Читать книгу: «Capturing the Commando»

“You going to be okay?”

She shrugged, her manner flippant. “Why wouldn’t I? I’m just about to go into a situation that could get me fired—if it doesn’t get me killed.”

She might think she had him fooled, but Rafe had to wonder, was she really up for this?

“Wish me luck.” One corner of her mouth quirked, forming a perfect dimple in her cheek. A dimple he pictured himself softly kissing.

He scowled, worry making it crucial to wipe the look from her face, to make her understand how critical this moment was. Looking across the front seat at her, he said, “This is it, Shannon. This means…everything.”

Her eyes softening, she nodded. “I know, Rafe,” she said. Laying her hand atop his, she gave him a reassuring squeeze.

He felt her lean over the console an instant before her unexpected kiss lit the powder keg of his confusion. As he turned to wrap an arm around her, to drag her even closer, moist heat exploded, mouth to mouth and man to woman.

But as much as Rafe would have liked to taste, to touch, to break the unbearable tension for a short time, he pushed her away, his brain reminding him of the business at hand and his heart’s blood going ice-cold with suspicion.

Is Special Agent Shannon Brandt trying to get me so worked up I won’t notice that she’s kissing me goodbye?

Capturing the Commando
Colleen Thompson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To old friends, lost friends, and fond memories.

Thanks for being part of the journey.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

After beginning her career writing historical romance novels, Colleen Thompson turned to writing the contemporary romantic suspense she loves in 2004. Since then, her work has been honored with the Texas Gold Award, along with nominations for RITA^®, Daphne du Maurier and multiple reviewers’ choice honors, along with starred reviews from RT Book Reviews and Publishers Weekly. A former teacher living with her family in the Houston area, Colleen has a passion for reading, hiking and dog rescue. Visit her online at www.colleen-thompson.com.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Shannon Brandt—A rookie FBI field agent with everything to prove, for Shannon, failure’s not an option—any more than falling for the man she’s sworn to stop at any price.

Rafe Lyons—This decorated Army Ranger will stop at nothing to avenge his little sister’s death and find his missing niece—even if that means kidnapping one gorgeous federal agent.

Lissa Lyons Smith—Murdered in her eighth month of pregnancy, Lissa had finally moved beyond her troubled youth to find happiness in the months before her death. Or had she?

Garrett Smith—The computer geek is helping Rafe track his wife’s killer. But is his grief for Lissa real or carefully contrived?

Steve Brandt—Though he thinks his sister is better suited for teaching preschoolers than hunting felons, sibling rivalry won’t stop this special agent from rescuing Shannon at any cost.

Dominic Powers—This shady lawyer will do anything to keep his luxurious South Florida lifestyle intact—no matter how many must suffer and die to ensure it.

Contents

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 One

Tampa, Florida

August 21, 7:20 a.m.

He had her dead to rights.

Maybe dead, in fact, too, Shannon Brandt realized as a deep voice warned, “Don’t move,” and something hard jammed into her back. The barrel of a handgun? All from a passerby she’d barely noticed as she hurried to the corner breakfast joint where the rest of her team was already positioned, ready to make the grab. The tall white male, face mostly hidden by the brim of a goofy tourist ball cap, had been looking down, apparently engrossed in a brochure for the kitschy mermaid park nearby. He’d seemed harmlessly distracted, with a diaper bag tucked guy-style, like a football, beneath one arm. Waiting for his wife, she thought, and paying no heed to anyone else.

Or so it had seemed until the moment she’d passed and he was out of sight.

Her stomach plummeted when he ground out, “Into the car. Now. We’ll have our little talk there, Special Agent.”

Giving her a slight push, he propelled her not toward the nondescript stolen vehicle she might have expected but to a cherry-red Cadillac the size of the Queen Mary. The gas-sucking seventies engine rumbled, and she saw a sweaty-looking pale man with dark, reflective glasses slouched low behind the wheel.

Though shaded by a floppy beach hat, the driver’s weak chin gave him away as one Garrett Smith, she realized, her heart constricting with the knowledge that that meant the man behind her, the fake dad with the weapon, was well prepared to use it—that he was the very fugitive she’d been so certain she had fooled into walking into their trap.

She blanched, wondering how long it had taken him to figure out she was FBI. And whether he meant to retaliate for her online masquerade and efforts to entrap him.

She sucked in a lungful of humid air, thinking of the slim-frame Glock in her inside waistband holster. But thinking, too, of the half-dozen civilians gathered at the nearby bus stop, the men and women on the sidewalk with their greasy sacks of sugary doughnuts and newspapers, or their lunches packed for a new workday.

For a split second her mind lost its purchase, allowing the memory of another nightmare to crash its way through to reality. The concussive blast, exactly where she’d ordered the tactical team to place its charges. The hot crimson slick spreading from beneath the collapsed wall.

The cigar store hostages in Iowa, whose lives she had been charged with saving. The hostages whose lives she’d blown away just two months ago…

The faint drawl of a West Texas accent yanked her ruthlessly back to the present.

“Make a move for that gun and this goes real bad in a hurry, Special Agent. I promise you, we’re only talking. I swear it as an officer of the U.S. Army Rangers.”

“An AWOL officer,” she corrected, “on a mission your superiors never authorized and—”

“Let’s go catch up with your mother, honey,” Captain Rafe Lyons interrupted, his deep voice turning cheerful. “The little guy probably needs changing by now.”

Adrenaline detonating in hot waves all through her, she couldn’t wrap her brain around the shock of this game changer. Around the fact that rather than playing a crucial role in capturing the commando, she was the one being taken to his waiting car instead. Taken captive, possibly—or maybe to be killed before her thirtieth birthday, regardless of what he had just promised.

She could already hear the voices, the old guard bureau veterans at her funeral scoffing, If that girl was half the agent her old man was, she’d have fought her way free and dragged Lyons back in handcuffs. Could picture her older brother, Steve, a special agent working out of Oklahoma, wondering aloud why she couldn’t quit competing with him and find herself a nice safe job teaching preschool.

Like hell, Steve. Fury ramping past her fear, Shannon pivoted, one hand reaching for her waistband, while the other rose to shove aside her assailant’s weapon and allow her enough space to go on the attack.

But though she’d practiced such defense tactics in scores of training sessions, Lyons was no ordinary sparring partner. Dropping his arm beneath her grasp, he closed in and brought his hand—the hand holding what she took to be a pistol—up against her neck. Before she could cry “Rape!” or free her own gun, she felt herself tumbling, glittering blue bursts crackling through her brain and muscles. Independent of her will, her head and limbs flailed wildly with the voltage surging through her.

Not a gun—a stun gun, her mind registered as her body crumpled, her forehead smacking the sidewalk and heat streaking past her eyes. As the jolt ended, she heard the Ranger, with his maddening Texas accent, telling the gathering bystanders, “Stand clear. Police business.” She could picture him flashing a wallet with a badge and an official-looking ID.

Though there were a few murmurs, the onlookers scurried away, eager to look elsewhere as he deftly removed her Glock.

A minute later, as Lyons flipped the front seat forward and shoved her into the white leather backseat cavern, Shannon struggled to fight, but her abused muscles would only twitch uselessly in response. He climbed in beside her, and his big hands frisked her briskly and efficiently, plucking the cell phone from the pocket of her khaki skirt and dropping that lifeline—with its built-in GPS—beside the curb.

He reached to close the door and urged the driver, “Let’s go.”

The man Shannon had ID’d as Lyons’s brother-in-law pulled out into traffic. Sped up to take her somewhere that her team, only a block distant, couldn’t follow.

She fought to sit up, but her body was having none of it. She struggled to protest, but her words spilled out in an incoherent jumble. Instead, she coughed, choking on the acrid taste of her own terror. Or maybe there was blood, too. Judging from the pain, she’d bitten her tongue, and something was dripping down her forehead, which felt as if she’d cracked it open like an egg.

“Don’t try to talk.” Bent over her, Lyons briefly came into focus, with his chiseled features, short hair black and shiny as a panther’s, and intense green eyes set in a worried face.

He started to cuff Shannon’s hands behind her, then appeared to change his mind, binding them in front instead and pressing a towel he pulled out of the diaper bag into them. “Hold this against your forehead.” As he spoke, he winced, regret flashing across his handsome features.

She reached up, wiping at the bloody mess and struggling to reorder her scrambled thoughts. When she touched the rising lump with the towel, she groaned and struggled not to be sick, pain slicing like a cleaver through her skull.

“Wish that hadn’t had to happen,” he said, perspiration rolling down the side of his face. “It shouldn’t have been necessary. I told you, I just wanted to talk.”

“W-would you have bought that and…and gone quietly?” The words sounded thick and clumsy in her ringing ears. “Well, no,” he allowed. “But that’s me, and—anyway, I’m not the one sitting here bleeding.”

“And I’m not the one heading to Leavenworth for assaulting and abducting a federal officer,” she told the man she had already pegged as just another macho cowboy. Having been raised, alongside her chauvinistic brother, in Wyoming by a testosterone-breathing uncle, she was well-acquainted with the breed—and couldn’t wait to slap cuffs on this Texas-born example.

As the vintage Cadillac picked up speed and cornered sharply, Shannon would have fallen to the floorboards if Lyons’s strong hands hadn’t grabbed her.

“Damn it. Careful, Garrett,” he barked. “We don’t need to draw any more attention.”

“You’re calling me by name?” the driver complained, sounding as nervous as he had every right to be.

Lyons laughed. “You’re kidding, right? The agent here knows exactly who we are. As much as she knows anything, in the shape she’s in right now.”

“You promised me nobody’d get hurt. Nobody but those murderers…” Grief choked Garrett’s voice to a whimper. “God. Lissa…”

With the heel of his hand, Rafe popped the corner of the driver’s seat. “Don’t say her name. All right? Not now. Not until we find them. Then we can ram it down their throats.”

Lissa Lyons Smith, they meant. Garrett’s wife of two years and Rafe Lyons’s little sister. The sister he had raised after their parents’ deaths in a head-on collision, when Lissa had been fourteen to her brother’s twenty-two.

The same sister who had been brutally murdered almost exactly ten years later. Only three weeks ago in Abilene, she’d been found, her eight-months-pregnant body an empty husk. The medical examiner had determined she’d already been dead, or at least deeply unconscious, from the shattering blow to her skull before the killers started cutting.

Shannon prayed that part was true. But whether or not it was, the young woman’s death and her child’s disappearance had been more than enough to bring the Ranger captain known by his men as “the Lion” back early from his combat mission in Afghanistan.

It had been more than enough, too, to send the decorated Ranger—by all accounts, a hero—AWOL following the funeral. Out of reach and out of control as he pursued a mission—a personal vendetta—of his own…

One he had begun by punching out the lead Amarillo detective in frustration before returning to his home base in Georgia, closing out his bank accounts and emptying his gun case.

“You don’t—you don’t need to do this. We want… We’re working to find them, too,” Shannon explained, though waves of pain like black tar were rolling across her vision. Whatever you do, she told herself, you can’t pass out.

Would they dump her somewhere if she did? Maybe even kill her? Or did Lyons mean to kill her anyway, as a warning to back off, directed at the team assembled to rein in one maverick the government deemed too valuable—or too dangerous—to allow to run amok?

“Those animals are strictly secondary targets.” Lyons’s anger only intensified the pounding inside her head. “I’m working to find her.”

“Her…?” Who did he mean?

On that fateful evening, neighborhood witnesses had spotted a white plumbing van leaving the Smiths’ home—a vehicle found abandoned only hours later, not far from where a Ford SUV had been taken from the garage of a vacationing neighbor. When the theft was finally reported three days later, the vehicle’s antitheft tracking system located it abandoned in Northern Florida—less than a mile off of I-10, the main east-west corridor that ran across the Southern U.S.

There were a host of theories, each more horrifying than the last, regarding the crime itself, but state and federal investigators alike agreed on one fact. The two assailants had been male, with both sporting facial hair and a compact, muscular build.

It seemed likely the men were working for someone else, a monster who had set all this in motion. Could a creature cruel enough to order an unborn infant sliced from the womb of an expectant mother possibly be a woman?

The light in Rafe’s green eyes went almost feral. “My niece. I only want my niece back.”

“Of course.” She cursed her spinning head and the confusion that came with it. “Then you’ve found evidence the baby survived?”

“We were going to have a girl.” Smith’s voice broke as he interrupted. “A little girl, and we were going to name her Amber Lee.”

“But do you know the baby lived?” Gritting her teeth against the pain, Shannon focused on the question, on keeping her eyes open.

“We don’t have hard proof,” Smith admitted. “But we think… She has to—”

“She’s alive,” Rafe promised, his voice a rumble of barely suppressed emotion. “She’s alive, and I’ll kill anyone who stands between me and getting that little girl back to her family.”

Dabbing once more at the dripping blood, Shannon pushed herself into a sitting position, then stared up at him and challenged, “Does that include a federal agent, Lyons? Because I mean to stop you. I plan to bring you in. Today.”

RAFE STARED, dumbfounded, into the brunette’s ice-blue eyes. Eyes that stood out starkly from a face that he thought might be attractive despite the blood dripping from the rising purple lump below her hairline.

She was serious, he realized, recognizing the same raw determination that marked the soldiers of his unit. The men who earned the Ranger tab, who earned respect through leadership and combat.

She might have frozen on that crowded street, hesitated for the single instant it took him to predict what she would do. But he knew damned well she would have shot any man who was a fraction of a second slower—or any less desperate than he was to find his niece.

Yet it was neither the coldness of her gaze nor the memory of her training that reminded him to tread carefully around her. It was the starkness of her statement, a statement another man might have laughed off but he instead took as a warning.

She would not go quietly. Would not concede defeat even as she slumped back against the plush white leather, her blue eyes fluttering closed.

As Garrett slowed for a red light, a jacked-up black pickup pulled beside them, its bass thumping out a salsa rhythm. Ignoring it, Lyons pushed the towel she’d dropped into her hands, and in that single moment she erupted into action.

She drew back her legs, then screamed and kicked at the driver’s-side window, clearly hoping to draw attention, maybe even smash the glass. Still too weak to be effectual, she did no better than a couple of hard thumps.

In less time than it took for Garrett to let out a startled oath, Rafe hauled her around and pushed the fist-size black stun gun against the curve of her waist.

When she went still, he laid on the Texas drawl. “You don’t want another friendly zap, now do you? Come on, sugar. Calm down.”

Pressing her back against the door, she glared up at him, her look pure poison. But the effort must have cost her, for the face behind the bloody mask paled, and her eyelids fluttered even harder.

Blinking hard, she grimaced and then slurred, “I’m not your ‘sugar,’ cowboy.”

“And I’m not your ‘cowboy,’ Special Agent,” Rafe said with a shake of his head. As the car once more began moving, he said quietly, “But I’d like to be… Well, I sincerely hope to be your partner for a while.”

First confusion and then mutiny flashed across her face. Her lips moved—he thought he might have read Hell, no—but no sound followed.

And wouldn’t, as her last measure of determination winked out and those striking blue eyes rolled back into her head.

Chapter Two

Rafe had been wrong, he realized, as he washed her face with the towel Garrett had dampened in the restroom of a gas station. The woman they had taken was nothing like attractive beneath the drying blood. She was gorgeous, plain and simple. Maybe not a conventional beauty, with her mouth a little too wide, her brows a bit too dark and her nose tipped upward a bit too much at the end, but taken together with those probing light blue eyes he’d seen, the effect was…damned uncomfortable.

So he shoved the thought out of his brain, ignoring the subtle curves of her toned body and the fact that he’d been without a woman for so long he couldn’t—

Guilt burned as if he’d swallowed one of his sergeant’s lit cigars. What the hell was his problem, that he could forget Lissa—murdered, mutilated—and lose his focus on her stolen child for even an instant? As a battle-hardened Ranger, he was well trained, experienced at ignoring his body’s demands. Hunger, thirst, exhaustion—wasn’t he always telling his men these were nothing compared to a warrior’s force of will?

As beautiful, as vulnerable, as Special Agent Shannon Brandt might be, he needed to see her only as an asset to be recruited, assuming he could find some way to convince her to cooperate with his plan.

And if the concussion she had clearly sustained wasn’t serious enough to drop her into a coma, or maybe even kill her.

As they continued driving south, he pointed out an exit. “That’s the one. You need to take that one.”

“I’ve got it—got it.” Garrett darted a nervous scowl over his shoulder. “You know, Rafe, you’re even more annoying when you’re a backseat driver.”

“You don’t have to like me, buddy.” Rafe smiled without a trace of humor, thinking that his computer geek brother-in-law wouldn’t last a day in infantry. “Just keep in mind that I’m in charge here—and you’re my prisoner in all this—every bit as much as she is. You be sure and tell the cops and feds that.”

SHANNON PEERED through slitted eyes, then started at the unexpected dimness. Though she felt the movement of a vehicle, it was different, no longer the vintage Caddy with its white-leather backseat.

Sometime during the day she had been moved, strapped into the dark gray cloth rear seat of a completely different vehicle. She sat up and then hissed through clenched teeth as her headache reignited.

“Feeling any better, Special Agent?” Rafe Lyons turned in the front passenger seat to look her over. “You look better. Color’s improved.”

“Thanks, Nurse Ratched,” she said, and raised her cuffed hands to pinch the bridge of her nose. “Nice to know you care.”

“Good to see your sense of humor’s intact.” A wry grin tipped his mouth—a mouth that under different circumstances she might think of as sensual.

“You’re mistaken. I’m not laughing, cowboy. What time is it? Where are we?”

“You’ve been in and out of it all day,” he said. “You remember anything?”

Vague snippets crossed her bruised synapses. The droning hum of a highway. Wisps of quiet conversation. A stop someplace—a small house?—where an older woman’s sympathetic face floated into view as she helped Shannon change her bloody top. She saw Rafe’s face, too, hard-set with concentration as he placed a bandage on her forehead and fed her what he had claimed was a mild painkiller, then helped her to wash it down with bottled water.

Had there been a sleeping pill, too, despite the risks of mixing one with her head injury? Probably not, Shannon decided, recalling the sleepless nights she’d spent in anticipation of the meeting she had set up with Lyons online—a meeting where she’d planned to continue her bureau-sanctioned role as a disaffected girlfriend offering information on his sister’s killers. The biggest operation she had taken part in since the hostage debacle in Iowa, Rafe Lyons’s capture was perhaps her final chance to prove she was fit for duty.

Suppressing a groan at the thought of how she’d blown it, she forced herself to say, “I remember stopping someplace. There was an older couple, I think. Someone helping you…”

“I forced them,” Rafe was quick to claim. “Just like I’m forcing you and Garrett. I’m the only one here in violation of the law.”

Instantly she understood that he was protecting his accomplices from the consequences of their actions. Shielding his brother-in-law, especially, so Garrett Smith would keep his freedom. Would be around to raise his child.

Considering the questions his wife’s murder investigation had brought up, Shannon wasn’t sure the man deserved the Ranger’s sacrifice. Nonetheless, she promised, “You let me go right now and that’s what I’ll tell everyone.”

She didn’t really care about punishing the older couple—whom she suspected were retired military—for helping the Ranger. And if her suspicions about Garrett Smith proved true and Rafe learned of them, Lyons would probably kill his brother-in-law with his bare hands.

Ignoring her offer, Rafe said, “It’s just about eight-thirty. We should make the motel anytime now. Then we’d better grab some dinner. You must be hun—”

Eight-thirty? Her head spun as she considered the sheer number of lost hours, underscored by the fading summer sky and the dim silhouettes of trees along the roadside. Heart rate ratcheting skyward, she demanded once more, “Where have you taken me?”

In the more than twelve hours since her capture, they could have crossed state lines twice or even three times. Though she knew they’d made at least one stop, she had no idea how long they had stayed off the roads—or how they could have possibly avoided what must have been a massive law enforcement effort to locate and rescue her.

In the distance she saw lights, the dark towers of buildings stacked before a gray-blue blur. The ocean? Gulf? Could this mean they were still somewhere in Florida?

“Little beach community, not too far from Palm Beach,” he said, confirming her suspicion. “Think of this as a vacation.”

“Real funny,” she shot back. “And here I’d pegged you for a cowboy, not a clown.”

“I’m neither,” Rafe said roughly. “Just a man looking to find out what happened to the only blood family he has left on this planet—and why someone would butcher my little sister like she was nothing. No one.”

Empathy stirred Shannon’s heart as she heard the desperate grief behind his anger. Enough grief and desperation to throw away his career, his very freedom, to save his sister’s child.

“You could drop this right now,” Shannon said. “Before somebody really gets hurt. People—even your superiors—aren’t without compassion for your situation, and you can bet the FBI and more local agencies than you can shake a stick at are all committed to the search for your niece and your sister’s killers. If you’ll let me, Lyons—Rafe— I could get you a good deal, maybe even keep you out of prison so you can see that baby when we find her. Be the kind of uncle she can count on to help raise her.”

If we find her alive. Though the pair believed to have murdered Lissa Smith was suspected in other similar crimes, none of the missing babies had ever been recovered, and the purpose of their abduction remained a mystery. Black-market trafficking? Blood rituals? The possibilities were endless, each one more sickening than the last.

“Listen to her, Rafe,” Garrett urged, a note of pleading in his voice. “It can’t hurt to listen to what she says.”

The vehicle, which she’d decided was a midsize SUV of some sort, slowed to make a left turn beside a faded sign that read The Seashell Motel—Your Home Away from Home Since 1957. Behind it lay a long one-story structure, a single bar of back-to-back rooms squatting on the far side of a tiny, ill-lit pool. A very few vehicles, all of them older models, offered evidence that this mom-and-pop enterprise was barely clinging to life—a far cry from the luxury hotels she would have expected in this area.

“I have no intention of listening to a word of Agent Brandt’s deal,” Rafe said firmly, clearly used to pulling rank on others. “I brought her here for one reason and one reason only. To talk her into mine.”

“What about your career?” According to Shannon’s research, the thirty-two-year-old had little else. No steady girlfriend, no other family, and few friends beyond the members of his tight-knit Ranger unit, which had its home base in Georgia. Other than the accent, he’d left behind his West Texas past, including the rodeo bull riding circuit, where he’d competed in his youth.

He was one cowboy who’d traded in his hat—along with his heart and soul and loyalty—for a U.S. Army Ranger beret and the unique camaraderie of Special Operations.

Desperate to leverage that bond, she added, “Those Rangers—they’re your family, too, right? You’re just going to bail on them in wartime?”

His green eyes glared back at her. “You’d better think about your own career, sugar. Because from what I’ve learned about that hostage standoff back in Iowa, you’re about one screwup short of being booted from the only job that’s ever mattered to you…Daddy’s girl.”

She blinked back angry tears that she would never dare shed. They blurred Lyons’s outline, smudging his dark navy T-shirt and the hard planes of his face.

“Go straight to hell,” she murmured, her sympathy for his motives vaporizing in the white heat of her reaction to his cruelty.

SHANNON WAS STILL SEETHING when Rafe finally ordered her into the room. Garrett had checked them into an end unit, a room decorated with cheesy paintings of the beach and a peeling seashell wallpaper border, though any view of the Atlantic had long since been obstructed by the newer oceanfront hotels.

“I’m headed out to pick up dinner,” Garrett told them. “Anything you two want?”

Shannon thrust her shackled wrists toward his face. “How ’bout something with a file baked inside it? Or better yet, a working cell phone?”

Rafe shot her an annoyed look from where he was unplugging the second of two grimy-looking rotary phones. “Lock these in the Jeep, will you, Garrett? No need to tempt the agent. And as far as food, it’s just fuel, that’s all. So pick whatever you like.”

Garrett pulled off his beach hat and raked his fingers through limp, sandy-blond hair. About five-ten and still a little on the pale side, he was nonetheless a decent-looking specimen. Squeamish, though, in contrast to the Ranger. Regardless of her suspicions, Shannon tried to appeal to his softer nature.

“I could really use some aspirin or something, anything extra-strength to help knock back this headache.” Though that was true enough, she feigned exhaustion as she dropped into one of the old oak chairs and put her feet up on one of two sagging full-sized beds. “And maybe…if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, a box of tampons—super plus?”

That part was pure fiction, but she had never met the man who would dare to call a woman on the bluff.

“Um…” Garrett’s gray-eyed gaze slid toward Rafe, as if for help. When none was forthcoming, he finally shrugged and murmured, “Sure, I guess so,” before slinking out to escape while he could.

“You’re good. I’ll give you that,” Rafe allowed as he stepped up to the door and hooked the security chain. “But don’t count on playing on his sympathies and turning him against me.”

Stalking back to where she sat, he looked like a mountain of pure, male muscle—six feet three inches, and two-hundred-ten pounds’ worth, according to his records.

Refusing to be intimidated, Shannon fixed him with a fierce look, daring him to come one step nearer. “And don’t count on getting my help by throwing my past up in my face. You don’t win friends with bludgeons—or is brute force all they taught you back in Ranger school?”