Her Last Line Of Defence. Marie Donovan
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They’ll have a couple kids while he keeps screwing around on her and dumps her for his secretary in ten years.” He subsided into a funk, realizing he sounded like an idiot.
“O-kay.” Olie raised his blond eyebrows. “Well, our immediate concern is not for her future marital happiness, so that’s one burden we don’t have to carry.”
“Yes, sir,” Luc muttered. What the hell was wrong with him? Her personal life was none of his damn business anyway.
Olie’s cell phone rang and he flipped it open, answering with several “yes, sirs.” He closed the phone and swiveled on the bar stool back to Luc. “Colonel Spencer says he made arrangements for you both with the marines at Parris Island. The swamp is about as close to jungle as you can get in the Southeast.”
Luc wished he could take her back to Louisiana, but everything was still torn up from the hurricane last fall, and he didn’t think he could stand being so close to home and not see his family. And he wasn’t about to come home with a woman. His mother would never understand his unorthodox situation and would be calling Father Andre at the church to set a wedding date. He shuddered.
Olie continued, “She’ll do her training during the day and sleep in the VIP quarters at night.”
“Shit, they don’t even want her to know how to make shelter at night? That’s where you run in to trouble.”
Olie grunted. “She probably gets her bed turned down and a mint on her pillow.” He dug around in the nut dish and chose a big brown Brazil nut.
“Funny, I don’t remember mints on my pillow when I was in the jungle—the only brown things under my head were bugs. And at one point, that bug was my bedtime snack.” Luc ate a peanut. Pistaches de terre, they called them at home. Too salty—he liked plain boiled peanuts better.
Olie shook his head. “Not doing her any favors by letting her off easy at night.”
Luc thought for several seconds. Nuts to the jarheads at Parris Island and their VIP quarters. Survival training without night training meant no survival at all. “This thing with Claire Cook is still an unofficial thing—I’m on leave as of now, right?”
“Yeah. Why?” Olie gave him a wary look, his fingers clamped around a cashew.
“Just want to make sure I’m not going AWOL if I take her on a side trip.”
Olie dropped the cashew. “AWOL? Side trip?” He covered his ears with his beefy hands and shook his head. “As far as I’m concerned, the only side trip I need to know about is to the Parris Island ice cream stand.”
Luc set down his empty mug. He knew just the place he would take her. One of his old buddies had bought a huge chunk of land abutting a national wildlife refuge and had invited Luc and the guys to use it whenever he wanted. It was really out in the middle of nowhere. The animals couldn’t yet read the signs telling them they were leaving federal land, so plenty wound up at his friend’s place. No marines, no babysitters, no chaperones. Him, her and the swamp.
People who weren’t used to the swamp freaked out pretty easily at all the weird noises, smells and bugs. Maybe if they were lucky, he’d even take her out at night when the gators roared. “We’ll be out in the swamp twenty-four, thirty-six hours tops before she starts crying to go home to Daddy.”
“You think so, huh.” His CO shook his head. “We’ll see, Rage. We’ll see.”
Chapter Three
A TAP SOUNDED ON CLAIRE’S hotel room door. She looked up from the San Lucas guidebook she had been reading and tucked a bookmark inside.
She hadn’t ordered room service, and her father was still probably drinking bourbon and smoking illicit Cuban cigars at the hotel’s private men’s club with the esteemed senator for the state of North Carolina. She hopped out of bed and peeked through the peephole.
A black-haired stranger stood in front of her door, his face turned to the side. Wow, was he a looker with a strong, clean jaw and firm, full lips. His short haircut indicated that he was probably military despite the fact he wore jeans and a black T-shirt. What should she do? It was past midnight. “Yes?” she ventured, tugging her peach-colored cotton robe around her.
“Miss Cook?” He stopped scanning the hall and stared at the peephole.
She swallowed hard. “Sergeant Boudreaux?” she asked faintly. Good Lord, the man cleaned up well. Better than well, magnificently.
“You alone, ma’am?”
“Of course.” She undid the chain and yanked open the door. “Who else would be here with me?” As if she’d brought a boyfriend when she had important preparation to do.
He gave her an amused smile. “Oh, I don’t know—maybe your father or your friend the lieutenant.”
“Oh.” Her mind had immediately jumped to things of a sexual nature and she blamed him. Worst of all, he knew what she’d assumed.
“If you’re not comfortable letting me into your room, we can meet downstairs in the bar.”
“No, no, that’s all right.” She stopped clutching the door and opened it for him. “Come in.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” He stepped into her room and looked around. “Never been in this hotel before even though it’s not too far from the base. Fancy.”
Claire supposed it was, with its high ceilings designed for hot Southern nights, creamy warm yellow wallpaper and matching bedding. She snuck a glance at the dark wooden four-poster bed behind her, which seemed to have tripled in size since she’d answered the door.
His gaze followed hers. “Nice bed.”
“Um, yes. Yes, it is, although I haven’t really tried it out yet. Since we just got here today.” She’d been too nervous to sleep, knowing she’d be out in the woods with him tomorrow, but that was nothing compared to having him in her bedroom. “You got a shave and a haircut.” She couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“You suggested it, didn’t you?” He rubbed his chin. “Feels strange to have a smooth face after so many months.”
Claire never guessed he was so handsome under all that hair. She couldn’t stop watching his hand rub his tight, tanned skin. Her nipples tightened and she gathered her robe closer. “What brings you here, Sergeant?”
“You.”
“What?”
“I need to make sure you’re ready.”
Oh, she was. But probably not for what he had in mind. “I’ll be at the base at oh-seven-hundred hours like we planned.” She thought her little foray into military time was pretty good, but he obviously disagreed.
“Real training should start at what we call ‘oh-dark-thirty.’”
“What time is that?” It sounded terribly early.
“Whenever the CO hauls your ass out of bed—three, four o’clock in the morning.”
“My goodness, that is early.”
“The old army recruiting slogan had it right—’we do more before 9:00 a.m. than most people do all day.’”
“Shouldn’t they have said ‘oh-nine-hundred’?” He gave her a strange look. “I mean, using military time and all that…”
“Let me see your stuff.” Without getting permission, Sergeant Boudreaux hefted one duffel bag. “Crap! Can you even lift this thing?” He easily tossed it to Claire, but its weight pitched her backward onto the bed and she found herself staring at the underside of the yellow canopy.
He muttered another curse and pulled the bag off her chest. “You okay?”
She nodded as she tried to catch her breath.