Starting with June. Emilie Rose

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      “What would you do about it?”

      “I can take care of myself.”

      “Overconfidence can get you hurt. If you’re not worried about yourself, at least think of your children.”

      Confusion clouded her eyes. “Children? I don’t have children.”

      He nodded toward the toy box. “Whose are those?”

      Her face softened with what could only be love and...was that yearning? “My nieces and nephews. I babysit as often as I can. Don’t worry—I’ll keep them away from you.”

      She reached for the basket and pulled the handle. He held on. He didn’t know why he was so determined to make her see sense. Probably because he’d worry about his sisters if they were in a remote place like this. “The owner of the farmhouse is away. You’re a half mile from your nearest neighbor. Who would hear you if you screamed for help?”

      Her eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. “Who says I’d scream or that I’d need help?”

      Not the answer he’d expected. “You weigh what? One twenty-five? No match for a man.”

      “My weight is none of your business. Was there anything else you wanted—besides to pester me, Mr. Rivers?”

      This was not going as planned. “I apologize if I misunderstood earlier.”

      “If?” She looked angry enough to spit. Red flagged her cheeks and chest, and fury burned in her eyes. “Don’t worry. I won’t give you the opportunity to misinterpret my Southern hospitality again.”

      His teeth clicked together. He was trying to be nice. She wasn’t making it easy.

      June snatched the basket quickly and with enough force to remove it from his relaxed grip. He hadn’t seen that coming. Then she stepped back, letting the screen slap shut, and closed the solid interior door in his face. The lock clicked.

      “Guess you got tired of being neighborly,” he called out. “Thanks for the food.”

      No answer. But then, he wasn’t expecting one—at least not a polite one. She was probably shooting him the bird through the door. He headed back to his temporary quarters. Antipathy between him and Blondie was a good thing. She wouldn’t ask questions about why he was here, and he wouldn’t have to lie. His mission was to help Roth, then get the hell out of Quincey. In. Out. Over.

      June would have been a complication.

      So why was he disappointed?

      * * *

      SAM ZEROED IN on his target—a ten-point buck—exhaled, slow and steady, then squeezed his trigger finger. His camera reeled off three rapid-fire shots. The deer stiffened, his ears pricking forward and the hairs along his back going erect. He searched for the adversary he hadn’t yet spotted and pawed the ground. Sam pressed the shutter button again. The buck’s head snapped up, his big dark eyes locating Sam in the tree above him. The deer snorted a warning, lifted his white tail, then bounded off through the woods. Beautiful.

      Sam relaxed into his borrowed hide—a hunter’s tree stand that he’d come upon during his morning hike. In his line of work—former line of work—he’d seen a lot of nature as he’d crept up on his insurgent targets, and he’d learned to appreciate it, but during a mission, he’d never been able to take pictures. He’d been too worried about getting in undetected and out alive.

      He checked his watch. He’d been perched in the tree for almost five hours. Time to call it a day. If he didn’t leave soon, it would be dark before he made it back. Not that darkness was an issue, but hunger was. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

      He rose. Old injuries protested. They’d stiffened up while he’d sat practically immobile.

      He turned and eased down the ladder, and only then did he notice the rain tapping on his jacket—he’d endured and tuned out far worse conditions. The rainy weather had worked to his advantage today. The people who should have been hiking the trails by the river on the Labor Day holiday had stayed inside. That meant he’d been able to explore Quincey’s surroundings without interference—and without his neighbor as a tour guide.

      Using his compass, he hiked back toward his temporary quarters. Eight klicks. He circled the perimeter of the farm. From the edge of the woods he noted June’s diesel crew-cab truck still parked in the driveway. Diesel engines and sparkly sandals didn’t go together. He filed away the incongruity.

      It didn’t look as though she’d moved her vehicle since he’d left just before dawn this morning. There were no tracks in or out of the gravel driveway and the rocks beneath her vehicle were dry. He returned the same way he’d left—on the blind side of his house where his nearest neighbor couldn’t see him coming or going unless she was looking out her window at his porch. He climbed the stairs, eyeing no-man’s-land—the strip of wet grass between his quarters and his neighbor’s.

      June’s blinds were open and her lights on as dusk approached. He could see her clearly through the window. Her sports bra and low-waisted knit pants clung to her curves, revealing the narrowing of her waist and swell of her hips. Her pose was unmistakably yoga. Power yoga had become popular on base. One of his commanding officers had required the platoon to attend classes because the exercise supposedly improved physical training scores and helped with PTSD. Yoga hadn’t been a total waste of time—it had increased his flexibility. But Sam preferred relieving his tension through other means. Emptying a couple of dozen clips on the range. Swimming or pumping iron until his arms felt as if they would fall off. A good run. The latter had a purpose because it could save his life if he was detected and had to haul ass.

      A pang of regret hit him. He wouldn’t be running for his life anymore unless his eye healed and he could convince brass to let him re-up.

      June shifted from a low lunge to a shoulder stand, then rolled smoothly down into a boat pose. She held the V shape steadily, toes pointed up, arms forward with nary a wobble. That explained her flat abs. Tight. Strong. He’d underestimated her muscle tone.

      He shook himself. What in the hell was wrong with him, standing here on his porch gawking at a woman working out? His knuckles bumped the gun on his hip as he dug his keys from his pocket. He didn’t have a concealed-carry permit for this state, but he wouldn’t be here long enough for the paperwork to clear, and there was no way he’d go into foreign territory unarmed. He’d better mention that to Roth. He’d have to open carry when he wasn’t wearing his police issued weapon, and he wasn’t sure how Quincey’s citizens would take that.

      He unlocked his door and entered his lodgings. His gaze immediately swung to the window but he kept out of sight and didn’t turn on the overhead light. June had her legs spread wide and her breasts pressed to the floor between them. The woman was flexible. That took his brain down a path it definitely did not need to travel. Undeniable hunger burned in his gut. It was unfortunately not an appetite that could be satisfied with a bowl of the stew he’d left simmering on the stove before he’d gone out this morning.

      It was not one that would be satisfied—period—during this assignment. But she provided one hell of a view.

      * * *

      JUNE PUSHED OPEN the station door Tuesday morning feeling as if she’d been away for months rather than exiled for three days. Thank heaven СКАЧАТЬ