1
Andrew “D-Day”Nolan sat in back of the sheriff’s cruiser and watched the ambulance drive away. He had a clear conscience and a set of bruised and scraped knuckles. There was a large group around the sheriff, and he held up his hands looking like he was trying to calm them all down. He was doing his job, and D-Day couldn’t fault him for that.
The sheriff tried to walk away, then had to turn back to the people who followed protesting, raising his hands in supplication. His deputy took over as he made it to the cruiser. He got into the driver’s seat and put the car in motion.
“You know how to stir people up, young man,” the sheriff said, radioing into his headquarters that he was bringing in a prisoner.
D-Day closed his eyes and rested his head against the back of the seat. That was his job, stirring up trouble. He and his team were excellent at doing their job.
He couldn’t really blame anyone for this misunderstanding, except for that blonde angel, Helen Buckard. The reason he was here at this out-of-the-way bar—Carlos just outside San Diego—had to do with her. He had to get out of town to drink himselfinto oblivion, and none of the usual watering holes around Coronado would do. It was much too likely he’d run into people he knew, and his condition would get back to the team, and they would stick their noses in his business. Nothing good could come of it. Just his shame at having crossed the line with Helen, repeatedly. His mouth went dry, and if he got the chance, he’d probably give in to the same temptation again.
That’s why it had been six months since he’d seen her and since he’d been back to Wyoming. Buck’s mother had called several times, this last call to invite him to their Thanksgiving celebration, but he’d turned her down, saying that he was going to be with his family in Bedford. He mentally scoffed.
Like his family knew anything about thanks or giving or forgiveness or common decency.
His only regret here…this would get back to his CO, Elias “Joker” Jackman, and that would open up a whole can of worms. Namely, his whole SEAL status, and even his Navy enlistment. He could lose it all, but there had been no other course of action. Just like in his past…there had been no thought, no reasoning, just visceral reaction and immediate interdiction regardless of the odds, the consequences, or the repercussions. It was the only thing he didn’t regret about what had happened.
They pulled up in front of the sheriff’s department and he got D-Day out of the car as people started to arrive—the same crowd who had been at the bar.
The sheriff swore and ushered him quickly into the building. As he passed the front desk, a woman deputy looked up, and her mouth dropped open.
She looked familiar but in his inebriated state, he couldn’t place her. She came rushing out from behind the desk.
“What is going on?”
“He’s being arrested for assault. Now get back to work. I don’t need?—”
“That’s bullshit. I know this guy. He’d never?—”
“Lucy, get back to work,” the sheriff said, low and firm. She closed her mouth and shot D-Day an outraged look. She marched back to her chair and sat down heavily with a soft protest. He was so tired, and he stopped trying to figure out where he knew her from. He didn’t make it a habit of sleeping with local girls, but if he’d slept with her, he would have remembered, even though most women paled next to Helen. Sex was something he’d only indulged in if he was hurting, and it was only to keep his mind off Helen. One-night stands were good for his purposes.
They took him into a room where they fingerprinted him and took mugshots, and through it all he felt dead inside, hollowed out.
It was a familiar feeling…he’d been lost for a long time.
When he entered the small cell and the door clanged shut behind him, he folded down onto the meager bunk, closing his eyes, and even though it was painful, counterproductive, and just plain stupid, he couldn’t help thinking about, remembering, and reliving every moment with Helen.
Deputy Sheriff Jessica Mendezknew that man who had been led into the department by the sheriff. First off, no woman would ever forget such a man with his soulful blue eyes, angular face, tall, ripped body, and that mop of blond hair, or the kind of still-waters-run-deep look that made a woman want to dive into that pool—a quiet pool with nothing but surface tension, and an alpha male vibe that would melt any woman’s underwear.
At first glance, he looked like an outlaw. She took in his compelling face, his strong jaw, and Roman nose, defining hisprofile, and the strong column of his throat. His blond hair was disheveled and even longer than it was the last time she’d seen him. The thick, tousled, glossy-looking strands added to his bad-boy look. His eyes were dull and a bit glassy from alcohol, and he was unshaven, the blond stubble looking like gold against his deeply tanned skin. He was in desperate need of sleep.
Then there was the black and blue bruise ringing his swollen left eye and the fresh cut on his lower lip that added to his rough-and-tumble appearance. His once white T-shirt, stretching across his wide chest and covering those big, broad shoulders, was grimy and smudged with blood, tapering to a lean waist. Part of the shirt was torn, showing a hard swell of muscle along the edge of his abdomen…often referred to as the Adonis belt.
Faded, well-worn jeans ripped in places, covered in more dirt and grass stains, hugged his tight ass and strong thighs. There wasn’t an ounce of excess fat on his body, mouth-wateringly cut and delineated with ropes of thick muscle everywhere.
And those were the injuries that she could see.
He was the real deal, a man with honor and integrity. He was dependable, trustworthy, and he’d been very kind to her. She had no doubt that his scraped and bloody knuckles were courtesy of a fight he had to win, not for any other reason than to defend someone else.
So, secondly, no one could mistake him for what he was: dangerous.
Except maybe the dumb fuck who didn’t have the sense God gave a goat to mess with him in a pissing contest. It was no contest at all.
Petty Officer Andrew Nolan. D-Day. Special operator and Navy SEAL. What the hell was he doing here? She fished her cell phone out of her back pocket. “Davis,” she called as a deputy walked past. “Can you cover the desk for ten minutes?”
He nodded and came over as she ducked out from behind and went to an interrogation room in the back. She pressed the little phone icon on her contacts, and it started to ring.
A sleepy voice answered in rough and lazy Spanish. “There had better be a good reason you’re waking me up,chica.”