The Risk-Taker

KIRA SINCLAIR’s first foray into writing romance was for a high school English assignment. Nothing could dampen her enthusiasm … not even being forced to read about the Scottish laird and his headstrong lass aloud to the class. Although it definitely made her blush. Writing about striking, sexy heroes and passionate, determined women has always excited her. She sold her first book in 2007 and hasn’t looked back. With seven books currently available, and more on the way, she still can’t believe she gets to make her living doing something so fun. She loves to hear from readers at www.KiraSinclair.com.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

I’d like to dedicate this book

to all the men and women who have been wounded serving and protecting our country. Thank you for your service. Your sacrifice is not in vain.

A HEAVY FIST CONNECTED with his jaw. Gage Harper’s head snapped backward and the crowd, pressed tight against the raised platform, roared.

All Gage heard was the rush of adrenaline as it poured through his body. It drowned out the words that had been haunting him all night. “In a war that brings mostly sad news, tonight there is a brighter story to tell.” Someone should tell the solemn man who delivered that statement to the world that bright and war should never be used in the same sentence.

But Gage wasn’t going to be the one to do it.

Instead, he squared his feet beneath him and countered the blow he’d received with several of his own. Head, gut, kidneys. This wasn’t the sort of place that worried about rules. The backwoods fighting ring was exactly what he needed to distract him from the memories he didn’t want.

Micah’s flag-draped casket being loaded into the transport for home. A hard-eyed insurgent yelling into his face before ripping both of his thumbnails outwith pliers. The screams of his friends as they endured torture.

Torture he could have prevented if he hadn’t screwed up.

Yeah, this was a great use of a Thursday night even if he’d had to drive an hour out of Sweetheart, South Carolina, to find it. The blessed numbness would be worth every fist to the face.

Grounding his weight onto his left leg, Gage lashed out with a roundhouse kick. Channeling all the frustration, rage and guilt built up inside him, he put more power behind it than he’d meant to, aiming straight for the guy’s gut. He was finding it difficult to hold back after months of fighting for his life. Those kind of hard-won instincts were a bitch to get rid of. Luckily the other guy blocked.

Scenes he thought he’d dealt with flashed across his mind. Gunfire. Smoke-filled hallways. A dark, dirty cell with barely enough room to lie down. Tanner, a fellow Ranger, bloody and broken before they’d even been thrown into that room, moaning in pain. Needles. Knives. Pliers.

But he didn’t break. He hadn’t told them a damn thing.

Gage ground his teeth and pushed the memories away. Nothing could change what had happened to Tanner.

Or bring Micah back. The man he’d met in jump school was gone. Killed when his gun misfired while cleaning it. That, more than anything, was what bothered him about his friend’s death. He knew Micah. Had trained with the man. Micah could disassemble, clean and reassemble his weapon in his sleep. They all could. Dying in battle, that he could have dealt with. They’d all signed up for that possibility. But not some freak accident.

That anger, grief and skepticism were what sent him out into the scorching desert looking for the same kind of fight he’d found tonight. Something to silence the racing thoughts and numb the pain he didn’t want to deal with. He’d gotten a distraction, all right. And several good men had been pulled straight into hell with him.

He never should have watched the national news story his mama had saved. The latest in a long line of shouldn’ts.

Who knew she could operate the DVR? When he left for basic training twelve years ago she could barely get a DVD to play. He’d been looking for something mindless, like old football games or episodes of CSI. Instead, he’d found hours of news stories detailing his capture and high-profile rescue from Taliban insurgents.

The worst had been the leaked propaganda videos. The close-up shots of his own dirt- and blood-streaked face as they’d forced him to deliver their messages to the U.S. government. He could still taste the bitter words, hated himself for saying them even if he’d done it to save Tanner from more torture he wasn’t strong enough to survive.

He’d wanted to turn them off. Should have. But couldn’t. What those slick news anchors with their perfect white teeth hadn’t said was that what happened was entirely his fault.

His thumbs began to throb where his missing nails should have been. Gage clenched his fists tighter, asking for more. He relished the pain. The reminder. His injuries were nothing compared to Tanner’s. If he hadn’t let grief and a mindless need for a distraction blind him to the warning signs …