Between Duty and Desire Read online

  “Have You Ever Made Love On A Balcony?” Callie Asked.

  Surprised by her question, Brock grinned in the darkness. “No. Why?”

  “Just curious. I imagine you’ve had sex in more interesting places than I have.”

  Setting down his glass of wine, he turned her to face him. “Do you want to make love on the balcony?”

  “Maybe,” she said a little defensively. “What if I do?”

  He felt his grin grow. “Then we’ll make love on the balcony.”

  She bit her lip. “Or maybe I’d like to sometime.”

  Backing against the wall, he pulled her with him. “I’ll make a note to check the security of the railing,” he said.

  Bold, then timid. She was going to kill him.

  Ah, but what a way to go.

  Dear Reader,

  Welcome to another passion-filled month at Silhouette Desire. Summer may be waning to a close, but the heat between these pages is still guaranteed to singe your fingertips.

  Things get hot and sweaty with Sheri WhiteFeather’s Steamy Savannah Nights, the latest installment of our ever-popular continuity DYNASTIES: THE DANFORTHS. USA TODAY bestselling author Beverly Barton bursts back on the Silhouette Desire scene with Laying His Claim, another fabulous book in her series THE PROTECTORS. And Leanne Banks adds to the heat with Between Duty and Desire, the first book in MANTALK, an ongoing series with stories told exclusively from the hero’s point of view. (Talk about finally finding out what he’s really thinking!)

  Also keeping things red-hot is Kristi Gold, whose Persuading the Playboy King launches her brand-new miniseries, THE ROYAL WAGER. You’ll soon be melting when you read about Brenda Jackson’s latest Westmoreland hero in Stone Cold Surrender. (Trust me, there is nothing cold about this man!) And be sure to Awaken to Pleasure with Nalini Singh’s superspicy marriage-of-convenience story.

  Enjoy all the passion inside!

  Melissa Jeglinski

  Senior Editor

  Silhouette Desire

  LEANNE BANKS

  BETWEEN DUTY AND DESIRE

  Books by Leanne Banks

  Silhouette Desire

  Ridge: The Avenger #987

  *The Five-Minute Bride #1058

  *The Troublemaker Bride #1070

  *The You-Can’t-Make-Me Bride #1082

  †Millionaire Dad #1166

  †The Lone Rider Takes a Bride #1172

  †Thirty-Day Fiancé #1179

  The Secretary and the Millionaire #1208

  ‡‡Her Forever Man #1267

  ‡‡The Doctor Wore Spurs #1280

  ‡‡Expecting His Child #1292

  Bride of Fortune #1311

  ΔExpecting the Boss’s Baby #1338

  ΔMillionaire Husband #1352

  ΔThe Millionaire’s Secret Wish #1370

  **Royal Dad #1400

  Tall, Dark & Royal #1412

  **His Majesty, M.D. #1435

  The Playboy & Plain Jane #1483

  **Princess in His Bed #1515

  Between Duty and Desire #1599

  Silhouette Special Edition

  A Date with Dr. Frankenstein #983

  Expectant Father #1028

  Silhouette Books

  Labor of Love 2001

  **“The Monarch and the Mom”

  So This Is Christmas 2002

  “A Rancher in Her Stocking”

  LEANNE BANKS,

  a USA TODAY bestselling author of romance and 2002 winner of the prestigious Booksellers’ Best Award, lives in her native Virginia with her husband, son and daughter. Recognized for both her sensual and humorous writing with two Career Achievement Awards from Romantic Times, Leanne likes creating a story with a few grins, a generous kick of sensuality and characters that hang around after the book is finished. Leanne believes romance readers are the best readers in the world because they understand that love is the greatest miracle of all. Contact Leanne online at [email protected] or write to her at P.O. Box 1442, Midlothian, VA 23113. An SASE for a reply would be greatly appreciated.

  This book is dedicated to all of those who have served in the United States Marine Corps. I’m humbled by your discipline and dedication.

  Contents

  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

  Prologue

  “In war, you win or lose, live or die—and the difference is an eyelash.”

  —General Douglas MacArthur

  The moon shone over the desert, reflecting on the land. As usual, Staff Sergeant Rob Newton was talking about his wife, Callie. Captain Brock Armstrong smiled inwardly at the story Rob told while the two of them conducted their routine patrol. Rob was clearly crazy about his wife. Brock’s gaze shifted constantly around them and scanned the distance. He might be amused, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t be careful.

  Rob was laughing. An explosion split the air. Pain tore through Brock at the same time he heard Rob’s scream. “Callie! Callie!”

  His flesh burned and ached so much he couldn’t speak. Time crawled by in a haze of pain. Images blurred. He couldn’t see out of his right eye. He tried to move, felt himself lifted, and heard the whir of a helicopter propeller. Help was on the way.

  “Callie,” he heard Rob mutter and managed to turn his head.

  “Rob, you okay?”

  “Don’t let her crawl back in her hole and hide,” he said desperately. “Don’t let her be a hermit. Don’t let her—”

  “You need to calm down,” another voice said. A medic? Brock wondered, feeling his sense of reality slip and slide. “You need to conserve your energy.”

  Everything went black.

  Brock awakened, drenched in sweat. He opened his eyes, but the darkness closed around his throat like a vise. He reached for his bedside lamp and turned it on, then sat up in bed, breathing like he was running a marathon. Even though the wound was long healed, he instinctively rubbed his right eye. He hadn’t been able to see out of the eye that night because blood from his head wound had pulled a curtain over his vision.

  After months of physical therapy, he still limped. He might always limp. It didn’t stop him from running. It wouldn’t stop him from much, except being a Marine. He’d always known he wouldn’t stay in the Corps forever, but he hadn’t expected to receive a discharge with honors quite this soon.

  He raked his hand through his hair. It was long and needed a cut. Or not, he reminded himself. He wasn’t required to keep it regulation length anymore.

  He glanced around his room in the rehabilitation center and felt an edgy restlessness. He’d been here long enough. He was ready to move on, to leave this sense of shock and weakness behind. His body was growing stronger and his will was catching up.

  He was sick of focusing on himself, sick of talking about himself during his sessions with the head-doctor.

  Sighing, he slid to the edge of the bed and limped to the small window. He looked out into the night and remembered the last night he’d seen Rob Newton alive. The land mine had taken Rob and left Brock. Brock still didn’t understand why, though he asked himself the question approximately every five minutes.

  The staff shrink had told him he was suffering from survivor’s guilt and it would take time.

  Brock swallowed over a knot in his throat. “Thanks for nothing,” he muttered.

  Rob’s cries for his wife echoed inside his brain. He closed his eyes agains
t the clawing sensation inside him. Maybe he was never going to get over this. Maybe he was never going to feel at peace again. Sitting here in the rehab center wasn’t going to solve anything. He could finish the rest of his therapy on his own.

  He had to find a way to live with himself, a way to assuage his guilt. He snorted. Mission Impossible. What could he do for a dead man?

  He thought again of Rob’s widow. Maybe, just maybe, he could live with himself a little more easily if he honored Rob’s last request.

  One

  Marine Lingo Translation

  Alpha Unit: Marine’s spouse.

  He knew her favorite color was blue.

  He knew she was allergic to strawberries, but sometimes ate them anyway.

  He knew her hazel eyes changed colors depending on her mood.

  He knew she had a scar at the top of her thigh from a bike wreck she’d had when she was a child.

  Brock knew Callie Newton intimately, even though he’d never met her. That would change in approximately ninety seconds, he thought, as he lifted his hand to knock on the weathered wooden door to her South Carolina beach cottage. The salty scent of the ocean was a nice change from the antiseptic smell of the rehab center.

  His leg aching from being wedged into the small seat in the commercial jet that had brought him here, he leaned against the outside wall of the house for a moment. When there was no answer, he shifted and knocked again, this time more loudly.

  He heard the sound of scrambling feet and a muffled shriek, then more scrambling and the door finally flew open. A woman with mussed shoulder-length strawberry-blond hair shielded her eyes with her hands as if she were seeing the sun for the first time today. Dressed in a wrinkled oversize white T-shirt and faded denim shorts that emphasized long lithe pale legs, Callie Newton squinted her eyes at him. “Who are—”

  “Brock Armstrong,” he said, wondering if she had any idea that the white T-shirt she wore revealed her nipples. He lifted his gaze from her chest. “I knew—”

  “Rob,” she finished for him, her voice softening. Her eyes darkened with sadness. “He talked about you in the e-mails and letters he sent me. The Dark Angel.”

  Brock felt an odd twist at hearing his nickname again. His buddies had given it to him because his hair and eyes were dark, along with his mood. Hell, before the accident, he’d been angry for as long as he could remember. He had been locked in combat with his stepfather since puberty. The “angel” part of the name was given because he’d pulled several guys out of tough spots.

  Not Rob, though, he thought, feeling another hard tug in his gut. He hadn’t been able to pull Rob out of his tough spot.

  Callie chewed the inside of her bottom lip and waved her hand toward the house. “Come in.”

  Brock followed her into the dark interior of the cottage. He heard her whack her leg against an end table and she made a quick hissing sound of pain.

  “You want me to turn on a light or open one of the blinds?” he asked.

  “No. I’ll do it,” she muttered, moving toward a large window and adjusting the blinds so that the sun illuminated the room. The couch was covered with a dark throw, the walls were bare of pictures and the hardwood floor was rugless. “I worked late last night—well, really into the morning,” she added. “I guess I overslept.” She whipped around to face him, stumbling again.

  Brock instinctively grabbed her arms to keep her upright. With one red-gold strand over one eye, she looked at him and he was close enough to count her eyelashes and freckles. He’d heard stories about the placement of some of those freckles.

  “What time is it anyway?” she asked in a sleep-husky voice that reminded him of sex.

  Hell, everything reminded him of sex. It had been too damn long since he’d gotten any. “Fourteen hun—” He stopped, remembering he didn’t need to speak in military time. “Two o’clock in the afternoon.”

  She winced. “I didn’t realize it was so late.” A cat prowled into the room and wrapped around her ankles. “Bet you’re hungry, Oscar,” she said to the feline then glanced at him. “I’ll start some coffee.”

  She took a step, nearly tripped over the cat, righted herself then left the room.

  A little klutzy in the morning, he recalled Rob telling him and felt a twitch of humor. Only this wasn’t morning, at least not for most people.

  Brock glanced around the spare, bare room. It didn’t feel right. Rob had described Callie as if she never took a break from creating and decorating. Every room had a theme. She didn’t know the meaning of the word bland. He frowned. This room was definitely bland.

  He wandered down the hallway where he heard water running from a faucet. The kitchen was small, but sunny with a clean sink and clean counters. There was no kitchen table. Instead a chair stood at the end of the counter where he spotted a sketch pad, a box of Frosted Lucky Charms and Little Debbie Swiss Cake Rolls.

  Uh-oh. Swiss Cake Rolls were PMS and deadline food. Brock approached her warily. “Are you on deadline?”

  She nodded. “I got behind when Rob—” She broke off and sighed. “I couldn’t draw for a while. I can now, but I’m not sure any of it is right. I’m still not reaching for happy, light colors and I’m supposed to be illustrating happy, light books. Three of them. I’ve done all the rainy, sad, gray scenes,” she said, staring expectantly at the coffeemaker. “Four times.”

  A suspicion was forming in his gut. “Looks like a nice little island,” he ventured. “Do you like your neighbors?”

  She ran her hand through her hair. “I haven’t had time to meet them. I don’t get out much.”

  His suspicion intensified. “I’m staying here for a while. Can you recommend a couple of restaurants?”

  She bit her lip. “Y’know, I haven’t had a lot of time. I’ve done most of my grocery shopping at the quick-mart.”

  He nodded, rubbing his chin. So Rob’s concern for Callie had been justified—she’d turned into a hermit.

  The coffee flowed into the carafe and she pulled two mugs out of the cabinet. Pouring the coffee, she looked up. “I don’t have cream. Would you like sugar?”

  He shook his head and accepted the mug she offered. “Black is fine.”

  She cradled her mug in both hands and took a quick sip then glanced up at him. “Rob really admired you.”

  “It was mutual. Rob was well-liked and respected. He was a mechanical whiz and he talked about you all the time.”

  She rolled her eyes. “He must have bored you guys to death.”

  He shook his head. “He gave us a nice break from the tension.” He paused. “I’m sorry I couldn’t make it to his funeral. The doctor wouldn’t let me out of the hospital.”

  “Understandable,” she said, lowering her gaze to her cup so that her eyelashes shielded her expression from him. “You were hurt when the mine…” She shrugged as if she didn’t want to finish. “I didn’t want Rob to join the Marines. It was one of the few things we argued about.”

  “Why? Too dangerous?”

  “At the time he joined, I don’t think I realized how dangerous it could be. I just didn’t want to move and move and move. I wanted us to make a home, a haven, and stay there forever.”

  “But you moved here after he died,” Brock pointed out.

  She shook her head. “Too many memories. I felt like I was bumping into him, into our dreams, every three minutes.” She met his gaze. “So why are you here?”

  Not ready to reveal Rob’s last request, he glanced down at his leg. “I’m almost finished with my rehabilitation and I couldn’t stand being tied to the center one more minute. I decided a few weeks at the beach before I take my job sounded good.”

  “Why this beach?” she asked, her eyes skeptical. She was waking up and she wasn’t stupid.

  “It’s quiet, not too commercial.” He cracked a grin. “If I fall on my face when I take my morning run, no one will see me and laugh.”

  Her gaze shifted. She was still skeptical, but more amused. “Som
ething tells me you don’t have much experience falling on your face.”

  “Not until this year.”

  Her half smile faded. “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m sorry about Rob.”

  “Thanks. Me, too,” she said and gave him a considering glance. “If this was a duty call, consider it done.”

  He nodded, but inside he was shaking his head. The woman lived at the beach, but her skin was as white as the sand and the circles under her eyes were violet. She looked too thin and as though she were stuck in neutral. He needed to at least get her into first gear.

  Brock settled into his condo which was about a quarter-mile north of Callie’s. Sitting on the balcony, he watched the waves rhythmically rolling in and felt a measure of peace wash through him. The ocean wasn’t about war. It changed every second, but in many ways remained constant. Watching the tide provided the best therapy he’d been given in months, and Lord knew the military had made damn sure he’d received a truckload of therapy.

  As he climbed into bed and fell asleep, an image of Callie Newton drifted through his mind. He wondered what she was doing right this minute. Was she staring at a blank canvas? Was she drawing yet another dark picture? Or was she falling asleep just like he was? He remembered being fascinated by the photograph of her that Rob had proudly displayed. She’d been laughing with abandon. She’d looked like the female equivalent of sunshine. She and Rob could have posed for matching bookends of the all-American boy and girl. Rob had miraculously managed to get through boot camp without having his upbeat attitude beat out of him. Rob had been a nice uncynical guy, not like Brock. Brock had enough cynicism for a dozen men. Maybe that was why he’d been drawn to Rob and his stories about his wife. They’d seemed fresh and innocent. Brock couldn’t remember feeling fresh and innocent, not since his father died when he was seven years old.