Picking up the open box, she traced the toucan. Jack would pop a rivet when he found her in his room, but no way in hell did she intend for this confrontation to go public. Especially with so much other baggage between them that could well start spewing once words flew. Meeting him alone in a room with a bed might not be the wisest course of action, but there were precious few private options.

Ironic as hell in a base that controlled some of the stealthiest of test projects. The perfect place for practice runs of the covert ops Jack planned for rescuing her sister.

A plan of which he hadn't shared one damned detail.

Her knees folding under her, she sagged to the edge of the bed, cereal box clutched to her belly. She'd suffered too many extra days of fear when he could have reassured her. She'd only stumbled onto a hint of the mission by accident when a squadron member assumed she must know because of her sister's involvement. One sentence of breached security necessitated a briefing on the whole plan.

Now she knew. Jack was the lead pilot and primary planner for a joint forces rescue operation into Rubistan—the Air Force dropping in SEALs to secure the hostages, then offloading Rangers to seize the terrorist compound.

And he hadn't told her. The betrayal cut deep.

For God's sake, it was her sister out there. Sydney, her blood, her responsibility since their mother had hauled ass to greener pastures, ironically found in the middle of the damned desert with some Omar Sharif look-alike. The same desert that had lured her sister on a crusade to feed starving babies and find answers about why her own mother had abandoned her children.

As if the answers weren't clear enough.

Their mother had picked the prestige and cash of being one of four wives to a Middle Eastern, oil-rich royal instead of staying with her two daughters in a pissant tiny Texas town where their father fit hubcaps on an assembly line. No surprise. How many times had she listened to her mother's favored fairy tales about a man to swoop her off her feet? As if it didn't slice into her daughter knowing Daddy wasn't cast in the role of that love-ya-forever prince.

Love. The smell of fruity Os teased her nostrils from the open box.

Sure Jack used to say he loved her. At least ten times a day. But then Jack also loved his airplane. His grandmama. Roller coasters. Elvis. A double cheeseburger with the works, hold the pickles, because he hated pickles, hated them with as much passion as he loved that cheeseburger.

Most of all, Jack Korba loved the emotional charge of a challenge. More important, he had the laid-back patience to wait. And win.

Every time Jack said he loved her, she read in his sleepy-lidded eyes the burning drive to win her response. Maybe if she'd accepted his first date offer, his interest would have fizzled. Instead she'd said no to the squadron player. He'd asked again. And again, until she'd finally accepted.

I love you, Mon, he'd repeated hundreds of times, determination firing his eyes.

Sure as she knew Jack Korba hated pickles and loved to kiss his way down her spine, she realized if she ever answered him, the challenge would be gone. He would walk. And she resented him for that. Even as she wanted him and enjoyed the way he made her smile, which made her want him all the more.

And he'd used those feelings to manipulate her. How many times did he have to twist her heart around before she got over him?

She dropped the cereal box to the floor before it weakened her with breakfast-in-bed-with-Jack memories. He bulldozed his way over weakness with slow determination and a loose-hipped strut

Stay strong and hang tough, she reminded herself. Resolve kicked up a notch. She could keep thinking about the way he left her out of the loop and resisting him might not be so difficult after all.

Monica picked fuzz balls off the cheap, polyester bedspread. She wouldn't be conquered by a Posturepedic stretch of box springs any more than by six feet two inches of tempting Greek testosterone.

Hints of leather and sweat uniquely Jack whispered up. Around her. Invading her senses. The tickle of nerves in her stomach tingled into heat pooling lower.

She sat straighter, cross-legged on the bed. It was only a weak moment brought on by too much worry over her sister. Just as during the night in Vegas three and a half months ago. Except this time she would know to keep her guard up around Jack.

Focus and forge ahead like in the pageant bathing suit competition. Eyes straight, head tall regardless of how exposed she felt with those Band-Aids sealed on her nipples. Surely she'd faced the worst with Jack.

Too bad she couldn't escape one simple fact. While slapping those Band-Aids on had been mortifying and uncomfortable...

The pain had been nothing compared to peeling them off.

Five minutes and he could peel off his flight suit.

Jack stared down the long corridor of the Warrior Inn to his room, debrief for their night flight completed by sunrise. Plans and test runs were finished, even the Army Rangers had begun to straggle back into billeting for sleep. Nothing he could do now but pray like hell they pulled off their three-part plan.

Anything. Anywhere. Anytime. Like the squadron motto stitched on the patch stuck to his sleeve, he would unleash it all to bring an end to this.

Loping ahead, Jack nodded without speaking as he angled past other crew dogs milling—Joker and Tag with Rodeo. He just wanted to crawl under the sheets alone in his nice quiet room and rack until time to leave for Rubistan.

An ADVON team—advanced echelon—led by Captain Daniel "Crusty" Baker had already deployed to set up their temporary base in an old airport donated by the Rubistanian government. The Rubistans were working like hell to diffuse tense U.S. relations with political distance from the terrorist faction. If not for Rubistan's slack security once the captured terrorist leader had been deported from the States, Ammar al-Khayr would still be in custody rather than back in power.

Jack chewed on a curse. Practice runs might be done, but he would rehearse it in his head at least a hundred more times because failing was not an option.

He would lead a formation of cargo planes into Rubistan under the guise of transporting humanitarian relief to NGO workers. Once there, he would drop SEALs deep in-country to recon intel for a couple of days. Then the SEALs would slip in to secure the hostages just before five hundred Rangers rained from the sky to seize the terrorist camp.

Piece of cake, right?

Hell.

Rounding the corner, Jack slowed, nodded to the senior officer lumbering toward him in the narrow corridor. No salute necessary indoors, a fact his aching arm appreciated. "Morning, sir."

"Korba." Colonel Drew Cullen nodded in return. While Jack had planned the mission, everyone would report to Cullen, the Ranger Regimental Commander from Ft. Benning, Georgia.

Jack started to pass, but Cullen pulled up short. "Hold on a minute, Korba."

"Yes, sir?"

Sun, sand and duty had carved lines in the Colonel's face, marking every one of his years in the field. Even with below-the-zone promotions, the guy had to be in his early forties. Cullen reached into the front pocket of his camouflage BDU—Battle Dress Uniform—and pulled out a roll of LifeSavers candies. "Have one."

Turning him down seemed in bad form. "Uh, sure. Thank you, sir."

Weathered lines softened with a smile. "I'm celebrating my first grandkid."

Grandkid? Jack thumbed a lime LifeSaver free. God, this guy wasn't even ten years older and already had a grandchild before Jack got started on children. Of course he would have been knee-deep in a family if Tina hadn't died from a fluke heart attack during childbirth. Fifteen years had eased the pain over losing his wife and stillborn son until he managed to walk through days at a time without thinking of them.

Then moments like this brought it up front again. "Girl or boy?''

"Baby girl."

"Congratulations, sir." Jack popped the Life-Saver into his mouth to blunt the sour aftertaste of memories with lime. Monica always ordered lime— not lemon—in her water.

Hell. Both Monica and Tina crowded his brain when he preferred to think of neither. Oblivion worked better.

His pillow called to him louder than ever. "See you tomorrow morning, Colonel."

"Sleep well, Major."

Jack pivoted on his boot heel, stopping just shy of ramming the cleaning cart. The uniformed maid smiled, steadying a tottering pyramid of toilet paper rolls. "Sir, I went ahead and let your wife into your room. I hope that was all right."

Wife?

He didn't need three guesses as to who'd tracked him down. Steady ground shifted under him. Too much Monica in his present and Tina in his past cycled through his head when he was too dog-tired to fight it.

"Your wife?" Rodeo slid up like a bogey from his six o'clock and slugged him on the arm. The sore arm. "Knew you were holding out on me, Cobra."

Jack winced, massaged his bicep. "I'm not—"

"Who is it?" Rodeo lounged a shoulder against the wall, his flight suit creaseless in spite of the sweaty hours crammed in a crew compartment. Somehow the guy made even military issue shout Armani. "The chick at the registration desk? Or that hot lieutenant from the weather shop? Ah, hell, who cares? I'm just glad you're in the saddle again, man." Rodeo stared back with somber brown eyes as dark as his skin.

So much for the great wall of deception about his screwed-up relationship. "I'm fine. Just need to sleep. Alone." Understatement of the century. "But thanks. Once this crap's over with and we're in Charleston again, I owe ya that Braves' game."

Rodeo nodded, his fist swinging back for a farewell slug.

Jack held up a hand. "Lay off the arm, bud."

"Wimp."

"Ass." Jack grinned. "Catch ya later."

Rodeo cut into the milling crowd, booming, "Hey, Joker, ever been to the Rio?"

Jack's gaze homed in on his room number. For five seconds he even considered finding another place to sleep. Except his "wife" was here for a reason. And he needed her diverted and safely tucked away before he left.

Jack swiped his room card through, pushed open the door to find...Monica.

Yeah, that cleaning service woman was dead on target. Thanks to a drunken mistake in the Elvis Chapel of Love three and a half months ago, Jack was once again a married man, this time to Major Monica "Hippocrates" Hyatt.

And his wife waited in his bed, long legs folded and silky caramel hair calling a man to bury his face deep as he buried his body deeper.

"Hello, Jack."

Two words, spoken in a sandpaper drawl packed with perpetual hints of morning bedroom voice, and his body went on high alert. What the hell was it about her? Seven months hadn't given him the answer, and still he couldn't stop asking himself the question, a damned fine excuse to stare at her.

Not delicately pretty like Tina, or bombshell-knockout like some of the other women he'd dated, so much as...arresting. Full lips and the slash of strong, high cheekbones lent her an almost exotic air in spite of her all-American Texas twang.

And she was here. From the rare stillness in his normally restless new wife, he predicted trouble. He wanted to think it was screwed-up bad luck that had brought her to Nellis, but he didn't believe in coincidence.

Somehow she'd found out about the mission. Ah, hell.

"Jack?" She extended her legs in front of her, one at a damn time in a never-ending stretch.

His eyes locked on with radar precision while his Johnson twitched a howdy-do in response. Apparently all of him wasn't dog-tired. Of course, he'd have to be dead not to want her. Problem was, keeping people from ending up dead depended on him keeping his mind on his mission and his Johnson in his shorts.

Helmet bag dangling from his hand, Jack kicked the door closed behind him. "Hey, babe, enticing as it is to finally have my wife in my bed three and a half months after the wedding, the King's too damned tired to break into a chorus of 'Are You Lonesome Tonight.'"

Chapter 2

Ees too full of hot Jack Korba, Monica thought a verse of "Devil in Disguise'' might be more appropriate.

"Babe? Hey, babe?" She straightened, restrained the urge to throw a pillow at him, blinked back shock that he would spur her on purpose with a piggish remark. "God bless it, Jack, you know diminutives like that really piss me off."

The fact that she still wanted him pissed her off even more. But then emotions never came in measured doses around this man—or for him. He laughed, loved, argued, laughed again with a robustness reflected in his large-boned body.

Even his exhaustion came in full force. He shrugged, slinging his helmet bag onto the dresser. "Told you I was tired."

Her fingers itched to comb through his jet-black hair, thick even when cropped short with military precision. Sweat from wearing his helmet too long brought a hint of curl above his ears, along his brow.

A look much like during sex.

He never called her babe then, always groaning her name with an intensity that raised goose bumps even at the whispered memory. So why throw a match on gasoline with the babe comment now?

Because he wanted to distract her. Fatigue must be kicking hard for him to resort to something so transparent.

Nice try, Jack. Not gonna work. "We need to talk."

"No shit. And we will." Two lazy strides brought him beside the bed. Close. Too close, yet not close enough. "In four weeks, at the lawyer's office, just like your summons told me. I have the date on my calendar. Shouldn't be tough to dissolve drunken vows said in front of a preacher wearing white leather fringe and a bad wig."

Her husband—for now—dropped into the bedside chair. Unlaced his boots one at a time and let them fall to the floor. Thud. Thud.

Kind of like her heart. Her hands fisted in the bedspread to keep from reaching to smooth away the weary lines creasing the hard angles of his face.

Monica swung her legs over the edge of the mattress. "That's not why I'm here."

"Uh-huh." Standing, he gripped the zipper tab on his flight suit and tugged.

Gulp. Toeing off on the floor, she inched down the side of the bed. Away. "Uh, Jack..."

Broad shoulders shrugged out of the green uniform.

"Jack!"

One leg, two legs, flight suit free. For a guy who usually moved slow, he shucked his clothes fast, leaving lots of Jack with his back to her while he wore nothing but shamrock shorts and a black T-shirt.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"Getting undressed," he shot over his shoulder, gripping the hem of his T-shirt and starting the upward sweep. "Feel free to keep talking."

If she could unpaste her tongue from the roof of her mouth. Heel, hormones. Heel now, damn it.