by Tawny Weber
A knock sounded and after a long pause Linnie Gault peeked in. “Time to get this show on the road.”
Linnie must have told them about the locket because nobody asked about it. If they had, Sophia would have burst into tears. Instead, all of the women came back into the room and swarmed her like worker bees to the Queen.
“Sophia, this dress looks so much better in person. You look like a princess.” Linnie wiped a tear away. Luckily it was a corset dress, so even though she’d lost a few pounds, they were able to adjust the dress. The white strapless gown shimmered against her golden skin. Finally, Linnie found her voice again.
“We have fifteen minutes people,” Linnie said.
“That’s bull, everyone knows they’ll wait for the bride.” Ashley quipped.
“We are not making my son wait for his bride.” Linnie gave Sophia a wink.
“And I’m not waiting a minute longer than necessary to get married.”
“You’re just anxious for the honeymoon. I think it’s awesome you’ve waited two years to consummate the marriage,” Ashley teased.
“We are not talking about sex in front of the underage girls,” Frannie said pointing to Rebecca and Louisa. Both girls were on the floor, Rebecca was trying to convince Louisa not to take off her shoes.
“Well, I’m off the market for a while.” Ashley gave a dramatic sigh.
“Who’s the lucky man?” Sophia hoped it wasn’t Finn. She loved Ashley, but right now she wasn’t someone she wanted any of Mason’s teammates to get tangled up with.
“It is possible, just maybe, perhaps, someone kicked my ass and gave me a ‘Come to Jesus Talk.'” Ashley pouted.
“Drake,” Beth, Lydia and Sophia all said in unison.
“He was right. It’s time I pulled my head out of my ass.”
“Language,” Linnie admonished.
“Pulled my head out of my derriere and acted like a twenty-seven-year-old mom. I needed to stop letting your dad’s treatment rule my life.”
“Ah sweetie, I’m so happy for you. It took me a hell of a lot longer to come to that realization.” Sophia gave Ashley a hug.
“Okay, it’s time for you beautiful girls to line up. Louisa, are you ready to grab your basket?” Linnie asked.
“Easter Basket!” Louisa squealed.
Ashley knelt down in front of her daughter. “You get the chocolate after the wedding, remember? First, you have to throw the rose petals. Uncle Drake has chocolate waiting for you up front after your sister Sophia says her words.”
“Okay. Chocolate.” Louisa smiled at her mom.
Everyone headed out, with Linnie and Sophia bringing up the rear.
“I believe in angels, Sophia, and I know with all my heart your mother is looking down on you today.”
Sophia grasped her locket.
“I feel like I have a piece of her here now because of Mason.”
Mason had told himself to commit everything to memory. This day was the most important of his life. He watched as every woman walked down the aisle, and they were gorgeous. First came Louisa, throwing petals like they were baseballs, causing everybody to laugh at her antics. Then Rebecca, a girl just beginning to blossom into womanhood, and then Margie, a woman who sparkled with excitement without a ruffle in sight. But just a small portion of his brain was occupied with those thoughts, the rest was focused on the French doors at the back of the hotel.
The wedding march started and everybody stood up. Drake elbowed him, but he never even glanced his way. His eyes stayed steady on his prize. And there she was. It was like a punch to the gut.
“Steady,” Drake whispered.
Mason blew out a long breath and tried to maintain his composure but not sure he could. My God, she looks like a dream. My dream.
He’d never seen anything close to her beauty. She was a vision flowing down the aisle towards him. One that would forever be etched in his memory. Her eyes caught his and her smile was sheer radiance. Every other person fell away. It was just the two of them.
“Turn around,” Drake whispered. It took a moment for the words to sink in. Mason had Sophia’s cheek cupped and she nuzzled closer. Her eyes opened, covered with a sheen of happy tears, and he bent to savor one last kiss before they joined in front of man and God. He caressed his hand down her tiny waist and gently turned her so they could be wed.
They shared their solemn vows, his voice heard by the crowd. Her voice heard just by him and the Reverend. Then he was kissing her again, his head spinning as he finally, finally held his dream come true. His wife.
“My Mason. My Love. My Husband.”
“I love you, Sophia Gault. You are my everything.”
About the Author
Caitlyn O'Leary is an avid reader, and considers herself a fan first and an author second. She reads a wide variety of genres, but finds herself going back to happily-ever-afters. Getting a chance to write, after years in corporate America, is a dream come true. She hopes her stories provide the kind of entertainment and escape she has found from some of her favorite authors.
Keep up with Caitlyn O’Leary:
@CaitlynOLearyNA
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www.caitlynoleary.com
[email protected]
WITHHOLDING EVIDENCE by Rachel Grant
Some secrets are worth dying for…
Military historian Trina Sorensen has a nearly impossible task before her: get recalcitrant but tempting former Navy SEAL Keith Hatcher to reveal what happened during a top secret Somalia op five years ago. Recent history isn’t usually her forte, but the Navy wants an historian’s perspective and has given her the high security clearance to get the job done.
Keith isn't just refusing to tell Trina about the op, he's protecting a national secret that could destroy the lives of those he cares about the most. But not wanting to talk about a covert mission doesn’t mean he isn’t interested in spending time with the sexy historian, and the first time they kiss it’s explosive.
When the past comes pounding on Keith’s door, he’ll do anything to keep Trina safe… Anything, that is, except tell her the secret that could get them both killed.
Dedication
This one is for Naomi
For showing me unconditional big-sister love for as long as I can remember.
Chapter 1
Falls Church, Virginia
August
Trina Sorensen stiffened her spine and rang the town house doorbell. She couldn’t hear a chime, so after a moment of hesitation, she followed up with a knock. Seconds ticked by without any sound of movement on the other side. She rang the bell again, and then repeated the knock for good measure. The front door was on the ground floor, next to the garage. Glancing upward, she checked out the windows of the two upper floors. No lights on, but at nine in the morning on a hot August day in Falls Church, that didn’t tell her anything. If the man she hoped to meet was home, he’d have to descend at least one flight of stairs, possibly two.
Patience.
She was about to ring the bell again when the door whipped open, startling her. She stepped back, then remembered she needed to project poise and straightened to meet her target’s gaze.
Keith Hatcher was even more handsome in person than in his official Navy photo, but she couldn’t let that fluster her. It just meant he’d been blessed with good genes, a rather superficial measure of a person, really.
She took a deep breath and held out her hand. “Mr. Hatcher, Trina Sorensen, historian with Naval History and Heritage Command. I’d like to ask you a few questions about Somalia.” She cringed as she said the last part. Too perky. Too eager. That was not how to approach a former Navy SEAL when asking about a mission.
Sporting tousled dark hair that suggested he may have just gotten out of bed, and wearing low-rise jeans and nothing else, the man leaned an impressive bare bicep against the doorframe and raised a quizzical thick eyebrow. “Trina? Cute name.” He smiled. “It fits.” He reached out and touched the top of h
er head. “But I think you should go back to the day care center you escaped from and leave me alone.” He stepped back, and the door slammed shut.
She jolted back a step. He did not just pat her on the head and slam the door in her face.
Except that was exactly what Senior Chief Petty Officer Keith Hatcher had done.
She was aware she looked young, but dammit, she was thirty-one freaking years old—the same age as Hatcher. In fact, she was a few weeks older than him. She squared her shoulders and rang the bell again.
Seconds ticked by. Then minutes. She pounded with the side of her fist.
Finally the door opened. “Yes?” He leaned against the doorjamb again, this time stretching out an arm to touch the hinged side of the opening. His body language conveyed amusement mixed with annoyance.
“Senior Chief, I’m Dr. Trina Sorensen”—she never referred to herself with the pretentious title of doctor, but figured his crack about day care warranted it—“and I’m researching your SEAL team’s work in Somalia five years ago for Naval History and Heritage Command and the Pentagon. You must answer my questions.”
“Dollface, it’s Sunday morning. The only thing I must do today is jack off.”
She crossed her arms. “Fine. I can wait. It’ll be what, one, maybe two minutes?”
The man tilted his head back and laughed. She saw her opportunity and ducked under his arm, entering, as she’d suspected, an enclosed staircase. The door to the left could only go to the garage. She went straight for the stairs, heading up to his home. Her heart beat rapidly at her own audacity, but she was never going to get the information she needed to do her job from the SEAL without taking risks.
“What the hell?” he sputtered, then added, “Who do you think you are, barging into my home?”
“I told you. I’m Dr. Trina Sorensen from NHHC,” she answered as she reached the landing that ended in the most spotless mudroom she’d ever seen. She crossed the room and stepped into his kitchen. Equally spotless. Either he had an amazing cleaning service, or he was a total neat freak. Given his disheveled appearance, she’d expected a disheveled home.
She leaned against a counter as he paused in his own kitchen doorway. His mouth twitched, but his jaw was firm, making her think he couldn’t decide if he was annoyed or amused.
“I’ll wait here while you masturbate. We can start the interview when you’re done.”
Amusement won, and a corner of his mouth kicked up. He took a step toward her. “It’ll go faster if you help me.”
Her heart thumped in a slow, heavy beat. Barging into his home might’ve been a mistake. She frowned. Of course it was a mistake. “I’m good to go. Already took care of business this morning in the shower. You go ahead without me.”
He barked a sharp laugh, then shook his head. “What do you want, Dr. Sorensen?”
“As I said already, I’m here to ask you questions about Somalia.” She pulled her digital recorder from her satchel. “Do you mind if I record our conversation?”
His brown eyes narrowed. “Hell, yes, I mind. More importantly, we aren’t having a conversation. You are leaving. Now. Before I call the police.”
“Please don’t be difficult. I’m just doing my job.”
“SEAL ops are classified.” All hint of amusement left his voice, leaving only hard edges.
She sighed in frustration. Hadn’t he bothered to read any of her e-mails? “I sent you what you need to verify my security clearance in my e-mail. And my orders came directly from the Pentagon.”
“I don’t give a crap if the pope sent you on orders from the president. I’m not telling you shit about a place I’ve never been.”
He expected her to accept that and walk away? She’d never have gotten anywhere as a military historian if she allowed the men in her field to brush her off. “Oh, you’ve been to Somalia all right. You were there on a reconnaissance mission, gathering data about a rising al Qaeda leader who was taking advantage of a power vacuum created by ongoing interclan violence.”
He crossed his arms and spoke softly. “I have no clue what you’re talking about.”
The man had a solid poker face; no hint that she’d surprised him with the paltry facts she knew. So he was handsome and big and had the most gorgeous sculpted pecs and abs she’d ever seen, and he was sharp to boot. “I’m researching various SEAL actions in Somalia over the last two decades, starting with Operation Gothic Serpent and ending with yours.”
He cocked his head. “Who is your boss?”
“Mara Garrett, interim director of the history department at Naval History and Heritage Command.”
His eyes widened when she said her boss’s name. At last, a break in the poker face. Did he recognize Mara’s name from her trouble in North Korea, her notorious run-in with Raptor, or because he knew Mara was married to the US Attorney General? Regardless, the name Mara Garrett opened doors, and Trina had one more threshold she wanted to traverse—from the kitchen to the living room, where she could conduct a proper interview.
“The work I did when I was in the Navy is classified. Not only do I not have to tell you about an op I was never on in a country I’ve never visited, but I could also get in serious trouble if I did tell you a damn thing about the places I have been.”
She handed him her card. “But you do have to answer me. The Pentagon wants this report. Your input is necessary.” This project was her big break. Future naval operations could depend on her findings, and the biggest of the brass were eager for this account. She was already having visions of moving out of the cubicle next to cantankerous Walt. She could have walls. And a door.
“But, you see there, dollface, that’s the problem. I’m not in the Navy anymore. I don’t take orders from the Pentagon. I don’t have to follow commands from anyone, least of all a five-foot-nothing librarian who invaded my kitchen without my permission.”
She straightened her spine and threw back her shoulders, determined to reach her full height. “I’m five foot three. And I’m an historian.” Her glasses slipped, and she nudged them back to the bridge of her nose.
He chuckled, and she flushed. She’d have been better off if she hadn’t corrected him on the librarian label as she adjusted her glasses.
“Whatever, doll. Listen, you have one minute to get out of my house, or I’m going to assume you’ve decided to watch me jerk off after all.”
She couldn’t look away from the brown eyes that held hers in a tense gaze. Just her luck that he was so frigging gorgeous. Attractive men made her self-conscious. Especially ripped, half-naked ones. “I’m not playing games, Senior Chief. I’m just here to do my job.”
He smiled slowly and reached for his fly.
Keith laughed as the woman bolted down the stairs and out of his town house. He was sort of sorry to see her go, because that exchange had been fun—certainly worth getting out of bed for.
He waited until he heard the front door slam, then followed and locked the door. What kind of fool showed up at a guy’s house at nine on a Sunday morning and expected him to be forthcoming about an op that was not only top secret but was also the single greatest and worst moment of his military career? As if he’d tell her—or anyone—about Somalia.
He’d been debriefed after the op. The people who needed to know what happened knew everything. It was enough for the powers that be, and it was enough for him.
He climbed the stairs and returned to his kitchen, where he made a pot of coffee. The woman—Trina—had been hot in a sexy, nerdy-librarian sort of way. There was probably a fancy name for the way she wore her hair in that twist at her nape, but to him it was a bun. And the little glasses with the red rims? Sexy as hell the way they slanted over her hazel eyes.
Did she dress the part of librarian on purpose, or was it some sort of weird requirement of her profession? It was too bad she hadn’t decided to stay, because he had a hard-on after watching her march up his stairs in that straight skirt that cradled her ass.
He’d always had
a thing for librarians—or historians—whatever.
If she had a PhD, she was probably a lot older than she looked. Thank goodness. Of course, she could be some sort of Doogie Howser genius.
Mug of coffee in hand, he headed into his office, woke his computer, and clicked on the mail icon. Had she really e-mailed him? It seemed like he’d have noticed.
New e-mail notifications came pouring in. Shit. How long had it been since he loaded e-mail? He checked the date of the first ones—from his dad, of course. These were nearly two weeks old. Oh yeah, he’d been so upset after the last round of antigovernment, antimilitary e-mails from his dear old dad, he’d turned off the mail program and took it out of start-up so it wouldn’t run unless he initiated it. For some reason that had felt easier, less final, than blocking his father’s e-mail address.
Thanks to the constant barrage of ranting messages, three months ago Keith had set his phone to only load e-mails from a select number of approved addresses. In the last two weeks, since he shut off mail on the computer, he’d received e-mails from the people who mattered to him on his phone, allowing him to forget he wasn’t receiving everything on the computer.
He scanned the list, deleting the ones from his dad without opening any. Each time he tapped the button, he felt a twinge of guilt. It was time to block Dad once and for all. Yet he still refused to take that final step and wasn’t quite sure why.
Misguided hope the man would change, he supposed.
After he’d deleted several e-mails, the name Trina Sorensen popped to the top of the list—the time stamp was last night. He scrolled down further and found four e-mails from her in the last week.
He opened her most recent message, noting the return address was indeed official Navy. He scanned the contents. Huh. She’d told him that since he hadn’t responded to her previous inquiries, she would be stopping by his house this morning, and if he didn’t want her to show up, he should reply.