Chapter Three

      The clerk at the county marriage bureau was polite, friendly and adamant.

      It was entirely likely that Penny Garner really was his wife.

      And the pain inside Quinn’s head rose to a new level.

      “The officiant—” the clerk deciphered the signature on the marriage certificate “—Marvin Morales, has ten days to file your certificate. We often get them within a few days of the wedding, though. Once the marriage is recorded, a certified copy is typically available after a day or so.” She handed him back his crumpled paper. She’d already told him it was merely his keepsake certificate versus the official document. If she had any personal opinion about the state of the piece of paper, she kept it to herself. “You can get certified copies in person, via regular mail or order them online.”

      Even though it was Sunday afternoon, there was a long line of people waiting behind him for their turn at the counter.

      The Las Vegas wedding business was clearly in fine form.

      “And this Morales guy. He’s legit?”

      She turned to her computer and tapped on the keys. “Certainly is,” she assured. “I’m not showing any address or organizational affiliation for him, though.”

      That didn’t sound overly legitimate to him. “Is that normal?”

      “It’s a little unusual, but not unheard of.” She smiled. “Is there anything else I can help you with, Mr. Templeton?”

      Right next to his elbow a large sign was posted, indicating the bureau would not issue marriage licenses to individuals who were clearly intoxicated. He nodded toward it. “You really enforce that?”

      For the first time the clerk looked a little miffed. “Of course, sir. We take our responsibilities here quite seriously.”

      “I’m sure you do.” He folded the certificate. “I appreciate your time.”

      “Certainly. I wish you and your bride every happiness.”

      He managed a smile as he turned away from the counter. He had barely vacated the spot when it was replaced by a young couple who were practically bouncing out of their shoes with excitement.

      Outside the building, the sun was bright and hot. A good twenty-five degrees hotter than it was back in Wyoming. He didn’t particularly mind the heat, though. He’d served all over the world. He was used to temperature extremes.

      He wound his way through the wedding-chapel vendors hawking their services outside the building and even though there were plenty of cabs he could have hailed, he walked back to the hotel.

      The moment he entered, cold air and piped music engulfed him. If he went one direction, he could head toward his hotel suite. If he headed the opposite direction, he’d end up in one of the endless casinos. Another direction and it was one of the hotel’s several pools.

      He wasn’t one for indecision, but he just stood there on the sea of gleaming marble tile, feeling the artificially cooled air blowing down over his head while he ran his thumb along the folded edges of the marriage certificate.

      “Looks like you survived the fun last night, Sarge.”

      At the greeting, Quinn looked up to see Mike Lansing a few feet away. Even if the trips hadn’t mentioned him from the night before, Quinn still would have recognized the other man. He had one arm looped over the shoulders of a bored-looking blonde and held a drink in his other hand.

      “I did.” Quinn slid the folded square in his back pocket. “You?”

      The blonde pursed her lips and looked up at Mike. “Are we going to the shops or not?”

      Mike pulled out a wad of cash and pushed it into her hand. “You go, baby. I’m gonna grab another drink with my old buddy, here.”

      The woman’s boredom visibly brightened as she tucked the money down her bra. She pulled Mike’s head down and gave him a noisy kiss. “See you later in the room.” Even though her voice was loaded with innuendo, she still ran her eyes up and down Quinn when she turned and walked away.

      “Nice girl,” Quinn commented blandly.

      Mike laughed. “Better be, considering how much she’s costing me.”

      Since that could be taken a couple of ways, Quinn refrained from comment.

      “C’mon.” Mike gestured with his half-full glass. “There’s a sweet little cocktail waitress I’ve been eyeing.”

      “What about Miss Shopper?”

      Mike just grinned and led the way toward the casino. “What about her?”

      Quinn shook his head and followed. He didn’t care at all about Mike in a general sense, but the guy had evidently been around the night before. Quinn was willing to put up with most anything if it helped jog his memory of what had occurred.

      They went straight to the lounge and had barely settled at one of the high-tops before a shapely redhead in a short black dress came over to take their orders. Mike ordered another whiskey and the waitress turned her smile toward Quinn. “And for you, sir?”

      “Ginger ale.”

      Mike gave him a look. “Dude.”

      “Ginger ale,” Quinn repeated drily to the waitress.

      She smiled at him, ignored the leer in Mike’s eyes and walked away.

      “Talk about a fine-looking pair of legs,” Mike murmured, watching her go. “Not as good as those hot cousins of yours, but still fine.”

      Quinn’s jaw tightened. “Can’t remember if you said last night what you’re doing here in Vegas.”

      Mike laughed as if it was uproariously funny. He clapped Quinn on the shoulder. “I’ll bet you can’t remember.” He sat back and finished off his drink just in time to exchange it for the fresh one the redhead returned with. “Thanks, sweetheart. What time you get off work?”

      “Soon as my husband picks up our twin babies,” she replied with a sweet smile. She set Quinn’s glass of soda on a round coaster. “I’ll be back to check on you boys.”

      “Babies.” Mike shuddered. “God forbid. Least we’ve both been smart enough to avoid that nightmare. Remember Rollie? The way his old lady was always harping on him? Deployments keeping him away from her and those kids she kept poppin’ out? Ask me, I bet more than one of them wasn’t even Rollie’s. Always said the smartest guys are the ones who don’t bother putting a ring on it.”

      Quinn didn’t entirely disagree. The divorce rate among special operators was astronomically high. He also knew many of the guys kept trying anyway. Maybe it was the hope to keep something normal in a world that was anything but normal.

      Some succeeded.

      More didn’t.

      For his part, Quinn had always figured that if he’d ever met a woman he wanted to marry, he’d expect to put as much commitment into that marriage as he had into his career.

      He’d just never met a woman