âYou donât listen, do you?â
Cutter was speaking in that authoritative, rankling military tone again. She wasnât under his command. âI listen just fine.â She started to march away.
Cutter grabbed her arms and tugged her around to face him. âYouâre a kindergarten teacher. You know kids better than I do. Secret surveillance and invasion without detection are my areas of expertise. Iâm not risking either of us getting arrested â or killed â because youâre too stubborn to listen to reason.â
â So itâs your way or not at all?â
âIn this case.â
He wasnât going to budge. His attitude was arrogant, determined. And unequivocally protective. She wanted to lash out at him, but the truth was sheâd never felt more safe and turned on in her life.
JOANNA WAYNE was born and raised in Shreveport, Louisiana, and received her undergraduate and graduate degrees from LSU-Shreveport. She moved to New Orleans in 1984 and it was there that she attended her first writing class and joined her first professional writing organisation. Her first novel, Deep in the Bayou, was published in 1994.
Now, dozens of published books later, Joanna has made a name for herself as being on the cutting edge of romantic suspense in both series and single-title novels. She has been on the Waldenbooks bestselling list for romance and has won many industry awards. She is a popular speaker at writing organisations and local community functions and has taught creative writing at the University of New Orleans Metropolitan College.
She currently resides in a small community forty miles north of Houston, Texas, with her husband. Though she still has many family and emotional ties to Louisiana, she loves living in the Lone Star state. You may write to Joanna at PO Box 265, Montgomery, Texas 77356, USA.
âWelcome home, cowboy!â
Cutter Martin stopped just inside the door and waited for his pupils to adjust from the bright sunshine to the dim lighting of the bar and grill. Even after they had, it took a few minutes for him to spot the lean male frame propped on the barstool a few yards away.
Tom Porter. He hadnât seen the guy in years. Would have been fine with Cutter if heâd gone a few more. The mood he was in right now was not suitable for company, especially not Tomâs. He waved anyway and made his way to the nearly empty bar.
âNot quite home,â Cutter said, sliding onto the barstool next to Tom, âbut close.â
âHoustonâs a hell of a lot nearer to Dobbin than Afghanistan was.â
âWhen you put it that way.â Odd thing was Dobbin, Texas didnât seem like home anymore, either. There had been nights of sleeping on the hard ground in insect-infested forests that made the Double M Ranch loom like heaven in the back of his mind.
Now he was back in the States and the ranch was just wide open spaces. He figured heâd gone too deep into enemy territory and the military lifestyle to go back to his ranching roots. Not that heâd ever been much of a rancher. It was bronc riding on the rodeo circuit that had driven him in his younger days.
The bartender wiped a spot of moisture from the counter in front of Cutter and slapped down a paper napkin. âWhat can I get you?â
âScotch on the rocks. Make it a double.â
âI saw your picture in the Houston Chronicle last month,â Tom said. âI been meaning to look you up ever since then. That was quite a heroâs welcome you got.â
âYeah.â Cutter nodded and looked away, hoping that would end the hero talk. He hadnât been any more a hero than every other frogman heâd served with.
Unfortunately, the bartender must have overheard Tomâs remark. He paused as he served Cutterâs drink. âSay, youâre that Navy SEAL fellow, arenât you? The one who personally killed twelve of the enemy after you and your buddies were ambushed.â
âSo they told me. I wasnât counting at the time.â
âCool, man. I thought about becoming a Navy SEAL. My girlfriend didnât like the idea of my getting shot at, though.â
Cutter studied the guy. Early twenties, hair a little too long, tattoos all over his arms like blotchy skin. Big enough, but no muscular definition. Cutter wondered if heâd last a day in BUD/S. Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL training was twenty-six weeks of grueling preparation for what lay ahead for the few who saw it through.
âYou must be glad to be home,â the bartender continued. âBet it was even worth getting shot in the leg to get out of the war zone.â