Make Mine a Marine (2 page)

Chapter One

The Present

A monster of a man.

Brodie Maxwell read the teenage boy's opinion of him as easily as he might read a road sign. He ignored the curious gawking. Other heads turned but quickly looked away. He knew what they were thinking. He banished mirrors in his house so he, himself, couldn't see the monster.

He stood a shade over six-feet six and weighed in at 250 pounds, with impossibly broad shoulders, brawny arms, and legs like tree trunks. But the brutish appellation didn't stop with his size and dimension. Strands of silver sliced through his coffee-colored hair, which he wore cropped to a short length that emphasized the harsh angles of his face.

That face, an unforgiving landscape, reflected the horrors of his existence. His once-aquiline nose bent at two separate spots, reminders of a couple of lucky punches. Mottled ridges of a grayish-white scar filled the hollow beneath his left cheekbone and zigzagged into the corner of his mouth. The inflexible tissue pulled his face into a grotesque grimace whenever he smiled.

Long ago he had learned not to smile. Not even with his eyes. His steel gray gaze scanned his surroundings at the LadyTech headquarters building in Kansas City. He routinely memorized the number of people, their positions, the accessible exits. The icy eyes missed nothing of the chaotic, cluttered environment around him, just as they revealed nothing about the man inside.

Another old habit.

No one had ever called him handsome. His driver's license said he was forty, but life- experience beyond his years had taken his ugliness and shaped it into something more than physical. It shrouded him like a tangible thing, a shield he wore to keep all but the bravest and most foolish at a distance.

Brodie liked it that way.

Once he was familiar with the layout of the first floor, Brodie strode from the entryway. Judging by the bustle of activity and torn-up work stations, some major redecorating was going on. He crossed to a makeshift table with a sign marked
Reception
. But the chair behind it sat vacant.

The high school-aged boy, carrying a stack of boxes, stopped several feet away. Brodie felt his stare, curious, fascinated, repelled. Brodie turned his head and nailed the boy with a piercing look. Startled and ashamed of being caught, the boy lowered his gaze to a point about equal with Brodie's collar. He cleared his throat awkwardly, “We're getting ready for our open house, sir. The receptionist is
…I'll see if I can find someone to help you.”

The boy tucked in his chin and scooted past Brodie. Most people did that to him. Too lazy to strain their neck muscles, or too afraid of what they might see—strangers rarely made eye contact with him. Brodie didn't mind their rudeness. That way he didn't have to see their shock and revulsion when they got a good look at his face.

“Hey, you, punch up the con panel and see if the screen lights up.”

Brodie's gaze shot around the foyer again, scanning for the source of the disembodied female voice. It made him edgy to think he had missed accounting for everyone in the area. It wasn't like him to make that kind of mistake.

“Hit any button on the keyboard.” The voice drizzled into his eardrums a second time. From the vicinity of his feet.

A woman's hand popped out from under the table and groped at the toe of Brodie's snakeskin boot.

“Yoo-hoo, out there, can you help me?”

Brodie stared at the hand, an ordinary left hand, without a fancy manicure or jewels to adorn it.

“Yes,” he finally replied when the hand refused to let go of his foot. The woman couldn't see the whole package, he thought, or else she wouldn't be so relentless in asking for his help. Her voice sounded warm, like honey and laughter. Not at all the sort of tone one used with a stranger.

Or a monster.

“It's okay if you don't understand computers. Just hand me one of the remotes. I can get it online from down here.”

Brodie bit back the cutting remark that would have straightened out the woman's misconception. He was a creature of duty and chivalry. If a woman requested a favor, he felt honor bound to help. That was the only reason he'd agreed to this meeting in the first place. Because the widow of an old friend had asked for his help in finding out who was pirating creative designs from the LadyTech Software Communications Corporation.

Dutifully, Brodie searched the tabletop and picked up a small black box with a series of buttons on one side. He bent over and placed the remote in the palm of her outstretched hand. He lowered the bulk of his body, casting his shadow across the hand and darkening the opening beneath the table.

“Hey, who turned out the lights?”

Once, he would have bristled at the remark. Now he accepted it without comment.

Seconds later, a company logo flashed to life on the computer screen. “It's on,” he rumbled, reporting reluctantly.

“Piece of cake.”

A body materialized at Brodie's feet.

BJ Kincaid scooted out on her backside, the remote clutched in one hand, a tray of tools in the other. She paused a moment, leaning back on her elbows to look up at her unwilling assistant.

“Whoa.”
Land of the Giants
, she thought to herself.

BJ's gaze started at the booted ankles and travelled up a pair of jeans that fitted over the longest, sturdiest legs she had ever seen, past a black suede bomber's jacket, beyond an outdated necktie, over a vicious network of scars, all the way up to the stark gray eyes of the man who towered above her. It was a long trip. From her perspective, his spiky, military-short hair seemed to brush the ceiling.

A living mountain. A dark, battered, unsmiling mountain.

An image from a Frankenstein movie leapt to mind. Immediately, she shook off the comparison, ashamed of even thinking it. BJ knew better than most what it was like to be different from mainstream society. She should be the last person to judge someone else by a first impression.

Hoping she hadn't revealed her uncharitable thoughts, she scrambled to her feet. She dropped her tools on the table and brushed at the untucked hem of her Kansas City Royals baseball jersey. Standing eliminated only part of the distance between them. He still stood chest, shoulders, and head above her five-feet, five-inch frame.

She stuck out her hand and looked him squarely in the eye. “Thanks for your help. I'm BJ Kincaid.”

Ironically, he seemed the one unwilling to touch her. A silent moment passed before his hand, nearly double the size of hers and scored with a dozen scars around tanned knuckles, wrapped around her fingers and swallowed them in his handshake.

“One of the partners.” BJ could see him sizing her up, checking his internal data on her. “Along with Emma Ramsey and Jasmine Sinclair. You're the creative one. You design LadyTech's programs.”

“Most of them,” she amended, pulling her hand away. This man knew more about her than a regular customer would. The observation put her on guard. “Can I help you?”

“I'm here to see Emma. I'm Brodie Maxwell.” He flipped out an ID that labeled him a security consultant. Before BJ could question exactly what that meant, he returned his billfold to his back pocket. “She hired me to investigate a security leak. I worked with her husband in the Corps.”

Emma's dead husband had led a team of crack Marine intelligence operatives. That meant this man possessed certain skills at which she could only guess. All of Jonathan Ramsey's men had been specialists. BJ wondered what this guy's specialty was. Stopping tanks with his fists, perhaps?

BJ shivered. Emma had mentioned bringing in outside help. She knew Emma had only the best interests of the company at heart. But Brodie Maxwell's presence confirmed that she was a traitor to both LadyTech and the partners who were her two best friends.

BJ had developed the missing designs. They had been her responsibility. Hell, the only way an industrial spy could get past her self-designed failsafe systems would be for her to give out the access codes. Which she hadn't. She would never betray her partners. She would never betray herself. LadyTech was her baby, after all. Most of its concepts and products originated inside her head.

Therein lay the problem.

BJ had mapped out preliminary designs for languages, games, and programs that could mean millions of dollars to the company. Yet no trace of them existed. Not on printouts, not on disks or memory sticks, not on the server or any hard drive at LadyTech or her home office.  Her own shadowy memories provided the only evidence that those ideas had ever existed.

But could her memory be trusted?  Where was the proof?  Brodie Maxwell looked like a man who wouldn’t quit until he found answers.  BJ dreaded what those answers might be.

She averted her eyes and busied her hands with rearranging her tools.  “I guess you’re really here to investigate me, then.”

“Excuse me?”

She swiveled her face up to his, unable to retrieve a welcoming smile.  “You want to solve the mystery, right?  I’m giving you your most likely suspect.  Me.  I’ll show you to Emma’s office.  She’ll be expecting you.”

BJ cleared the screen of the computer she had just installed before pivoting on her heel and crossing to the grand staircase leading to the executive offices on the second floor.  Brodie’s long shadow overtook her, chilling her with the impression of a beast closing in on his prey.

Brodie ascended the staircase three steps at a time.   He debated the woman’s sudden mood swing.  She had been smiling, unguarded, almost—accepting—of him when she first crawled from beneath the table.  But when he mentioned the purpose of his visit, she closed up.  Grew defensive.  A fire lit in her eyes, shouting anger and distrust. And something else. Fear perhaps?

But of him? Or his mission?

Her bottom swayed on the steps ahead of him. The loose shirt and baggy jeans camouflaged her figure, but they couldn't mask the rigid set of her spine. What was she hiding?

Brodie knew the first step in drawing information out of a suspect was to engage her in innocent, neutral conversation.

“BJ stands for Bridget Jacoba, doesn't it?”

“You've done the research—you should know.” The sharp bite of her words bounced off Brodie's tough exterior, but the visible sagging of BJ's shoulders told him she regretted saying them.

She softened her voice and flashed an apologetic smile over her shoulder. “My mom was Bridget. My dad was Jake.” She topped the stairs and pointed down an empty corridor. “Emma's office is at the end. You'll probably
…”

BJ froze mid-stride. Her voice faded. “No. Not now.”

Brodie collided with her back, and would have sent her flying if he hadn't snatched her shoulders, steadying her. “Miss Kincaid?”

“Get out of my head!”

“BJ?”

Her hands flew to her temples, her fingers dug into the short curls there. “Get out!” Alarmed, Brodie turned her, keeping the shelter of one arm around her shoulders. He gripped her chin and tilted it upward. Her eyes squeezed shut. Was she having some kind of seizure? He couldn't recall any mention of a physical disorder in her profile. He searched her twisted features for an answer.

“Stop it!” Her voice sounded like cracked, brittle pottery smashing to bits on concrete. Thinking his touch frightened her, Brodie immediately released her.

Wildly, she clutched at his arm, clenching it with both hands until her knuckles turned white. Then she began to shake all over.

Her fingernails bit through leather and cotton into his forearm, but he ignored the bruising pain. If she needed something to cling to, he presented the most solid object at hand. He hardly qualified as an adequate nursemaid, but at that moment, he appeared to be the only one available. “What's happening? Do I need to call someone?”

“Not this time. I won't let you.”

Brodie realized she wasn't answering him. He wasn't sure she even knew he was there with her.

“BJ!” He shook her, roughly. “Bridget!”

The demon that possessed her disappeared as swiftly as it had come. Her body went limp. Her knees buckled and he scooped her up in his arms. Her head lolled against his chest, the crown snuggling just beneath his chin.

Damn. The woman was a cuddler. Even semiconscious, she turned and pressed her soft cheek into his neck. Every protective instinct that had ever gotten him into trouble surfaced, unbidden. Briefly, Brodie tried to remember the last time a woman had nestled against him so needfully without hesitation or fear or an ulterior motive.

Nothing came to mind. He muttered an angry epithet and refocused on the situation at hand.

He carried her to the first door on his right and kicked it open. He allowed himself a moment of stunned surprise when he entered the room. Other than the antique oak desk with its two computers in the center, it looked like a child's playroom. A truckload of toys lay scattered about the floor and on the furniture. Dolls, models, a train set, games. Floor to ceiling bookshelves, filled with collections of several kinds, lined one wall. Baseball cards. Heart- shaped pillows. DVDs.

Without a conscious thought as to why, he knew this was her office. BJ Kincaid, former child prodigy with a Mensa-level IQ, multimillionaire partner in one of the hottest companies on the market, worked in an office overflowing with toys.