Between Duty and Desire

Surprised by her question, Brock grinned in the darkness. “No. Why?”

“Just curious. I imagine you’ve had sex in more interesting places than I have.”

Setting down his glass of wine, he turned her to face him. “Do you want to make love on the balcony?”

“Maybe,” she said a little defensively. “What if I do?”

He felt his grin grow. “Then we’ll make love on the balcony.”

She bit her lip. “Or maybe I’d like to sometime.”

Backing against the wall, he pulled her with him. “I’ll make a note to check the security of the railing,” he said.

Bold, then timid. She was going to kill him.

Ah, but what a way to go.

Dear Reader,

Welcome to another passion-filled month at Silhouette Desire. Summer may be waning to a close, but the heat between these pages is still guaranteed to singe your fingertips.

Things get hot and sweaty with Sheri WhiteFeather’s
Steamy Savannah Nights,
the latest installment of our ever-popular continuity DYNASTIES: THE DANFORTHS.
USA TODAY
bestselling author Beverly Barton bursts back on the Silhouette Desire scene with
Laying His Claim,
another fabulous book in her series THE PROTECTORS. And Leanne Banks adds to the heat with
Between Duty and Desire,
the first book in MANTALK, an ongoing series with stories told exclusively from the hero’s point of view. (Talk about finally finding out what he’s
really
thinking!)

Also keeping things red-hot is Kristi Gold, whose
Persuading the Playboy King
launches her brand-new miniseries, THE ROYAL WAGER. You’ll soon be melting when you read about Brenda Jackson’s latest Westmoreland hero in
Stone Cold Surrender.
(Trust me, there is nothing cold about this man!) And be sure to
Awaken to Pleasure
with Nalini Singh’s superspicy marriage-of-convenience story.

Enjoy all the passion inside!

Melissa Jeglinski
Senior Editor
Silhouette Desire

T
he moon shone over the desert, reflecting on the land. As usual, Staff Sergeant Rob Newton was talking about his wife, Callie. Captain Brock Armstrong smiled inwardly at the story Rob told while the two of them conducted their routine patrol. Rob was clearly crazy about his wife. Brock’s gaze shifted constantly around them and scanned the distance. He might be amused, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t be careful.

Rob was laughing. An explosion split the air. Pain tore through Brock at the same time he heard Rob’s scream. “Callie! Callie!”

His flesh burned and ached so much he couldn’t
speak. Time crawled by in a haze of pain. Images blurred. He couldn’t see out of his right eye. He tried to move, felt himself lifted, and heard the whir of a helicopter propeller. Help was on the way.

“Callie,” he heard Rob mutter and managed to turn his head.

“Rob, you okay?”

“Don’t let her crawl back in her hole and hide,” he said desperately. “Don’t let her be a hermit. Don’t let her—”

“You need to calm down,” another voice said. A medic? Brock wondered, feeling his sense of reality slip and slide. “You need to conserve your energy.”

Everything went black.

Brock awakened, drenched in sweat. He opened his eyes, but the darkness closed around his throat like a vise. He reached for his bedside lamp and turned it on, then sat up in bed, breathing like he was running a marathon. Even though the wound was long healed, he instinctively rubbed his right eye. He hadn’t been able to see out of the eye that night because blood from his head wound had pulled a curtain over his vision.

After months of physical therapy, he still limped. He might always limp. It didn’t stop him from running. It wouldn’t stop him from much, except being a Marine. He’d always known he wouldn’t stay in the Corps forever, but he hadn’t expected to receive a discharge with honors quite this soon.

He raked his hand through his hair. It was long and
needed a cut. Or not, he reminded himself. He wasn’t required to keep it regulation length anymore.

He glanced around his room in the rehabilitation center and felt an edgy restlessness. He’d been here long enough. He was ready to move on, to leave this sense of shock and weakness behind. His body was growing stronger and his will was catching up.

He was sick of focusing on himself, sick of talking about himself during his sessions with the head-doctor.

Sighing, he slid to the edge of the bed and limped to the small window. He looked out into the night and remembered the last night he’d seen Rob Newton alive. The land mine had taken Rob and left Brock. Brock still didn’t understand why, though he asked himself the question approximately every five minutes.

The staff shrink had told him he was suffering from survivor’s guilt and it would take time.

Brock swallowed over a knot in his throat. “Thanks for nothing,” he muttered.

Rob’s cries for his wife echoed inside his brain. He closed his eyes against the clawing sensation inside him. Maybe he was never going to get over this. Maybe he was never going to feel at peace again. Sitting here in the rehab center wasn’t going to solve anything. He could finish the rest of his therapy on his own.

He had to find a way to live with himself, a way to assuage his guilt. He snorted.
Mission Impossible.
What could he do for a dead man?

He thought again of Rob’s widow. Maybe, just maybe, he could live with himself a little more easily if he honored Rob’s last request.