Soldier In Charge. Jennifer Labrecque
never date, or sleep with, soldiers. She’d sworn there’d be no rolling around getting hot and sweaty while she was here. Hadn’t she deemed that insanity? Especially since she was basically allergic to the military. It just seemed neater, cleaner to avoid any involvement with Uncle Sam’s finest. But now there was him.
It was like the day she’d seen her house with its walled garden and lemon tree and knew it was meant for her. There was something about this Lieutenant Colonel that made her want to slide beneath his seriousness and coax a smile from him.
She shot a flirtatious smile. “No worries. I only kiss the ones who sweep me off my feet and then pick me back up…soldier.”
She turned on her heel and hurried down the hall. She was now later than ever. She was also determined to find out everything she could about one Lieutenant Colonel Dugan.
One look into those gray-green eyes, one magic kiss and she was fully, squarely in the camp of temporary insanity.
“LUCKY BASTARD,” MCELHANEY said as Mitch joined the platoon leaders waiting on the company commander to show up for the weekly briefing. He settled into one of the brown metal folding chair in the briefing room that resembled a high-tech classroom.
Even though Mitch wasn’t a platoon leader, but was stationed at Fort Bragg as a Special Ops training evaluator, he participated in the weekly briefing as part of his M.O. Each platoon leader headed six twelve-men squads or detachments. It was Mitch’s military occupation to evaluate the training and readiness of the company. As a strategic planner specializing in reconnaissance and evasion, Mitch trained alongside the detachments. In a perfect world, he would’ve preferred to head a squad, but he’d been promoted too quickly and now held the evaluation position.
Special Forces soldiers underwent training in weapons, engineering and demolitions, communications, medicine, operations and intelligence. Each detachment had two noncommissioned officers who specialized in each field, however all were cross-trained and all were multilingual.
Mitch was well-versed in numerous Arabic and Middle Eastern dialects, which had stood him well on recon missions into both Afghanistan and Iraq. He’d also participated in and evaluated the Special Forces HALO training where jumpers pushed the limits—free-falling from a high altitude, which kept them off enemy radar, and opening their chutes within a thousand feet of the ground.
But the bottom line was most of the platoon leaders feared him. And there were a couple, McElhaney and Robertson, who downright disliked him because he’d found their squad training substandard. Mitch had no use for a commander who’d rather cover his own ass than make sure his men were as prepared as possible to go into a mission, do their job, and come out alive.
There was no love lost between him and McElhaney. Robertson mostly gave him a wide berth.
“I know,” Carter seconded McElhaney’s comment. He looked at Mitch and shook his head, as if dumbfounded. “Dugan. Of all the guys to pick, she picks him.”
“You damn well better believe that the next time I see her coming, I’m going to knock her down and pick her back up,” McElhaney said.
Ortiz, one of the five platoon leaders present, entered the conversation. “So who’s your mystery woman, Dugan?”
Ortiz was a damn fine leader. His men carried an edge over the others. Mitch nodded. “Trouble,” he said. “That’s who she is.”
Ortiz chuckled. “Does Trouble have a name?”
Trouble had a name alright. “Eden Walters.” Eden. Depending on your perspective it could be the proverbial garden of paradise or the place where one found irresistible temptation. He was betting on the latter. The taste of her had been on his mouth the whole damn morning, the feel of the press of her breasts against his chest, the light flirty, floral scent had clung to his lapel…and those dancing midnight-blue eyes.
Unbidden, the image came to mind of Eden Walters sprawled sexily on her back, at his feet. She wasn’t exactly pretty, her face was too angular, her features a bit too sharp, but she was arresting. He’d even go so far as to call her striking with her cap of short dark hair, creamy skin, and stunning blue eyes. And the woman had killer legs. Most definitely trouble. “Her old man’s BMFIC at Campbell.”
“No shit?” Carter looked suitably impressed. Being in charge of Fort Campbell, home to the only air assault division in the world, was a big deal.
“No shit. You’re running your mouth about Brigadier General Max Walters’s daughter.”
McElhaney’s grin was unrepentant and slightly unpleasant. “All I can tell you, buddy—” McElhaney definitely wasn’t his buddy “—is he isn’t here and she is. I bet I can get her to kiss me even without putting her on the floor.”
Ortiz, married with two kids and a third on the way, shook his head.
Carter smirked. “Not if she sees me first, dickweed.”
Mitch shook his head. What had she been thinking? She knew better. She’d grown up on military bases—she had to know better. Why not just wave a red flag in a field of bulls? The woman had to be crazy as hell.
And he should give a damn, why? Because he couldn’t seem to move past her kiss. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t kissed and been kissed any number of times. But there’d been something about her kiss that seemed to linger against his mouth long after she was gone.
And quite frankly the idea of Carter or McElhaney or any of the other innumerable soldiers lining up for one of her kisses had him wanting to bang some heads.
“So, what’s she doing here?” Ortiz asked. He was definitely the sharpest of the group, but Mitch had known that long before this discussion.
It had been easy intel to pick up. “She’s a big-name photographer. She’s putting together a calendar for a fundraiser.”
“A calendar of what?” Carter said. “Like paratrooper of the month or something like that?”
“Something like that. The specific terms used were hardbody and hot.”
“Guess that lets you off the hook, Dugan, since they’re not looking for a hard-ass.” McElhaney’s smile held barely disguised dislike. “But she definitely needs to get a good look at me.”
“Forget it,” Carter jumped into the fray. “They’d need to put more than the back of your head on there and that’s the only part of you that qualifies.”
McElhaney’s response was cut short when Company Commander Colonel Gus Hardwick—commonly known among the troops as Harddick—entered the room, strode to the table and chair in the front and started without preamble. Harddick wasn’t one to squander words or time.
For over an hour they discussed maneuvers, upcoming missions, squad performance, individuals that needed help, testing for the week and general status updates.
Mitch could tell Hardwick was winding down by the inflection in his voice and all the material they’d already covered. That suited Mitch just fine. He had a boatload of pain-in-his-ass paperwork to review—that was the part of his job he loathed—before an afternoon training jump.
“We’ve got one more thing to cover. As you know by now, we have a visitor here in Alpha company.” Harddick looked straight at him. “I’m sure we’re all in agreement that any additional money going to supplement survivor benefits is a good thing.” Hardwick paused. There wasn’t a man in the room who wasn’t remembering buddies lost in the line of duty and the families they’d left behind. And damn straight their widows and kids could use the extra dough. Just because there was a crazy, sexy woman in charge of the project didn’t mean it wasn’t worthwhile.
Hardwick continued, “The photographer wants to pick her own subjects rather than choose from a pool of volunteers. In fact, she’ll be observing the training jump at Sicily this afternoon.” McElhaney’s platoon was scheduled for a HALO training jump in the Sicily Drop Zone at 1500 hours.