A Military Affair Read online

  Dear Reader,

  We are delighted to present you with three brand-new stories proving that, from the battlefield to the home front, love can conquer all!

  Merline Lovelace will take you into the jungles of passion with “A Military Affair,” the story of a U.S. Air Force sergeant whose recovery mission lands her in the arms of an ambitious photojournalist. After he’s captured the story of a lifetime, will he take her heart, too?

  The determined army lieutenant in Lindsay McKenna’s “Comrades in Arms” believes a woman, especially one untrained in combat, can only be a detriment to his team. Until he faces the battle of his life—with her at his side.

  In Candace Irvin’s “An Unconditional Surrender,” two passionate ex-lovers fight a mission side by side and learn in the flames of war what it means to be consumed by love.

  We hope you enjoy this special collection of heroes and heroines who give their all for their country—including their hearts.

  The Editors

  Silhouette Books

  MERLINE LOVELACE

  A career air force officer, Merline Lovelace spent twenty-three years in uniform. She’s served at bases all over the world, including tours in Taiwan, Vietnam and at the Pentagon on the Joint Chiefs of Staff. She has produced one action-packed sizzler after another and now has over forty-five published novels. Merline lives with her husband in Oklahoma City, where she is working on her next novel.

  LINDSAY MCKENNA

  A homeopathic educator, Lindsay McKenna teaches at the Desert Institute of Classical Homeopathy in Phoenix, Arizona. When she isn’t teaching alternative medicine, she is writing books about love. She feels love is the single greatest healer in the world and hopes that her books touch her readers on those levels. Coming from an Eastern Cherokee medicine family, Lindsay was taught ceremony and healing ways from the age of nine. She creates flower and gem essences in accordance with nature and remains closely in touch with her Native American roots and upbringing.

  CANDACE IRVIN

  As the daughter of a librarian and a sailor, it’s no wonder Candace Irvin’s two greatest loves are reading and the sea. After spending several exciting years as a naval officer sailing around the world, she finally decided it was time to put down roots and give her other love a chance. To her delight, she soon learned that writing romance was as much fun as reading it. Candace believes her luckiest moment was the day she married her own dashing hero, a former army combat engineer with dimples to die for. The two now reside in Arkansas, happily raising three future heroes and one adorable heroine—who won’t be allowed to date until she’s forty, at least.

  MERLINE LOVELACE

  LINDSAY MCKENNA

  CANDACE IRVIN

  IN LOVE AND WAR

  Contents

  A MILITARY AFFAIR

  Merline Lovelace

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Epilogue

  A MILITARY AFFAIR

  Merline Lovelace

  To those who serve.

  May you all come home safely.

  Dear Reader,

  My father, two sisters, brother and husband all served in uniform, as did I for twenty-three years. I grew up listening to my dad’s tales of missions he flew during World War II. Those tales took on a whole new meaning years later, when I received orders to Vietnam.

  So when you read this story, you’ll understand why the theme is very close to my heart. Having served in a combat zone, I have only the greatest respect for the dedicated, incredibly skilled men and women who travel all over the globe to bring home America’s fallen warriors.

  All my best,

  Chapter 1

  “Raven One, this is Raven Three.”

  The call came through Tess’s earpiece, soft and staticy in the stillness of the hot, steamy afternoon. Reaching for the radio clipped to the shoulder of her green Nomex flight suit, she keyed her mike.

  “This is Raven One. Go ahead Raven Three.”

  “Unidentified nape at nine o’clock.”

  Nape. Her team’s slang for naked ape, or human.

  She spun around, her boot heels crunching on the crushed shells that constituted the only runway on this tiny atoll in the South Pacific. Blinking salty perspiration from her eyes, she searched the jungle edging the airfield.

  “I make him at fifty meters,” her team member radioed.

  Seconds later, Tess spotted the figure moving through the dappled shadows. He was on the dirt track that led from town, if you could call the dozen or so thatched huts perched on stilts a town.

  “I’ve got him, Raven Three.”

  Slowly, she brought her weapon to her shoulder. The high-powered scope fixed on the distant image and magnified it seventy times over.

  She didn’t particularly like what she saw. The nape was tall. Lean. Scruffy as hell. His cheeks and chin sported several days of dark, bristly growth. His tropical-flowered shirt flapped open above wrinkled tan shorts. He wore decent-looking boots, but appeared to be missing one sock. What knotted Tess’s stomach muscles, though, was the camera looped around his neck.

  The camera appeared ordinary enough. One of those digital jobbies that stored hundreds of images on one chip and downloaded directly to a computer. The kind every tourist seemed to have invested in these days. But the man who carried this one didn’t look like your average tourist, which made Tess wonder just why the heck he was heading to the tiny airstrip and what he wanted pictures of.

  The area threat briefing she and her team had received before departing Hawaii had stressed that relations between the United States and the government of the Namuoto Islands had improved considerably since its bloody, ten-year-long civil war had ended in 1998. But here, at the northern tip of the island chain, anti-American sentiment still ran high. Understandable, Tess supposed, given the U.S.-backed covert operation involving South African mercenaries that had failed so miserably and cost so many lives. The handful of residents on this tiny atoll had been less than welcoming when a plane bearing United States Air Force markings had swooped down yesterday.

  Tess flicked a quick look over her shoulder at the C-130 Hercules she and her team were charged with protecting. The four-engine transport was parked at the far end of the runway, poised for a fast takeoff. Its crew waited in the shade of the wing. Edgy and anxious, they were sweating out the return of the recovery team that had climbed up the island’s jagged volcanic peak to the crash site of the World War II-era Corsair.

  The team should be starting back down the mountain any time now. They’d hacked their way up to the mangled wreckage of the single-seat fighter before noon. Their initial radio report indicated little had survived the crash and subsequent detonation of the plane’s ordnance, not to mention six decades of scavenging by wild creatures. All they’d recovered from the site were a few bits of human bone. Still, those fragments represented a fallen warrior who’d served his country during a time of great crisis. It was Tess’s job to make sure no one—including the small cadre of al-Qaeda-trained terrorists believed to be operating out of base camps in neighboring Indonesia—messed with the people or the plane sent to transport this fallen warrior home for long-overdue honors and burial.

  Her glance cut back to the nape. He looked harmless, but she’d long ago learned never to trust appearances. Anyone in her line of work who did was asking for a bullet.

  “I’m moving up for an intercept,” she told her team. “Raven Two and Four, maintain your positions. Raven Three, back me up.”

  “Roger, chief.” Danny Boyle’s Alabama drawl drifted through her earpiece. “I’ve got you covered.”
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  Tess lowered her weapon and tucked it into the crook of her arm. The M249 SAW—Squad Automatic Weapon—was outfitted with a Special Ops package, yet was still light enough to be carried easily and fired from the hip, even when loaded with a 200-round ammunition box. After six years as a military cop, Tess could take the SAW apart and clean it in six minutes flat. After three additional years as one of the air force’s elite Phoenix Ravens, she could reassemble it again in her sleep. The butt of the weapon rested lightly on her hip as she crossed the clearing toward the nape.

  The brutal training program every Phoenix Raven went through was designed to provide a working knowledge of everything from international law to unconventional and highly effective close-combat techniques. In what was touted as the equivalent of graduate program for supercops, instructors took law enforcement and security to the next level. In the field, however, the basic operational principle of every security force operative was to begin at the lowest end of the force continuum and escalate only as necessary.

  In this case, Tess decided, she’d start with a simple command.

  “That’s far enough!” she shouted. “Stop where you are.”

  Relief zinged through her when the nape halted at the edge of the airfield clearing. Her mission pre-brief had stressed that the Namuotan population consisted of four diverse ethnic groups who spoke some two hundred different dialects. She’d been warned to expect communications problems. Thankfully she found that this particular islander understood English. Either that, or he had a healthy respect for the SAW.

  Keeping her finger light on the trigger, Tess approached him. He didn’t appear any more reputable up close than he had from a distance. His black hair stood up in uneven spikes. Red shot through the whites of his eyes. His shirt looked as if he’d slept in it for the past week.

  “Identify yourself, please.”

  “I’m Quinn. Peter Quinn.”

  Tess searched her memory for mention of anyone by that name in the mission brief and came up blank.

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Quinn?”

  He bent an elbow and made as if to dig into the pocket of his shorts. “I’m with the…”

  “No sudden moves!” she snapped, whipping up the SAW. “And no reaching into any pockets.”

  “Look, lady…”

  “It’s sergeant. Staff Sergeant Teresa Hamilton, United States Air Force. Now turn around, plant your palms against that tree, and spread your legs.”

  Scowling, he looked her up and down. His reddened, whiskey-colored eyes took in every one of her five feet, two inches before fixing on the naturally curly auburn hair that tended to go wild in this steamy heat. She’d mashed her blue beret emblazoned with the Ravens’ unit insignia down over the thick mane, but enough damp tendrils had escaped to frame her face and give her a deceptively fragile air. Fragile, that is, if you didn’t happen to notice the lethal arsenal she packed on her slender frame.

  The nape noticed it. He definitely noticed. She saw his gaze drop from her face, skim down her front, and linger on her expandable baton in its leather jacket. The Taser clipped to her belt. The cross-hatched grip of the handgun poking from her underarm holster.

  Tess let him look his fill before jerking her chin toward a tall palm. “Turn around, place your hands on that tree, and spread ’em.”

  Swearing under his breath, Quinn turned. A whole lot faster than he should have, he realized in the next, blinding instant.

  Fiery spikes drove through his skull and stabbed into eyeballs aching and sandpaper-rough from the home brew he’d swilled last night. Ten days on this dime-sized island and he still hadn’t figured out what the locals put into their beer to give it such a kick.

  Gritting his teeth against the pain lancing through his skull, he planted his palms against the scaly trunk and widened his stance. Not far enough for the gun-toting GI Jane behind him, evidently. Hooking a boot around his right ankle, she jerked his foot over another eight or ten inches. Off balance, Pete used the tree for support while she patted him down.

  And up.

  And down again.

  A snide comment on her thoroughness popped into his aching head. It popped right out again when she slipped a hand inside his shorts pocket and felt around.

  Christ!

  His lower body went on instant alert, but he wasn’t about to give her the satisfaction of knowing she’d gotten his attention. He stared at the tree trunk, determined to play it cool. Despite his best efforts, beads of sweat were trickling down his temples when she withdrew her hand.

  “Was this what you were reaching into your pocket for, Mr. Quinn?”

  Craning his neck, he aimed a glance over his shoulder. A red lace thong dangled from her fingers.

  How the hell did that get into his pocket? More to the point, who’d put it there? The faces of a dozen different women swam through his head, some young, some old and seamed, all smiling.

  No, wait! Those faces were from the wedding feast yesterday afternoon. The thong must have come after, but he was damned if he could remember when.

  “I was reaching for my credentials,” he answered gruffly. “They’re in my other pocket.”

  Her hand slid into his shorts again. Quinn swallowed. Hard. His reddened, sandpapery eyes drilled into the peeling tree trunk.

  “You can turn around now.”

  He turned more cautiously this time, not wanting to set off another artillery barrage inside his skull. The rumbles from the last one died slowly as he watched her unzip the leather case he never traveled without. Inside were his Palm Pilot with the notes he’d taken the past few weeks, his passport, and the credentials that identified him as freelance stringer for Associated Press.

  “You’re a reporter?”

  “Photo-journalist.”

  “Do you live in Namuoto?”

  “No. I live in L.A., but I’m temporarily based out of Hawaii.”

  Her eyes were green, he noted, and decidedly unfriendly as she handed him back the case.

  “What are you doing on this island?”

  Even with the spikes pounding into his skull, Quinn understood her wariness. He’d covered the first six months of the war in Afghanistan, had seen the soldiers’ reactions when they’d heard an American had been captured fighting with the enemy. Had seen, too, the dangerous minefield of politics, religion, tribal loyalties and old hatreds the soldiers had had to negotiate.

  This wasn’t Afghanistan, but Americans weren’t all that welcome in these parts, either. The scars from Namuoto’s decade-long civil war hadn’t completely healed yet. It had taken Pete Quinn ten days and untold quantities of beer to worm his way into the locals’ confidence.

  “I came to Namuoto from Micronesia,” he said in answer to her question. “I’m working my way across the South Pacific, attempting to follow the trail of arms supplied by terrorist organizations.”

  Her gaze went razor-sharp. “The trail led you here?”

  He scratched at the bristles on his chin, wondering how much he should tell her. So far, all he’d sniffed out was a vague rumor of a cache stored in one of the caves honeycombing the volcanic peak. No one would verify the rumor, and the hours Quinn had spent scrambling up and down the damned mountain had been a waste of time and energy.

  Well, not a total waste. He’d photographed the site where the World War II-era Corsair had plowed into the volcanic rock, thinking he might get a story out of it. He’d had no idea, though, that the U.S. had already requested permission from the Namuotan government to access the site. Hadn’t known until he’d surfaced from a drunken stupor a half hour ago that a recovery team had landed this very morning and was already up on the mountain.

  “The trail led me here,” he admitted finally, “but it’s gone cold. Stone cold.”

  “So what brought you out to the airstrip?”

  The question surprised him. He would have thought the answer was obvious.

  “I want in on the story.”

  “Which story is that?�
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  “The Corsair that augered into the mountain. It should sell well with all the interest in the Second World War these days. I heard a recovery team is already up at the site.” He shook his head in disgust and ended up wearing a wince. “I can’t believe I missed out on their arrival, but I’ve shot the site, so I’ll get the team as they come down. In the meantime, I’ll shoot the C-130 and interview the—”

  “Sorry,” she cut in, looking anything but. “This is a military affair. We brought a photographer along to document the recovery operation. No outside coverage is necessary or permitted.”

  “Hold on a minute, Teresa.”

  “It’s Tess to my friends. Sergeant Hamilton to you.”

  She wanted to play hardball, did she? Fine by him.

  “You’re standing on foreign soil here, Sergeant. You have no authority to prevent me from taking pictures or writing this story.”

  “As a matter of fact, I have all the authority I need. The United States executed a repatriation agreement with Namuoto before we launched this mission. We’re recovering one of our own. We intend to accord him the dignity and honors he’s earned.”

  “You accord the honors, I’ll document them.”

  Disdain filled her green eyes. Her lip curled. Not enough for a real sneer, but pretty close.

  “My definition of rendering honor to a fallen comrade doesn’t include letting an AP stringer cash in on the story and splash it across the headlines before his remains are positively identified and his surviving next of kin notified.”

  The scathing remark got Quinn’s Irish up. “You have a problem with how I make my living, lady?”

  “Yeah, I do. In this particular instance, anyway. Sorry you stand to lose a few bucks, Mr. Quinn, but this story is off limits.”

  Well, damn. He was usually more careful about pushing the wrong buttons when he went after a story. He could only blame his clumsiness on the home-brewed poison he’d swilled down last night—and the fact that Staff Sergeant Hamilton, United States Air Force, was pushing a few of his buttons. Shoving a hand through his hair, he tried for conciliatory.