Check out what RT Book Reviews is saying about Rhonda Nelson’s heroes in— and out of—uniform!

       Letters from Home

      “This highly romantic tale is filled with emotion and wonderful characters. It’s a heart-melting romance.”

       The Soldier

      “Wonderfully written and heart-stirring, the story flies by to the deeply satisfying ending.”

       The Hell-Raiser

      “A highly entertaining story that has eccentric secondary characters, hot sex and a heart-warming romance.”

       The Loner

      “A highly romantic story with two heart-warming characters and a surprise ending.”

       The Ranger

      “Well plotted and wickedly sexy, this one’s got it all—including a completely scrumptious hero. A keeper.”

      Dear Reader,

      While other women might think immediately of romance on certain days, I don’t—I think of chocolate. After nearly twenty years together my husband knows that I don’t require dinner out or a box of fancy truffles. Though I’ve sampled Godiva, Ghirardelli, See’s, Whitman’s and various different other chocolates, nothing tastes as good to me as plain old Hershey’s. It’s simple, delicious and in that sweet little kiss form? Ah … bliss. And speaking of kisses, the hero in this book certainly knows how to do that well.

      Former Ranger Jackson Oak Martin is as big, steady and strong as the tree he’s named after. But when being too near a bomb when it explodes renders him partially deaf in one ear, Jack knows that his career in the military is over. When he’s recommended for a position at Ranger Security, Jack is unquestionably relieved. But when his first assignment results in forced proximity with pastry chef Mariette Levine and involves catching a “Butter Bandit”, Jack can’t help but wonder what the hell he’s gotten into. Particularly when he becomes obsessed with getting into her …

      As always, thanks so much for picking up my books! I am so very thankful for my readers and love hearing from them, so be sure to follow me on Twitter @RhondaRNelson, like me on Facebook and look for upcoming releases and news on my website, ReadRhondaNelson.com.

      Happy reading!

       Rhonda

      About the Author

      A Waldenbooks bestselling author, two-time RITA^® Award nominee and RT Book Reviews Reviewers’ Choice nominee, RHONDA NELSON writes hot romantic comedy for the Blaze^® line. With more than twenty-five published books to her credit and many more coming down the road, she’s thrilled with her career and enjoys dreaming up her characters and manipulating the worlds they live in. In addition to a writing career, she has a husband, two adorable kids, a black Lab and a beautiful bichon frisé. She and her family make their chaotic but happy home in a small town in northern Alabama. She loves to hear from her readers, so be sure to check her out at www.readrhondanelson.com.

      The Keeper

      Rhonda Nelson

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

       Prologue

      “WHAT ABOUT YOU, OAK?” PFC Heath Johnson asked. “What do you want in a woman?”

      Doing a routine sweep through his little portion of Baghdad, Major Jackson Oak Martin was only half listening to his fellow comrades enumerate what qualities their ideal woman would possess. He’d been through this area countless times over the past few months and was familiar with every pile of garbage, every mate-less shoe, every blown-out window. He carefully scanned the area ahead, every sense tingling.

      Something had changed.

      “Eyes out, guys,” Jack told them, slowing down as the hair on the back of his neck prickled uneasily. “I’m pulling a weird vibe.”

      “Bullshit,” PFC Chris Fulmer scoffed, seemingly annoyed and bored, his usual mood. “It’s the same old, same old here, Major. Nothing’s happened in weeks in this area. I don’t know why we can’t move on,” he continued to predictably complain. He grunted. “Ignorant-ass waste of time, if you ask me.” He shot a grin at Johnson and pulled a cocky shrug. “You want to know what I want in a woman, Johnson? It’s simple enough.” He made an obscene gesture.

      The group laughed and Jack quickly quieted them, growing increasingly uncomfortable. Dammit, he knew something was different. Could feel it. He looked left, then right, along both sides of the cluttered abandoned street. He scanned the rooftops and windows, the blown-out cars and debris. On the surface everything appeared undisturbed, innocuous even, but every iota of intuition he possessed was telling him that it wasn’t, that something—however small—had been altered.

      And the small things were just as capable of getting them killed as the big things were.

      “You’re a shallow bastard, you know that, Fulmer?” Johnson told him.

      The young Nebraskan was as wholesome as the farm he’d grown up on, intelligent and wise beyond his years, and had quickly become one of Jack’s favorites.

      A dreamy expression drifted over Johnson’s face. “I just want a woman who can cook. One who knows that potatoes don’t come out of a box and are better mashed, with gravy. One who knows how to fry chick—”

      A blast to their immediate right cut off the rest of what Johnson was going to say, along with his legs.

      Jack felt the power of the detonation roll over his body—a terrible shock of pain to his right ear—and felt himself fly through the air and land hard on his left side. He couldn’t catch his breath—it had been knocked out of him—and struggled to force the immediate panic aside. Debris and dust clouded his vision, making his eyes water and sting. He lifted his head, saw Johnson shaking uncontrollably on the ground, part of Fulmer’s skull clasped in his own hand, and Wilson and Manning were both bleeding from various parts of their bodies.

       Oh, Jesus …

      He immediately radioed for help, then, heartsick and terrified, lunged into action, crawling with more speed than grace to Johnson’s side.

      The boy’s big blue eyes were wide with shock, and his mouth worked up and down. He grabbed Jack’s sleeve and yanked him down. His ashen lips moved shakily, but no sound emerged.

      “Medic’s on the way,” Jack assured him, tearing bits of fabric from the edge of his jacket to fashion a makeshift tourniquet. So much blood, he thought, working frantically, his hands slippery with it. It was a mortal wound, he knew—he was familiar enough with war to know that—but he had to try, had to help. This was Johnson, dammit, his friend.

      Johnson writhed and tried to bat his hands away, but Jack roughly pushed him back down. “I gotta do it,” he told him, feeling his insides vibrate with dread. “I know it hurts like a bitch, but just stay strong, buddy.” Jack could feel his heart thundering in his chest, the tremor in his fingers, a trickle of something wet and sticky running down his neck.

      Before he could attach the second tourniquet, Johnson jerked him around hard, his pale, freckled face a mask of pain and desperation. He kept talking—seemed to be desperately trying to impart something significant—but his lips only moved. Seemingly frustrated when Jack didn’t respond, Johnson tried harder, appearing to scream. He said whatever it was again, gave him another little shake, then fell back against the ground once more. His eyes drifted shut.

       Oh, no. No, no, no.

      “Johnson,”