public information. Requirements that included the height minimum, so she’d certainly have read them.

  As if feeling his gaze, she turned his direction, and met his steady examination with folded arms and a churlish bent to her brows. Still annoyed.

  Whatever. He looked back at the radio because of another r
ound of crackling static, and the next he knew, she was at his side.

  “They stuck you with the new recruits?”

  Her breathing had already leveled out, the only evidence of her prior exertion the pinkness of her cheeks. She’d run as if chased by wolves, but looked none the worse for wear. He should probably ask what had happened to last year, but that would only encourage conversation. And questions in return.

  “Looks like it,” he muttered, and turned up the volume on the single earpiece as a quick buzz announced an incoming report.

  “What are you listening to?”

  “Reports.”

  “Reports on what?”

  He narrowed his eyes at the middle distance, feigning concentration, and pressed the earpiece into his ear, glad for a reason to tune out.

  Not glad there was such a monstrous fire so early in the season, but he wanted to get at it. He was still on the team. If Treadwell went, he’d go too. His yellow badge was penance.

  She finally took his silence for the hint it was and stopped prodding him for answers. There were plenty of other people to pester, and she didn’t know the report had long since ended and now he pretended to listen to dead air.

  Treadwell began calling names again, dividing his group into three, and Beck found himself sorted to the bar, along with Autry, who was now busy introducing herself to the others in their team, making friends. Smiling. Showing her team spirit.

  “Ellison’s not new,” he heard her say, calling his attention back to the newly formed subgroup. “He made it a couple years ago. But...uh... I guess he got stuck with us because he was late.”

  Wrong.

  “This is Alvarez, Finnegan, and Wyler.”

  Still talking to him. No longer annoyed. She actually looked excited, a brightness in her eyes out of step with what was actually happening. Push-ups. Pull-ups. Sit-ups... Not exactly a party.

  Treadwell called his name, saving him from making nice, and he stepped to the bar, pausing only long enough to deposit his radio on the ground and free his hands. The chief’s gaze wordlessly followed him and Beck said two words before reaching for the bar to pull himself up. “It’s bigger.”