Текст книги "Wyatt's War"

Автор книги: Myla Jackson

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Wyatt's War
Hearts & Heroes – 1
Myla Jackson

Dedication

This book is dedicated to the men and women of the armed forces who protect our lives and liberty. I have nothing but love and respect for them and the sacrifices they make daily. Also, I’d like to dedicate this book to their families who keep the home fires burning for their heroes’ return.

Chapter One

Sergeant Major Wyatt Magnus pushed past the pain in his knee, forcing himself to finish a three-mile run in the sticky heat of south Texas. Thankfully his ribs had healed and his broken fingers had mended enough he could pull the trigger again. He didn’t anticipate needing to use the nine-millimeter Beretta tucked beneath his fluorescent vest. San Antonio wasn’t what he’d call a hot zone. Not like Somalia, his last real assignment.

It wouldn’t be long before his commander saw he was fit for combat duty, not playing the role of a babysitter for fat tourists, politicians and businessmen visiting the Alamo and stuffing themselves on Tex-Mex food while pretending to attend an International Trade Convention.

The scents of fajitas and salsa filled the air, accompanied by the happy cadence of a mariachi band. Twinkle lights lit the trees along the downtown River Walk as he completed his run around the San Antonio Convention Center and started back to his hotel. Neither the food, nor the music lightened his spirits.

Since being medevaced out of Somalia to San Antonio Medical Center, the combined armed forces’ medical facility, he’d been chomping at the bit to get back to where the action was. But for some damn reason, his commander and the psych evaluator thought he needed to cool his heels a little longer and get his head on straight before he went back into the more volatile situations.

So what? He’d been captured and tortured by Somali militants. If he hadn’t been so trusting of the men he’d been sent to train in combat techniques, he might have picked up on the signs. Staff Sergeant Dane might not be dead and Wyatt wouldn’t have spent three of the worst weeks of his life held captive. He’d been tortured: nine fingers, four ribs and one kneecap broken and had been beaten to within an inch of his life. All his training, his experience in the field, the culture briefings and in-country observations hadn’t prepared him for complete betrayal by the very people he had been sent there to help.

He understood why the Somali armed forces had turned him over to the residual al-Shabab militants that were attempting a comeback after being ousted from the capital, Mogadishu. He might have done the same if his family had been kidnapped and threatened with torture and beheading if he didn’t hand over the foreigners.

No, he’d have found a better way to deal with the terrorists. A way that involved very painful deaths. His breathing grew shallower and the beginning of a panic attack snuck up on him like a freight train.

Focus. The psych doc had given him methods to cope with the onset of anxiety that made him feel like he was having a heart attack. He had to focus to get his mind out of Somalia and torture and back to San Antonio and the River Walk.

Ahead he spied the pert twitch of a female butt encased in hot pink running shorts and a neon green tank top. Her ass was as far from the dry terrain of Somalia as a guy could get. Wyatt focused on her and her tight buttocks, picking up the pace to catch up. She was a pretty young woman with an MP3 device strapped to her arm with wires leading to the earbuds in her ears. Her dark red hair pulled back in a loose ponytail bounced with every step. Running in the zone, she seemed to ignore everything around but the path in front of her.

Once he caught up, Wyatt slowed to her pace, falling in behind. His heart rate slowed, returning to normal, his breathing regular and steady. Panic attack averted, he felt more normal, in control and aware of the time. As much as he liked following the pretty woman with the pink ass and the dark red, bobbing ponytail, he needed to get back and shower before he met the coordinator of the International Trade Convention.

Wyatt lengthened his stride and passed the woman, thankful that simply by jogging ahead of him, she’d brought him back to the present and out of a near clash with the crippling anxiety he refused to let get the better of him.

As he put distance between him and the woman in pink, he passed the shadow of a building. A movement out of the corner of his eye made him spin around. He jogged in a circle, his pulse ratcheting up, his body ready, instincts on high alert. The scuffle of feet made him circle again and stop. He crouched in a fighting stance and faced the threat, the memory of his abduction exploding in his mind, slamming him back to Somalia, back to the dry terrain of Africa and the twenty rebels who’d jumped him and Dane when they’d been leading a training exercise in the bush.

Instead of Somali militants garbed in camouflage and turbans, a small child darted out of his parents’ reach and ran past Wyatt, headed toward the edge of the river.

His mother screamed, “Johnnie, stop!”

By the time Wyatt grasped that the child wasn’t an al-Shabab fighter, the kid had nearly reached the edge.

Wyatt lunged for the boy and grabbed him by the scruff of the neck as the little guy tripped. Johnnie would have gone headfirst into the slow-moving, shallow water had Wyatt not snagged him at the last minute.

Instead of thanking Wyatt, the kid kicked, wiggled and squirmed until Wyatt was forced to set the boy on the ground. Then Johnnie planted the tip of his shoe in Wyatt’s shin with razor-sharp precision.

Wyatt released him and bent to rub the sore spot.

Little Johnnie ran back to his mother, who wrapped her arms around the brat and cooed. Safe in his mother’s arms, he glared at Wyatt.

Wyatt frowned, the ache in his shin nothing compared to the way his heart raced all over again.

The boy’s mother gave Wyatt an apologetic wince and hugged her baby boy to her chest. “Thank you.”

A small crowd had gathered, more because Wyatt, the parents and child blocked the sidewalk than because they were interested in a man who’d just rescued a child from a potential drowning.

His heartbeat racing, his palms clammy and his pulse pounding so loudly in his ears he couldn’t hear anything else, Wyatt nodded, glancing around for an escape. Fuck! What was wrong with him? If he didn’t get away quickly, he’d succumb this time. Where was the woman in the pink shorts when he needed her? Some of his panic attacks had been so intense he’d actually thought he was having a heart attack. He hadn’t told his commander, or the psychologist assigned to his case, for fear of setting back his reassignment even further. He wanted to be back in the field where the action was. Where he was fighting a real enemy, not himself.

As it was, he’d been given this snowbird task of heading up the security for the International Trade Convention. “Do this job, prove you’re one hundred percent and we’ll take it from there,” Captain Ketchum had said. To Wyatt, it sounded like a load of bullshit with no promises.

Hell, any trained monkey could provide security for a bunch of businessmen. What did Ketchum think Wyatt could add to the professional security firm hired to man the exits and provide a visual deterrent to pickpockets and vagrants?

Wyatt had tried to see the assignment from his commander’s point of view. He was a soldier barely recovered from a shitload of injuries caused by violent militants who set no value on life, limb and liberty. Sure, he’d been so close to death he almost prayed for it, but he was back as good as—

A twinge in his knee, made it buckle. Rather than fall in front of all those people, Wyatt swung around like he meant it and stepped out smartly.

And barreled into the woman he’d been following. Her head down, intent on moving, she’d been squeezing past him at that exact moment.

The female staggered sideways, her hands flailing in the air as she reached out to grab something to hold onto. When her fingers only met air, she toppled over the edge and fell into the river with a huge splash.

Another lady screamed and the crowd that had been standing on the sidewalk rushed to the edge of the river, pushing Wyatt forward to the point he almost went in with the woman.

A dark, wet head rose from the water like an avenging Titan, spewing curses. She pushed lank strands of hair from her face and glared up at him. “Are you just going to stand there and stare? Or are you going to get me out of this?”

Guilt and the gentleman in Wyatt urged him to hold out his hand to her. She grasped it firmly and held on as he pulled her out of the river and onto the sidewalk. She was so light, he yanked with more force than necessary and she fell against him, her tight little wet body pressing against his.

His arm rose to her waist automatically, holding her close until she was steady on her own feet.

The redhead stared up into his eyes, her own green ones wide, sparkling with anger, her pretty little mouth shaped in an O.

At this close range, Wyatt saw the freckles sprinkled across her nose. Instead of making her face appear flawed, they added to her beauty, making her more approachable, though not quite girl-next-door. She was entirely too sexy for that moniker. Especially all wet with her skin showing through the thin fabric of the lime green tank top.

Then she was pushing against him—all business and righteous anger.

A round of applause sounded behind him, though he didn’t deserve it since he’d knocked her into the water in the first place. “My apologies, darlin’.”

She fished the MP3 out of the strap around her arm and pressed the buttons on it, shaking her head. “Well, that one’s toast.”

“Sweetheart, I’ll buy you a new one,” Wyatt said, giving her his most charming smile. “Just give me your name and number so that I can find you to replace it.”

“No thanks. I’m not your sweetheart and I don’t have time to deal with it.” She squeezed the water out of her hair and turned away, dropping the MP3 into a trashcan.

With her body shape imprinted in dank river water on his vest and PT shorts, he was reluctant to let her leave without finding out her name. “At least let me know your name.”

She hesitated, opened her mouth to say something, then she shook her head as if thinking better of it. “Sorry, I’ve gotta go.” She shrugged free of his grip and took off, disappearing into the throng of tourists on the River Walk.

Wyatt would have jogged after her, but the number of people on the sidewalk made it impossible for a big guy like him to ease his way through. Regret tugged at his gut. Although he hadn’t made the best first impression on her, her bright green eyes and tight little body had given him the first twinge of lust he’d felt since he’d been in Somalia. Perhaps being on snowbird detail would help him get his mojo back. At the very least, he might find time, and a willing woman, to get laid. Okay, so a few days of R&R in a cushy assignment might not be too bad.

A flash of pretty green eyes haunted his every step as he wove his way through the thickening crowd to his hotel where he’d stashed his duffel bag. He wondered if in an entire city of people he’d manage to run into the red-haired jogger again. If so, maybe he could refrain from knocking her into the river next time and instead get her number.

Fiona Allen arrived at the door to her hotel room, dripping wet and in need of a shower to rinse off the not-so-sanitary San Antonio River water. She couldn’t afford to come down with some disease this week. Not when dignitaries were already arriving for the International Trade Convention due to kick off in less than two days’ time.

If she did come down with something, it would all be that big, hulking, decidedly sexy, beast of a man’s fault. The one who’d knocked her into the river in the first place. When he’d pulled her out with one hand, he’d barely strained.

Her heart had raced when he’d slammed her up against his chest. She blamed it on the shock of being thrown into the river, but she suspected the solid wall of muscles she’d rested her hands against had more to do with it.

For a brief moment, she’d remained dumbstruck and utterly attracted to the clumsy stranger. Had it been any other circumstance and she hadn’t been covered in river slime, she might have asked for his number. Yeah, right.

As the convention coordinator, she couldn’t afford to date or be sick, or for anything to go wrong while thousands of businessmen and politicians attended the meetings. She’d been hired by the city to ensure this event went off without a hitch, and she wouldn’t let a single disgruntled employee, terrorist or hulking bodybuilder knock her off her game. No sir. She had all the plans locked up tighter than Fort Knox and the hired staff marching to the beat of her military-style drum.

She wasn’t the daughter of an Army colonel for nothing. She knew discipline; hard work and using your brain couldn’t be replaced by help from sexy strangers with insincere apologies. If this convention was going to be a success, it would be so based on all of her hard work in the planning stages.

Once inside her room, she headed straight for the bathroom and twisted the knob on the shower, amazed at how much her breasts still tingled after being smashed against the broad chest of the clumsy oaf who’d knocked her into the river. She shook her head, attributing the tingling to the chill of the air conditioning unit.

In the bathroom, she stripped her damp gym shorts and tank top, dropping the soaked mess into a plastic bag. She’d hand it over to the hotel staff and ask them to launder them, otherwise she’d have nothing to work out in. Who was she kidding? She wouldn’t need to work out once the convention began.

Fiona unclipped her bra and slid out of her panties, adding them to the bag of dirty clothes. Then she stepped beneath the shower’s spray and attacked her body with shampoo and citrus-scented soap. Images of the muscle man on the River Walk resurfaced, teasing her body into a lather that had nothing to do with the bar of soap. Too bad her time wasn’t her own. The man had certainly piqued her interest. Not that she’d find him again in a city of over a million people.

As she slid her soap-covered hand over her breast, she paused to tweak a nipple and moaned. It had been far too long since she’d been with a man. She’d have to do something about that soon. With her, a little sex went a long way. Perhaps she would test the batteries in her vibrator and make do with pleasuring herself. Although the device was cold and couldn’t give her all she wanted, it was a lot less messy in so very many ways. Relationships required work. Building a business had taken all of her time.

Fiona trailed her hand down her belly to the tuft of curls over her mons and sighed. Maybe she’d find a man. After the convention when her life wasn’t nearly as crazy. She rinsed, switched off the water and stepped out on the mat, her core pulsing, her clit throbbing, needy and unfulfilled.

With a lot of items still begging for her attention, she couldn’t afford the luxury of standing beneath the hot spray of the massaging showerhead, masturbating. Towel in hand, she rubbed her skin briskly, her breasts tingling at the thought of the big guy on the River Walk.

By the time the convention was over, that man could be long gone. He probably was a businessman passing through, or one of the military men on temporary duty. Even if he lived in the city, what were the chances of running into him again? Slim to none. San Antonio was a big place with a lot of people.

Well, damn. She should have given him her name and number. A quick fling would get her over her lust cravings and back to her laser-sharp focus.

She dragged a brush through her long, curly hair, wishing she’d cut it all off. With the convention taking all of her spare time, she didn’t have time to waste on taming her mane of cursed curls. Most of the time it was the bane of her existence, requiring almost an hour of steady work with the straightener to pull the curls out. Having left her clean clothes in the drawer in the bedroom, Fiona stood naked in front of the mirror as she blew her hair dry, coaxing it around a large round brush.

This convention was her shot at taking her business international. If she succeeded and pulled off the biggest event of her career without a hitch, other jobs would come her way on her own merit, not based on a recommendation from one of her stepfather’s cronies.

When she’d graduated with her masters in Operations Management, she’d invested the money her mother had left her in her business, F.A. International Event Planner. Since then, she’d steadily built her client list from companies based in San Antonio. Starting out with weddings, parties and small gigs, she’d established a reputation for attention to detail and an ability to follow through. She’d worked her way in as a consultant for some of the larger firms in the area when they’d needed to plan a convention based in San Antonio.

Finally she’d gotten a lead on the International Trade Convention and had applied. Her stepfather put a bug in the ear of one of his buddies from his active Army days at the Pentagon and she’d landed the contract.

Now all she had to do was prove she was up to the task. If it fell apart, she’d lose her business, disgrace the U.S. government and shame her stepfather. The pressure to succeed had almost been overwhelming. To manage the workload, she’d taken out a big loan, more than doubled her staff, coordinated the use of the convention center, arranged for all the food, meeting rooms, audio-visual equipment, translators, and blocked out lodging and security for the guests.

As she dried her hair, she stared at the shadows beneath her eyes. Only a few more sleepless nights and the convention would be underway and over. She’d be playing the role of orchestra conductor, managing the staff to ensure everything was perfect. The most important aspect of the event was tight security. The Department of Homeland Security had notified her today that with all the foreign delegates scheduled to attend, the probability of a terrorist attack had risen to threat level orange.

A quick glance at her watch reminded her that she only had ten minutes to get ready before her meeting in the lounge with the man Homeland Security had insisted she add to her staff to oversee security. This last-minute addition made her nervous. She knew nothing about the man, his background or his capabilities. He could prove more of a hindrance than a help if he got in the way. All she knew was that he’d better be on time, and he’d better be good. With a hundred items roiling around in her head at any one moment, the last thing she needed was an international incident.

Fiona shut off the blow dryer, ran the brush through her hair and reached for the doorknob, reminding herself to look at the e-mail on her laptop from Homeland Security to get the name of the contact she’d be meeting shortly. Before she could turn the doorknob, it twisted in her hand and the door flew open.

A very naked man, with wild eyes and bared teeth shoved her up against the wall, pinned her wrists above her head and demanded, “Who the hell are you? And why are you in my room?”

Chapter Two

Wyatt had stopped in the hotel store for a can of shaving cream and a package of condoms. The shaving cream he had in his duffle, but it was getting low and the condoms… Well, after running into the pretty jogger in the pink shorts, he’d started thinking about sex again. He’d rather be prepared in case an opportunity presented itself.

A mother and a couple of kids got to the clerk first and proceeded to count out thirty-five pennies, five dimes and a quarter for a candy bar.

Wyatt glanced at the clock hanging on the wall behind the clerk. In fifteen minutes he was supposed to be in the lounge to meet with the convention planner. He could get a shower, shave and dress in less than ten, if the kids would hurry up and complete their purchase.

One of the children dropped more pennies on the floor. The two kids and their mother dropped to their haunches to collect the coins.

At that rate, he’d never get ready in time for his meeting.

Still, he couldn’t be impatient with the children, their mother was trying to teach them it cost money for treats and how to pay for things they want. One of the pennies rolled toward his foot and he bent to pick it up.

The boy looked about the same age as Little Johnnie who’d kicked him in the shin, only this child smiled up at him instead of glaring. “Thank you, sir,” he said. He had dark auburn hair and freckles on his nose.

Wyatt pictured the woman in the pink shorts as the mother of this child and immediately he glanced across at the child’s mother who had a lighter shade of red hair and no freckles. Whew. He hadn’t been lusting after someone’s wife or mother—as far as he knew.

She helped the boy and the small girl hand over the change and grabbed the candy bar. “We’ll split it after dinner. Come on, this gentleman has been waiting long enough.”

“No hurry, ma’am,” he assured her, even though he stood a strong chance of being late for his meeting with the event planner. F. Allen would just have to cool his heels. Wyatt was too sweaty from his jog to meet with anyone.

His purchases paid for, Wyatt retrieved his duffle bag from where he’d stashed it behind the concierge’s desk and fished his key card, from an inside pocket. He’d checked in earlier, but his room hadn’t been quite ready. Rather than stand around the lobby, he’d gone for a jog that served two purposes: blowing out the cobwebs and giving him a tactical lay of the land.

Key card in hand, he hurried to the elevator, a shower and a shave at the top of his priority list. He rode up to the floor he’d been assigned, slid his key card in the door lock and entered. As soon as the door closed behind him, he tossed his duffle bag next to the dresser, stripped out of his vest, gun and shorts and made a beeline for the bathroom, anticipating just enough time to make his meeting.

That was when he pushed the door open and ran chest-first into an intruder. His pulse leapt and he grabbed her hands, slamming her against the wall, his instincts on self-preservation. Surprise sharpened his voice as he said the first thing that came into his head. “Who the hell are you? And why are you in my room?”

After his gut reaction to slam the intruder against the wall, his mind had a full two-second delay before it engaged.

Wide green eyes stared up at him. Eyes he recognized from an earlier encounter beside the river. It was the redhead he hadn’t stopped thinking about. And she looked pissed.

“Let go of me or I’ll scream,” she cried, her naked breasts pressing into his chest with every breath she took.

No longer on alert, he relaxed, but he didn’t let go of her wrists. “Not until you tell me what you’re doing in my room.”

“Your room? This is my room and you’re trespassing.”

“I have a key and a receipt indicating this was the room assigned to me at the desk. Which means, darlin’, you’re in the wrong room.”

“I have the same, and I don’t appreciate being held captive without any clothes on. Perhaps we can take this discussion down to the desk, after we’ve both had a chance to dress.” Though her words were matter-of-fact and forceful, color had crept up her neck and bloomed in her cheeks.

Wyatt relented and released her wrists, stepping back, reluctantly. Too late, he realized his body had reacted to hers and his cock jutted out, hard and ready to take it from there.

Her gaze slipped down his length, pausing at that revealing appendage. “Holy shit.” If possible, her cheeks grew even redder. She grabbed a towel and flung it at him. Then she ducked beneath his arm and dove for the bedroom dresser.

A chuckle rose up Wyatt’s throat as he watched the smooth, rounded derriere dart past him. The pink shorts had nothing on the smooth pale, white flesh of her pretty bottom.

“A gentleman wouldn’t stare,” she said, her voice breathy as she jammed her feet into a pair of panties.

“I never claimed to be a gentleman.” Wyatt wrapped the towel around him, the front tenting out. No matter how hard he tried to think his way out of the erection, seeing the redhead slide into her panties only made him harder.

“At the very least, you could turn around.”

He shook his head. “Sorry, darlin’. I never turn my back on strangers. Especially if the stranger is trespassing in my room and has a sexy ass.”

She huffed, grabbed a bra out of a drawer and turned her back to him, that very sexy bottom holding his interest more than he should admit, the thong panties doing nothing to cover the glorious orbs.

“I told you, this is my room. I reserved it months ago,” she threw over her shoulder.

“Guess we’ll have to let the desk clerk sort it all out.”

When she turned back, dressed in a sexy black bra and matching lace panties, she planted her hands on her hips. “Why aren’t you getting dressed?”

He nodded to the duffle bag on the floor beside the dresser. “Just waiting for you to move so that I can get to my clothes.”

She stomped past him to the closet, pulled out a gray skirt suit and an orange sherbet blouse and faced him, holding the suit in front of her like a shield. “Do you mind?”

He shook his head. “Not at all.” He remained leaning against the doorway to the bathroom. When she continued to stare at him pointedly, he straightened. “I take it you want me to let you by so that you can dress in the bathroom.”

“That would be the gentlemanly—”

“—thing to do.” His lips curled and he wanted to laugh out loud at her indignant expression. “How do I know you’re not keeping a weapon in the bathroom?”

“Because I didn’t carry a weapon into the bathroom. Go ahead. Check the bathroom. I might be hiding a fifty-caliber machine gun in there.”

Wyatt shoved the door wider and glanced in, making a quick show of checking shelves, counters and behind the shower curtain. The only thing that caught his attention was the hot pink shorts lying in a half-open laundry bag on the floor. “All clear.”

“Told you.”

He crossed his arms over his chest, still not moving out of the doorframe. “I knew it. I’m just pushing your buttons, since you’re trespassing in my room. Did you know your eyes flare when you’re angry?”

The woman planted her fists on her gorgeous hips. “Then they should be flaring right now.”

“I don’t know why you’d bother to dress in the bathroom. You could dress out here and let me get my shower.”

“I like having a lock on the door.”

“What does it matter? I’ve already seen everything you have to offer.”

“For the record, I’m not offering you anything. And I don’t dress in front of jerks.”

He nodded. “We’ve established I’m not a gentleman. Really, the repetition is getting boring.”

She stomped a pretty little foot, her effort making little impression in the carpet, but she sure was cute with her long red hair hanging free around her shoulders.

Wyatt had the sudden urge to pull her into his arms and tangle his fingers in all the burnished copper strands. He moved aside, allowing her pass.

She walked past him into the bathroom, her head held high and slammed the door between them.

After barging in on her and holding her captive when she was naked, Wyatt figured he didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell at getting her to go out with him. Not now. Still, he couldn’t help trying. Those long, shapely legs would be nice wrapped around his waist, and he could just imagine how her pale white ass would fit in the palm of his hands as he pumped in and out of her. He glanced down at the tented towel and groaned. “It might help to know the name of the person who is trespassing in my room.” He crossed the room to the duffle bag leaning against the far side of the dresser and removed a pair of jeans.

“Why would I tell you my name?” she asked through the door. “For all I know you’re some pervert who gets off on breaking into a woman’s room.”

“I guess when you put it that way, you have a point.” He grinned as he draped the jeans over his arm. “Only, since it’s my room, you could be the pervert. Though that thought has some appeal.” He pulled a chambray shirt from the bag, shaking out the wrinkles. The door to the bathroom opened as he draped the shirt over the jeans and waited for her to come out.

The redhead emerged from the bathroom, fully clothed in the soft gray suit and pale orange blouse, looking cool, calm and collected and every bit as sexy as she had in her bra and panties or stark naked.

What was it about this woman that had him so hot? Wyatt chalked it up to the months he’d been celibate. After he’d recovered from his injuries, he’d lacked any desire to find a woman and take her to bed. The shrink had claimed PTSD could lead to depression. Lack of desire was only one sign of depression.

Thankfully, the woman had reminded him he was definitely a healthy male capable of a raging hard-on. How to get her into bed would be the challenge.

She padded to the closet, stepped into light gray high-heeled pumps and finally faced him. Her eyes flared briefly when her gaze landed on his chest. Her hands clasped together and she swept her tongue around her bottom lip.

That tongue thing was almost Wyatt’s undoing.

“How much longer until you’re ready?” she asked, breaking into his mental picture of his tongue dueling with hers.

“Don’t wait on me. I’m not getting dressed until I shower the sweat off my body.” He doubted seriously he could walk at that point, with his cock tenting the towel around his middle.

“Not in my shower, you’re not.”

“Guess we’ll be waiting here for a long time then.”

She blew a stream of air out her nose. “Fine. Get your shower. And hurry it up. I’m not leaving you in my room. You might rob me.”

He chuckled, loving the fire in her eyes and the color in her cheeks when she was angry. “I can’t imagine what I’d do with panties and skirt suits.”

She quirked her eyebrows upward. “Perverts do strange and disgusting things.”