Extreme Honor

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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.

D
avid 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 could 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 officer 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.

“I'll give it some thought.” And he wasn't committing to anything. High-ranking sponsors from DC or no, if Atlas didn't like her, Miss Jones was out the door.

And it was about time to address the way she was lurking on the other side of his.

The door opened so fast under Lyn's hands, she pitched forward before she could catch her balance. She came up against a hard, very well-muscled chest.

Smooth, poised, graceful even. All things she wished she'd managed but definitely was not.

He wrapped big hands around her upper arms and set her back on her own feet. Cheeks burning, she forced herself to look up into his face. His brows were drawn close over his steel-blue eyes in the most intimidating scowl she'd ever encountered. No sense in fumbling for excuses. “I figured giving in to my curiosity about whatever you were doing was better than succumbing to the urge to go meet Atlas.”

A noncommittal grunt was his only reply.

Good. Because she was fresh out of ideas for how to recover the professional manner she'd strapped on this morning as armor. She fussed with her suit, straightening the fabric and brushing away imaginary dust, as if setting her clothes to rights would bring back her confidence.

“For what it's worth, the doors around here are surprisingly soundproof.” It would be the closest she'd admit to having pressed right up against the door trying to hear something, anything to give her a clue as to whether this man would cooperate today or if she'd have to escalate back up to her sponsor, the man who'd signed her contract, her employer. Thinking of the man in those terms made her grit her teeth.

And she wanted to talk to him like she needed a hole in the head.

David Cruz quirked his very sexy mouth in a half-smile. “Good to know. Maybe I'll cancel the order on the white noise generators for the offices.”

Lyn blinked. “Overkill for a kennel, isn't it?”

His dark eyes fixed her in a somber stare. “We've all learned here to be prepared for every conceivable situation. It's kept the people, and some of the older dogs, alive when others didn't make it. We like to keep up the practice.”

Oh man. Mental note to do some more research on Hope's Crossing Kennels. All her employer had given her was a newspaper article on Atlas, the hero dog returned from overseas, and the address for the kennel he'd been transferred to. She'd walked in ready to deal with the usual blustering egos. Strong personalities were a given with trainers working with dominant dogs all the time. But taking in the man that was David Cruz, really looking at him…

Lean and wiry, Cruz didn't seem to have an ounce of extra flesh on him. Everything about him was sharp, from the way he responded to every sound around them to the way his musculature showed through his snug tee. Cut wasn't the word for it. She thought she'd seen some fitness guys on the Internet call it shredded? Oh yes. His bronze skin and dark hair, combined with his brooding expression, stole her mental filter, leaving her with no sensible words from the start.