by April Hunt
“I’m stepping into decontamination, Mads. I need to have a little chat with our CEO.”
“That.” Maddy remotely opened the lab door and sealed Isabel into the decontamination room, where she was immediately blasted from all sides with the foam germicidal cocktail meant to kill any possible lingering contaminants.
After a ten-minute decon, Isabel stepped into the clean room, where Maddy waited. “Honey is sweeter than vinegar, Isa.”
Isabel took a moment to tug her braid of dark hair out from beneath her lab coat. “I’m not going to give him vinegar.”
Her grad student blew out a relieved breath. “Good.”
“I’m giving him a good dose of reality.”
“Oh, boy.”
Isabel kept Carmichael in her sights as she calmly walked across the lobby.
He looked away from his visitors and saw her approach. “It’s as if I have the power to make people appear just by speaking their name. Gentlemen, this is Dr. Isabel Santiago, our lead virologist here at Tru Tech.”
Mr. Boardroom smiled, flashing a set of impressive dimples. “What exactly does a virologist study, Dr. Santiago?”
“Viruses,” Isabel said tersely.
The suited man laughed, but Mr. Leather Jacket frowned, looking less than impressed with her smart-ass comment. Mouth pressed into a tight line, he studied her. His gaze was a million times more potent without a barrier, sending a small shiver down Isa’s spine. The sensation wasn’t entirely unpleasant, but definitely unwanted.
Carmichael shifted uneasily on his feet. “I have to say that Dr. Santiago put my recruitment skills to the test, but with a whole lot of persistence, I eventually lured her away from bedside medicine.”
“With the promise that the Legion was my lab, my rules.” She slid a look to the two visitors and back to her theoretical boss. “I don’t consider guided tours to any random Joe that swaggers off the street proper use of our security guidelines.”
Mr. Leather cocked one gorgeously dark eyebrow. “I assure you, Dr. Santiago, I don’t swagger.”
His friend chuckled. “Actually, sometimes you do, although I’d classify it more like a strut.”
Isabel’s lips twitched, and she fought to contain her smirk.
Mr. Leather didn’t seem to find it funny. “And how do you know that we’re not new Tru Tech employees getting the lay of the land, Dr. Santiago?”
“Mr.…?”
“Steele. Roman Steele.”
Isa forced herself to meet his gaze. “I know, Mr. Steele, because unless I’m mistaken, that’s a tailor-made Valentino your friend is wearing, and tailor-made anything, much less Valentino, doesn’t happen on a researcher’s salary. And you’re…you.”
She bit her tongue before admitting that men in her line of work oozed pen ink from their pockets, not testosterone from their pores. Twelve years in the United States Army taught her to recognize a soldier when she saw one, but Roman Steele hadn’t been a basic private.
He looked like a man used to giving orders and having them obeyed…and Isa was more than happy to remind him that not only was he now in the private sector, but he stood in her world.
Carmichael broke the rising tension with a throat-clear. “It’s getting late, gentlemen, and I’m sure Dr. Santiago would love to get home at some point tonight. If you’ll follow me, we’ll head back up and collect your things.”
With a parting warning stare, Isa’s boss led his friends back toward the elevators. Roman Steele glanced back seconds before they stepped into the Legion elevators, and Isa couldn’t help it. She wiggled her fingers in a girly wave until the doors swallowed him whole.
It took five whole seconds for her to realize Maddy was way too quiet.
She turned to her friend, whose mouth was practically agape.
“What the fresh hell was that?” Maddy asked.
“What was what?” Isabel pretended not to understand.
“That!” She pointed to the elevator, which was now on its way back to the main lobby. “That man was a visual vacation—and I mean the Bahamas, Jamaica, and the Virgin Islands all rolled into one deliciously hot inclusive destination, and you treated him like a weekend trip in an RV park.”
“I think that’s a little overkill, don’t you?”
“No. No, I don’t.”
The elevator beeped, signaling a returning visitor.
“Oh, good.” Maddy sighed, turning her toward the door. “You can apologize and maybe he’ll be up to do more than undress you with his eyes.”
Isa opened her mouth to object because, first, she had nothing to apologize for, and second, she didn’t want Roman Steele undressing anything of hers—with his eyes or his hands.
The elevator dinged as it reached the basement floor, but it wasn’t Carmichael and his visitors that stepped out. Frank, the soon-to-be-retired security guard specially assigned to the Legion, glanced her way.
“Perfect timing, Frank.” Isa smiled, always loving the time of the night that the older man made his rounds. “Can you please tell Maddy that I don’t need a vacation—in more ways than one?”
Frank’s wide, panicked eyes shot her way a split second before someone pushed him from behind. The older man crashed into the table against the wall and hit the ground as four men stepped off the elevator.
Isabel’s brain didn’t completely register the intrusion…not until the one nearest her aimed his gun at the center of her chest, clear blue eyes locked on her through the slits of his black ski mask.
“Going somewhere, Dr. Santiago?”
Extreme Honor
Piper J. Drake
HONOR, LOYALTY, LOVE
David Cruz is good at two things: war and training dogs. The ex-soldier’s toughest case is Atlas, a Belgian Malinois whose handler died in combat. Nobody at Hope’s Crossing kennel can break through the animal’s grief. That is, until dog whisperer Evelyn Jones walks into the facility…and into Atlas’s heart. David hates to admit that the curvy blonde’s mesmerizing effect isn’t limited to canines. But when Lyn’s work with Atlas puts her in danger, David will do anything to protect her.
Lyn realizes that David’s own battle scars make him uniquely qualified for his job as a trainer. Tough as nails yet gentle when it counts, he’s gotten closer to Atlas than anyone else—and he’s willing to put his hard-wired suspicion aside to let her do the same. But someone desperate enough to kill doesn’t want Lyn working with Atlas. Now only teamwork, trust, and courage can save two troubled hearts and the dog who loves them both.
Keep reading for a bonus novel by Piper J. Drake!
To Matthew.
For believing in me. For your support, patience, and caring, thank you.
大好き—Daisuki
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To Courtney Miller-Callihan: Thank you for your confidence in me and your never-ending patience.
To Lauren and Dana: Thank you for working with me to polish this story and make it even better.
Chapter One
David Cruz studied the woman standing in the front waiting area with equal parts irritation and interest. The room had an open design to accommodate dozens of owners and their dogs comfortably—enough space to prevent tussles the humans might not be able to break up without a trainer’s help. Of course, the area was empty of other people and dogs at the moment and this little bit of trouble filled the room just fine on her own. Her neat dress suit had to have been tailored to a fit so exact, it might as well have been a military dress uniform. And she wore it as if she was ready for inspection, her posture perfect with her shoulders straight, her chin up, and her hands easy at her sides. If her thumbs lined up with the side seams on her skirt, he’d have wondered if a cadet had gotten lost from the nearby military academy.
The severe gray fabric didn’t leach color from her face, though; instead the contrast set off her peaches and cream complexion. Made him think of a dish of ice cream on a hot day. And even standing still, she radiated energy. Charisma. Like she coul
d burst into motion at a moment’s notice and heaven help the man who got in her way. He had an urge to step right up and see if she could run him over.
Not likely, but it’d be fun to let her give it a try.
“Look, Miss…”
“Jones. Evelyn Jones.” Her sharp tone cut across his attempt to address the current issue with any semblance of calm. “Any and all documentation you might need is right there in the folder I handed you. If you’ll verify it instead of wasting both of our time trying to send me away, I’ll be able to get to what I’ve been sent here to do instead of standing around engaging in a pissing contest.”
Well, she’d come in ready for a fight.
Head held high and standing as tall as she could, her hackles would’ve been raised if she’d been a dog. The mental image was entertaining, to be honest, especially since her blond hair was pulled back in a no-nonsense ponytail combined with the stylish poofed-up effect. No idea why women did that but hell, she looked good.
And he did take a minute to appreciate her as she was: compact, curvy, and hot enough to catch the attention of every male on two legs walking the property. But her impact on the four-legged variety remained to be seen.
He could do without her glaring attempt at intimidation, though, and he wondered whether he shouldn’t send her sweet ass right on back out the door. If she crossed her arms over her admittedly impressive chest or otherwise altered her body language to increase her aggressive stance, he would. If her attitude was enough to scratch his temper, the dog she was here to see would rip her to shreds.
“Your credentials aren’t in question, Miss Jones.” He raised his hand to forestall another interruption. He’d had plenty of experience with her kind of sprint-out-the-gate, establish–credibility-immediately personality. It didn’t intimidate him one bit but he also wouldn’t be rushed. “As I was about to say, you could wait here and be run over by the incoming class of two-year-olds or you can come on in to the office area and have a cup of coffee while I make a few calls.”
She blinked and her cheeks flushed. “I…of course. A cup of coffee would be appreciated.”
Somehow, he doubted that considering the sour tone of her voice. It took some effort not to grin at her discomfort. “Glad you decided to come along. The two-year-olds aren’t a bad batch but their handlers are in some serious need of training. Go figure.”
The corner of her very kissable mouth quirked. “Isn’t it always the human side of the pair in need of the real training?”
Now, they had some common ground after all. At least when it came to civilians.
But if he wanted to be fair—and hell, who did?—Military dog handlers needed heavy training at the beginning, too. Especially if they wanted to reach the level of excellence required of a special forces working team.
He led her past the receiving desk and down a short hallway to a smaller area with chairs arranged for easy conversation. They had one of those little one-cup coffee makers and she seemed fine fixing up her own mug. He preferred his coffee brewed in a real pot and none of those handy automated gadgets managed a strong enough brew.
The whole host-and-good-manners thing dispensed, he headed for his office. “If you’ll just wait here…”
“It would save time if you showed me Atlas. I could introduce myself to him while you’re making your call.”
He halted; his temper simmered back up to the surface. “With all due respect, Miss Jones, you’re not meeting Atlas until I’ve straightened out exactly what is going on here.”
“It’s fairly straightforward. I’ve been brought in at the request of the Pentagon to work with the dog you refuse to introduce me to.” At the edge of his peripheral vision, her movement caught his attention. A slight raise of the chin. “It would save you time if you would take my suggestion before I make a call of my own.”
He studied her for the few seconds it took for his irritation to cool enough for polite conversation again. All bravado and possibly some real bite behind her threat. It depended on exactly who at the Pentagon had contracted her.
“You could save us even more time and leave now.” He turned to face her, calling her bluff. Lesser men backed down immediately under his glare. Took her a full five seconds to drop her eyes. “As far as the United States Air Force is concerned, Atlas was placed under the care of Hope’s Crossing Kennels with me as his official trainer. Currently, I’m willing to go through due diligence and consider a joint effort if your consulting credentials are confirmed. But if you truly did your homework on Atlas and this facility, you would know you either work with us or you are escorted off the property. This is not a general kennel where consultants are allowed to stroll in and work independently.”
After all, Hope’s Crossing Kennels wasn’t just a training facility for domestic pets. And the trainers who lived here weren’t civilians.
He strode into his office and resisted the urge to slam the door behind him. Bad enough she’d goaded him into a pissing contest. Instead, he managed a creditable quiet close without shooting her a dirty look as he did so. He stepped around his desk, fired up his computer. Logging in always took longer than he’d like. Then again, there wasn’t a computer system fast enough to keep up with the advancing demands of security and surveillance needs and the equipment he had installed throughout the interior—and exterior—of the kennels gave him constant streaming feed whenever he needed eyes on a particular part of the property.
At the moment, Miss Jones remained seated and sipping her coffee. Good. Even better if her very attractive behind stayed put. It’d be a damn shame if she took her bluff further and did something stupid, like wander off.
Gaze trained on the video feed, he reached for his Bluetooth earpiece and made sure his smartphone was connected. “Call Beckhorn.”
A few rings. “Beckhorn here.”
Beckhorn always recognized Cruz’s number so it wasn’t a surprise when the man answered right away. Cruz was glad his longtime friend had been free enough to take a call at all.
“Please tell me you didn’t send her.” Not likely, since Beckhorn was at Lackland Air Force Base down in Texas. But hell, influence didn’t always have to do with geographic location.
A pause. “Unless I forgot I sent you a stripper for your birthday, I got no idea what you are talking about here. And I’m sure as hell I don’t know when your birthday is off the top of my head.”
Shouldn’t. But he did. Visuals of Miss Jones doing a sensual striptease superimposed the real woman still sitting on the edge of a chair just outside his office. A lot of potential there, but he’d best file the fun thoughts for some later time tonight.
“A Miss Evelyn Jones arrived today with a very official statement of work to provide consultation for Atlas.” And didn’t that just chafe his butt. He was the best military dog trainer on the East Coast. He didn’t need a…dog whisperer.
“Huh.” Beckhorn had a few other choice utterances. Man hadn’t lost his touch with the creative expletives. But then, men like him and Cruz tended to not lose the survival skills they’d accumulated over multiple deployments. “Send me scans of the documentation. I’ll need to track it down but I’m gonna say up front I’m not surprised.”
“There’s a reason you flew me down there to meet Atlas.” Cruz probably didn’t need to remind Beckhorn but it could always be said for the benefit of the lady who’d left her seat and was now standing with her ear pressed against the door. Maybe he’d raise his voice a notch or two for her benefit. “The dog comes first. I won’t waste time playing nice with any handpicked consultants if it compromises the dog’s progress. If she’s a help, she stays. If she’s a pain in the ass, she’s out.”
Especially when some of the work he needed to do with Atlas went beyond the dog’s recovery and more into what had happened to his handler. He didn’t need some consultant tangling things up.
“Agreed. No worries from this angle.” Beckhorn sighed. “Let me follow the audit trail and figure out what offic
er brought her in. Atlas is a high profile dog. Between the news spot and the articles published about him, the military is going to spare no expense to do right by him. But it also means others are going to want to make doubly sure Atlas has the best care out there. I’m surprised you don’t have half a dozen consultants from various military offices and a few choice senators pounding at your door.”
“This isn’t about news coverage.” Cruz tried to keep the growl out of his voice. “It’s about giving Atlas what he needs to recover from where he’s been.”
And what he’s lost.
Some people might not give a dog credit for emotions, but Cruz had seen dogs exhibit unfailing loyalty and selfless courage in the face of danger for the sake of their handlers. They experienced emotions. They loved. Deeply.
Atlas had seen awful things. Hell, so had they all. But Atlas had lost his handler—his partner—a man the dog had given his everything to. The dog deserved some sort of peace for the rest of his days if Cruz could help him. And Atlas’s handler deserved to have the truth behind his death exposed, if anyone could find it.
“Based on your twenty-four-hour report, Atlas hasn’t improved much.” Beckhorn cleared his throat. “Not expecting you to work miracles, but one of those would help your case in working with the dog solo.”
“I’m not going to rush the dog.” Cruz stood up and began to pace, irritated. Oh, not with Beckhorn, but with higher ups always convinced throwing more resources at a problem would lead to faster results. “He’ll come around in his own time. I’m letting him get to know me and the facilities here. Not as structured as a military base, not as chaotic as a normal home.”
“What are you going to do with the consultant?” Beckhorn tended to choke on the last word, but then, he had a thing about private contractors. Miss Jones might be different, but then again, she might not.