Rules of Engagement

“I hope this isn’t difficult for you,” she said gently.

“Difficult?”

“I don’t know…I mean…did Cole survive the war?”

He cleared his throat. “Live and in person.”

“So you’re…”

“Cole. What made you think I didn’t survive? And how did you know I was in the war?”

“I opened your letters.”

“You read them?”

“Well, I didn’t mean to—”

“Reading isn’t an involuntary response.”

Tess turned to face him directly. “No, but—”

“How much do you want for the computer?”

“Money?”

“Why else would you be here? You know my designs are on the hard drive.”

Shocked, Tess stared at him. “I thought if you hadn’t survived, your family would want these letters—in case you hadn’t sent them. I would’ve wanted my brother’s.” Not waiting for his reply, she left his office.

Jerk! She should’ve kept the damn computer. And here she thought she’d read the letters of the last sensitive man on the planet.

Dear Reader,

Some characters stun us with their capacity for change, some with their amazing ability to hang on to their beliefs despite the costs. I have never been the first one in line for change. It’s hard. And sometimes it’s scary. But then, it’s rare to find something glorious any other way.

This story is about family and how deeply those ties bind us all. Family is very important to me. I have a son serving in the Middle East, whom I worry about constantly, and parents who live across the country, who are an equal worry in a very different way. And I think how lucky I am to have them all.

Please join me in this journey of change, of ups and downs and, of course, of love.

Ever the romantic,

Bonnie K. Winn

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For the brave men and women of our armed forces,

especially my son, Brian.

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

EPILOGUE

RIFLE SHOTS BOOMED across the green-carpeted acres, their echo resounding over the silent crowd. The casings flew harmlessly toward the clouds, yet Tess Spencer felt each volley as though it tore through her heart.

As the twenty-one-gun salute continued, soldiers in crisp uniforms took their mark, shooting in unison, their somber faces reflecting the seriousness of this final honor.

Tess could barely contain herself as she stared at her twin brother’s coffin. He was too young, they were too young. Even though she’d seen David’s face one last time before the coffin was closed, his dark hair and blue eyes so like her own, she wanted to cry out that it was a mistake. David was coming back. He couldn’t, wouldn’t leave without her.

More tears splashed down her cheeks, wetting the collar of her black dress. Hearing her mother’s quiet sobs, Tess looked at her parents’ dark heads pressed together. Grief couldn’t define their agony. Tears couldn’t erase their pain.

Pain that had begun when the chaplain and another officer had rung the doorbell, then explained how David had died on the other side of the world.

An Army Reservist, he had willingly accepted the call to serve. Loyal to both country and family, David hadn’t questioned his duty. And he’d assured Tess he’d be home safe and soon. David never broke his promises.

The guns were suddenly silent. Then with great dignity, the soldiers lifted the flag draped over the coffin and folded it into the painfully familiar triangle.

Tess’s mother accepted the flag, clutching it close before bowing her head, her body shaking with sobs.

Fingers trembling, Tess reached out toward the coffin. She wasn’t ready to say goodbye. Oh, David. How did this happen?

Throat raw, eyes burning, Tess felt the start of more hot tears. Her world had tilted and she wasn’t sure it would ever be right again.

Six months later

COLE HARRINGTON gripped the file containing the latest software designs his engineering firm had produced. He’d expected twice as many. Scrapped or missing, he’d been told by his staff. Designs he’d sweated over before his extended deployment to Iraq.

He’d left Mark Cannon in charge of his company, a man he trusted. Or thought he trusted.

Some of his ideas had been good, too good to be scrapped. Had they been stolen? Or worse, secreted out by one of his own people?

Cole looked at his second in command. “I want to know what happened to my work.”

Mark scowled, his brown eyes dark with anger. “You think I don’t? Fredrickson says some of the designs you’re talking about could’ve been obsolete, that—”

Cole slammed the folder on his burl walnut desk, rattling the mariner’s clock on the corner and scattering the morning’s mail. “He heads the research and development team, not the company. I know my work was good.”