- Book info
- Sample
- Media
- Author updates
- Lists
Synopsis
Rugged, skilled, and hard-bodied, Jack King's whole life was the Marines until an injury left him discharged from active duty. But he finds a new purpose when he's recruited by a special unit that employs ex-military to do very special jobs. Yet he's not impressed when his first assignment is babysitting the pretty, perfect daughter of a politician—especially when she's far from the angel she appears to be . . .
Callie Hawthorne hates politics, and she hates playing the part of a senator's goody two shoes daughter even more. It only gets worse when her father decides she needs a security detail 24/7—and the bodyguard happens to be the most insanely hot guy Callie's ever seen. Still, she's not going to be ordered around just because of some half-assed threat to her father . . . But when it turns out her dad's no angel either, Jack has to kidnap Callie in order to protect her. And as danger closes in, he'll need all his considerable talents to keep them both alive. The greater challenge will be to keep his hands off her . . .
Contains mature themes.
Release date: February 27, 2018
Publisher: Kensington Books
Print pages: 324
* BingeBooks earns revenue from qualifying purchases as an Amazon Associate as well as from other retail partners.
Reader buzz
Please log in to recommend or discuss...
Author updates
Close
Raw Power
Jackie Ashenden
It was unimpressive. Deeply unimpressive.
Jack King stood outside the address he’d been given and scowled up at the broken neon of the sign that flickered fitfully above the entrance, announcing to passersby that Mac’s Bar was open. Or rather “ac’s Bar” was open, since the M wasn’t working.
Just to make sure, he checked again the small card with the address on it that the woman had thrust into his hand a couple of weeks back.
Mac’s Bar. Gaslamp District. San Diego.
Yeah, this was the place all right.
Jesus, what kind of “special operations” outfit had their headquarters in a rundown-looking bar?
The woman who’d given him the card had approached him out of the blue, while he’d been drowning his sorrows in an Ocean Beach bar not far from his house, telling him that she’d heard of his “performance” in the Middle East and asking him whether he’d be interested in being part of an ex-military unit called the “11th Hour” that dealt in “last-resort type of scenarios.” Not entirely legal, yet not entirely illegal either, they helped people with “problems” when all other avenues of help had run dry.
He’d been drunk and his hip had been giving him pain, and he’d just had yet another “thanks but no thanks” from a security firm who didn’t want him because of his injuries. The whole thing had sounded sketchy as fuck and he hadn’t wanted anything to do with it. He’d told her to go the hell away so she had, but not before leaving him with her card.
He hadn’t known what had made him pick it up and put it in his pocket, but he had, and now, a couple of weeks later after a fourth potential job offer had fallen through, here he was.
He supposed this officially meant he was desperate. Shit, since recovering from that fucking grenade attack he’d spent six months trying to find work and failing, so maybe desperate was exactly what he was.
Still, it was either this or he had to settle for some nine-to-five piece-of-shit job behind a desk. And he wasn’t a desk kind of guy. He was a marine, military through and through, and even though he didn’t wear the uniform these days, that didn’t mean he’d stopped being a marine.
He’d be one till his dying day.
Laughter and shouting sounded behind him as the evening crowd began to get rowdy. The two restaurants on either side of the bar in front of him had tables that spilled out onto the sidewalk, and they were full of loud groups of people obviously having fun. A pedicab went by carrying a couple of drunk guys who were shouting and waving at people.
A crowd of girls went past him, one of them smiling at him. Then as she caught sight of his scars, her eyes widened in shock.
Ignoring her, he pushed open the door to Mac’s Bar and stepped inside.
The interior of the place was as rundown and seedy-looking as the exterior. Stained carpet. Battered wooden tables and chairs. Booth seats covered in cracked red vinyl along one wall. There was a TV above the bar with a football game on and several old guys sitting on barstools watching it.
It smelled of spilled beer and cigarettes, and apart from the old guys at the bar, it appeared deserted.
Then he noticed a tall, slender woman behind the bar. She had thick brown curly hair held back in a low ponytail and there was a slightly suspicious expression on her sharp, pointed face. Not exactly a good look for a bartender.
“What can I get you?” she asked as he approached, her hazel eyes narrowing.
“Nothing.” Jack figured he might as well get straight to the point. “I need to talk to Faith Beasley.”
The woman gave him a measured look. “Who’s asking?”
“Jack King.”
Her gaze lingered on his scars. “Gimme a second,” she muttered, and before he could say another word she’d turned and disappeared through a doorway behind the bar.
He waited.
On the TV someone scored a touchdown and the old men grunted their approval.
Christ, what the fuck was he doing here? He was grasping at straws, that was for certain, and he hated the feeling. Of course, what he really wanted was to rejoin his unit and get back out in the field, but since the attack that had left him scarred all the way down the left side of his body, that was an impossibility. He wasn’t fit—as his CO had told him—and no amount of trying to convince the medics otherwise had made them change their minds.
He wasn’t fit to serve and so back into civilian life he went.
He fucking hated it.
“Mr. King.”
Jack turned sharply to find a woman in an expertly tailored gray pencil skirt and matching jacket standing beside him. Her black hair was shiny and smooth, her makeup perfect, and the smile she gave him wintry. She looked like a high-flying New York lawyer rather than a recruiter for a shady ex-military operation, and definitely out of place here in this bar.
“Yeah,” Jack said. “So. I’m here.”
“Indeed you are,” said Faith Beasley, the woman who’d shoved her card into his hand a couple of weeks earlier. “If you’d follow me, please, I’ll introduce you to the rest of the team.”
“You don’t seem all that surprised to see me,” Jack commented as she led him through the same doorway the woman behind the bar had used earlier.
“I’m not. I knew you’d turn up eventually.”
They were moving down a dimly lit corridor, a heavy-looking door at one end.
“How did you know that?” Jack asked as Faith stopped in front of the door, pausing to press her thumb to the keypad on the doorframe.
The sound of a lock turning echoed.
She put her hand on the door handle and pulled it open. “You’re a marine with no unit. Of course you’d turn up eventually.”
Jack scowled at her back as he followed her through yet another long corridor, uncomfortable with being read so easily.
“We’ve done a lot of research into you, Mr. King,” she went on, continuing to read his mind. “We know what you’re after and we’re very confident we can provide it.”
“Yeah?” He knew he sounded belligerent but didn’t much care. “And what’s that?”
She’d stopped at yet another door, though this time there was no lock. She gave him another cool smile as she pulled it open. “A purpose, Mr. King.” She gestured for him to go through. “After you.”
The words resonated inside him, even though he didn’t want them to, because of course that’s why he was here. That’s why he’d picked up her card in the bar weeks earlier.
Because that grenade had stolen his purpose from him and now he fucking wanted it back.
Jack walked through the doorway, coming out into a huge, vaulting space that for a second made him wonder where the hell he was.
Then he realized he was standing inside the echoing shell of a building where all the floors had been taken out, leaving nothing but empty air and soaring walls above him, and a vast open space in front of him.
The space had been divided up not by partitions, but by the strategic placement of different sorts of equipment. One area was obviously a gym, with treadmills and rowing machines, a couple of weight benches, and a punching bag, while another area had desks with lots of computer screens on it. The woman from behind the bar was standing at one of the desks, bent over a keyboard and typing furiously.
There was a tall blond man standing next to her who’d obviously just been working out, given the fact that he was wearing gym shorts and nothing else, a towel slung around his heavily muscled shoulders. He had scars too, burns from the looks of things. Clearly another medical discharge case.
Off to Jack’s left was another area with a whole lot of couches and armchairs that had been arranged to look like someone’s living room. There was even a floor lamp with fucking fringe standing next to a leather recliner.
Another man was sitting in the recliner and talking on his phone. He was tall and grizzled-looking, in his mid- to late forties, salt-and-pepper beard, with the hard, uncompromising look that all military men got once they’d been in the armed services long enough.
He looked up as Jack entered what had to be—finally—the 11th Hour’s HQ, with Faith following along behind him.
The older guy ended his call and pocketed his phone, then pushed himself out of the recliner and came over. He didn’t hold out his hand, merely gave Jack a long, hard stare, his brown eyes absolutely expressionless.
Jack stared back.
“This is Jack King,” Faith said coolly to the man. “Jack, this is Isiah Graham, leader of the 11th Hour team.”
Isiah gave Jack a curt nod, then looked over to the desk area, where the blond man and the curly-headed woman were standing. “You owe me fifty bucks, Kellan. Told you he’d be here.”
The blond man muttered something, then came over, the woman trailing behind him. He looked like a goddamn movie star, all chiseled jaw and piercing blue eyes. Only his tats gave him away, the eagle and trident across his chest unmistakable. The guy was a Navy SEAL.
Fucking frogmen.
The man gave Jack a cool stare. “Great. Thanks for doing me out of fifty bucks.”
“Ignore him,” the brunette muttered, stepping up and sticking out a hand. “I’m Sabrina Leighton and that’s Kellan Blake. Happy to meet you.”
It was a nice enough introduction so Jack shook her hand. The SEAL didn’t offer to shake, but Jack wasn’t a stranger to pissing contests. If that’s what the guy was after, then hell, he’d play.
Ignoring him, he turned to Faith instead. “So what? This is your team?”
“It’s not my team.” She gave him another of those wintry smiles. “It’s Mr. Night’s team.”
“Who’s Mr. Night?”
“The boss,” Isiah said flatly. “And he’s got a job for us already. Though since you’re the new guy you can take it.”
Well, shit, this was moving fast.
Without showing his surprise, Jack gave Isiah an assessing look. “As job interviews go, that was pretty fucking easy.”
Kellan laughed. “What? You think you’re on the team? Ha, no, buddy. Doesn’t work like that.”
Jack glanced at him. “Want to tell me how it does work then?”
Kellan’s blue eyes were cold. “You do the job we give you and then maybe, if you don’t fuck it up, you’re on the team.”
Christ, more pissing contest bullshit. He didn’t really have time for this.
You’ve got nothing but time and you know it.
“Thank you, Kellan.” Faith’s cool voice interjected smoothly. “But maybe you could try not putting off new recruits right away?” She gestured toward the couch area. “Why don’t you sit down, Mr. King, and I’ll show you the job we have lined up, and then you can decide whether this is something you want to be a part of or not.”
Unfortunately, as much as Jack hated to admit it, that snide voice in his head was right. He did have nothing but time. So he might as well sit down and at least see what kind of job it was. Had to be better than being a bouncer at a goddamn nightclub, which was his only other option.
Shrugging, Jack went over to the couch and sat, Faith and Isiah coming over with him. There was a folder sitting on the low coffee table beside the couch, which Faith pushed wordlessly over in his direction.
He picked it up and flicked it open, glancing down at the files that were inside and giving them a once-over.
Fuck’s sake. This was the job?
“Babysitting duties?” He looked at Faith, who’d sat down beside him. “Seriously?”
She didn’t bat an eyelash at his tone. “It may not be what you’re used to, but I assure you it’s an important job.”
Jack looked at the files again. “So, protecting some politician’s socialite daughter?”
“Miss Callie Hawthorne, yes. We have a jet that will take you to Boston in the next couple of hours if you decide to accept the job.”
Jack stared at her, momentarily distracted “A jet?”
Isiah gave a low laugh. “Now you get his attention.”
Ignoring the other guy, Faith folded her hands in her lap. “Mr. Night provides the team with any and all supplies they might need.”
Holy shit. Perhaps this little outfit wasn’t as half-assed as he’d thought it was.
Still. Babysitting duties.
He tried to twist his mouth into a smile to be pleasant, but smiling had always been difficult for him even before the damn grenade—fuck, it wasn’t as if he’d ever had a lot to smile about—so he stopped. “Look, Miss Beasley—”
“Ms.,” Faith interrupted crisply.
“Ms. Beasley. I appreciate the offer of the job with the team. But this . . .” He shoved the folder back toward her. “I’m a marine. Force Recon. And this . . . Well, this is bullshit.”
If his language bothered her, she gave no sign and Jack didn’t apologize. He wasn’t a poet using fancy-ass words. He was a warrior who fought for freedom and his country and for the people in it. And he’d earned the goddamn right to speak any way he chose.
Yeah, you’re not a fucking warrior now, asshole.
Jack scowled at the reminder.
“Told you,” Isiah muttered.
Ms. Faith Beasley calmly reached over the table and picked up the piece of paper. “That’s fine, Mr. King. If you don’t want to be a member of the team, then that choice is up to you.”
Jack scowled harder. “Hey, hey—I didn’t say I didn’t want to be a member of the team. I just didn’t want to do protection bullshit.”
This time it wasn’t Faith who spoke, but Isiah, his brown eyes surprisingly chilly. “And is that what you said to your superior officers when you were handed orders? ‘Sorry, sir, but I don’t want to do that’?”
Ah, fuck. Of course he hadn’t. He’d obeyed every order he’d been given.
Faith gave a nod, obviously agreeing with Isiah. “Orders are orders, Mr. King. If you don’t like them, then perhaps the 11th Hour isn’t for you. There are, after all, plenty of other jobs out there for you.”
But that was the problem. There weren’t any other jobs out there, and he knew because he’d spent the last six months since he’d moved to San Diego trying to find one.
Christ, if he wasn’t careful, he’d have to get some stupid desk job, which would drive him nuts since he hated sitting still. He always had to be doing something and he preferred that something to be physical.
As if on cue, his leg started aching like a bastard and he had to grit his teeth to stop from jogging it up and down to relieve the pain.
“So basically my only option if I want to join the team is to do this assignment.” His voice was a growl. “Is that what you’re telling me?”
“Yes,” Faith replied. “The 11th Hour is a military operation and Mr. Night runs it as such. Which means you have to prove you can follow his orders. Do your assignment and do it well and you’re in. Don’t do the assignment . . .”
She didn’t need to finish the sentence. Jack knew already.
It’s not like you have a choice.
Sadly, that was true. He could take this assignment, become part of the team, or he could drink himself to death, because that’s pretty much where he was headed if he didn’t fucking do something.
Shit, since when had he become such a pussy bitch that he couldn’t handle being a bodyguard to a socialite? And wasn’t being part of something, having people who had his back like his buddies used to, exactly what he’d been looking for? What he’d wanted?
Something inside him ached, something that for once wasn’t his leg.
Yeah, of course that’s what he wanted. A purpose, she’d said she’d give him . . .
Jack let out a silent breath, then leaned over and pulled the file back toward him.
One dark eyebrow rose. “Do I take that as an acceptance, Mr. King?”
Jack gripped the folder. “You can take it any way you like, Ms. Beasley. Now, when the fuck does that jet take off?”
Callie Hawthorne flung out a hand and accidentally-on-purpose overturned the glass containing the rest of her margarita all over the floor.
It was after midnight in The Globe, Boston’s newest and most exclusive nightclub, and everyone was either drunk or high, which made the accidental spilling of a drink hilarious.
Callie, who was neither drunk nor high but pretending to be both, shrieked and laughed with the rest of the large group she’d attached herself to after entering the nightclub a couple of hours earlier, then got unsteadily up from the couch, muttering something about going for a refill, and tottered toward the bar down the other end of the balcony area where she’d been sitting.
Halfway down, she stopped, glanced back at the couch where her “friends” were, then moved over to the railing that ran the length of the balcony and leaned back against it.
The group wasn’t looking at her, thank God, which meant she could have a couple of minutes to catch her breath. She did a quick survey of the rest of the balcony area to see if anyone else was looking at her—you never knew where journalists could be lurking—but she couldn’t see anyone, so she turned around and put her hands on the rail, gazing out over the heaving dance floor below her.
The club was in an old theater, the band she sneaked away to see playing on the stage, while in front of them the crowds danced. Tables and velvet couches were situated around the edges, all darkly lit and populated by shadows, while brilliant shafts of colored light strobed over the crowds, glistening over sweat-slicked skin and glancing off sequins.
The music was hard and driving, and she could feel the beat of it travel up through the soles of her feet, pulsing low in her belly, then in her chest, wrapping its rhythm around her heart. Making her forget everything but the intense rush that listening to good music always gave her.
God, she loved this. Listening to a fantastic band and feeling the energy of the crowd flow through her. It had been too long since she’d managed to escape like this. Way, way too long.
She missed live music. It reminded her of college and that brief year where her horizons had opened up and she’d realized what she’d been missing out on. Before her father had figured out exactly what it had meant to give his daughter freedom. And cut it short.
But no, she wasn’t going to think about her father, not here. Not now. The late-night charity event she’d snuck away from would cover her until at least one a.m., so she could relax a little and enjoy herself without worrying her father would discover where she’d actually gone.
Below her the crowd danced and she found her gaze snagging on a man moving through it. He was half a head taller than just about everyone on the dance floor, making him instantly noticeable, though it was the way he moved that caught her attention. He didn’t thread through the knots of people; no, the crowds simply parted before him like the Red Sea before Moses.
She’d never seen people do that for anyone who wasn’t a celebrity or important in some way. How weird. Who was he?
Tall, yes, and leanly muscular, she could tell by the fit of his dark blue jeans and black T-shirt. He had a black leather jacket pulled over it and he moved as if there weren’t hundreds of people in front of him. He moved as if he were surrounded by nothing but space.
And how he moved . . .
Stalking like a panther, fluid and graceful and somehow in time with the beat of the music, yet . . . not quite. There was a hitch to his walk, very slight if you weren’t looking for it, but now that she’d noticed it, she couldn’t look away.
He wasn’t like any of the manicured party boys in the group of people she’d been sitting with so she didn’t have to look like she was here by herself. Or the guys she’d met in college, or the preppy sons of the über-wealthy whom her father had introduced her to. And she was guessing he didn’t have anything to do with the trendy clubbing crowd that currently flooded The Globe, given that the clothes he wore were definitely not label.
She leaned her elbows on the rail, watching him. And she wasn’t the only one, judging by the heads turning in his direction.
She couldn’t quite make out his features in the dim light, but he seemed to have very short dark hair, almost a buzz cut, which made him very much not one of the in-crowd here.
The man stopped in the middle of the dance floor, taking absolutely no notice of the people dancing around him, and lifted his gaze to the balcony where she stood. And looked unerringly at her.
It felt like someone had punched her in the stomach. Hard.
His face . . . Strongly carved features, sharp and predatory, like a hawk’s. Straight black slashes of brows, deeply set eyes, and . . . scars. As if a tiger’s paw had clawed at half of his face, twisting the corner of his mouth and pulling one eye slightly upward, his brow drawn up along with it. There was white scar tissue snaking along his jaw and across his cheeks, marring the smooth olive skin.
Horrifying and yet completely mesmerizing both at once.
A dangerous face. And the look in his deep-set eyes was dangerous too, like she was a target he was locking on to.
The lights flashed, illuminating his scarred features, and she blinked, trying to find some air where there was none to be had.
Green. His eyes were green. Like fir trees and forests and jungles.
Her heartbeat echoed, suddenly loud in her head, a deep, hard rhythm like the music vibrating through the club, and something unfamiliar coiled inside her.
It felt like fear and yet wasn’t, or maybe it was somehow related to it, she couldn’t tell. Whatever, his intense gaze disturbed her on some deep level and she had to turn around and lean back against the rail just to fill her lungs.
Her breathing had quickened and she could feel her pulse going like a rocket. Jesus. What the hell was wrong with her? She’d never had a reaction like that to a man before. She’d never had a reaction like that to anyone, period.
Men hadn’t figured much in her severely curtailed life—at least men her father hadn’t thoroughly approved of, and she had a feeling he would definitely not approve of that one.
Something pulled at her, the little devil inside her that she could never quite quell, the one her father was always trying to crush. Whispering in her ear that she should go down onto the dance floor, find that tall, scarred figure, and draw him into the mass of writhing bodies. Dance with him. That this was one of the very few chances she had to break out of her usual life, do something she’d never had an opportunity to do.
No. She couldn’t. It would draw too much attention and she wasn’t here to attract attention. She was here to enjoy the music, that’s all.
She took a deep breath, her pulse slowing, and relaxed against the rail at her back. Okay, another minute and then she’d go to the bar, get another margarita that she wouldn’t drink, then maybe she’d go back to that group of people and pretend they were her friends. Pretend she was a normal twenty-two-year-old with a normal life.
Pretend that she wasn’t the only child of a future presidential candidate. A daughter with the weight of an entire dynasty on her shoulders. Who had to be worthy and do whatever her father said. And if she didn’t . . .
No. No thinking about that now. She was in the moment now. Her father didn’t know where she was and she hadn’t been discovered yet, which meant she could still enjoy herself. The consequences of tonight were future Callie’s problem.
Pushing herself away from the rail, she walked unsteadily up to the bar, keeping up her drunken act just for the hell of it, grinning at the barman and earning herself a piece of paper with his number on it as he pushed her margarita toward her.
She giggled, privately thrilled to have gotten it—her first successful flirtation!—even though she’d never follow up on it. Giving the barman a wink and a finger wave, she then turned toward the table where the group was and began to make her way back, making sure to slosh as much of the drink out of her glass as she could so she didn’t have to swallow all of it.
Then came to a dead stop.
Because the guy she’d seen on the dance floor, the scarred man who’d made her heart miss a beat, was standing at the table talking to the others.
Oh shit. What the hell was he doing up here?
Sylvia—at least Callie thought that was her name—turned and pointed toward the bar, and the man lifted his head and looked in her direction, that intense dark green gaze slamming into her once again.
The margarita glass suddenly felt slippery in her fingers and it was all she could do not to drop it. Her heartbeat, which had settled down nicely, began to pick up speed again, getting faster and faster as the man began to head in her direction, pinning her with that mesmerizing stare, moving with that strange hitching walk that was nevertheless as predatory as any panther’s.
Something cold settled down inside her, at the same time as something hot ignited. And it confused her. She didn’t know what to do, whether to drop her glass an. . .
Jack King stood outside the address he’d been given and scowled up at the broken neon of the sign that flickered fitfully above the entrance, announcing to passersby that Mac’s Bar was open. Or rather “ac’s Bar” was open, since the M wasn’t working.
Just to make sure, he checked again the small card with the address on it that the woman had thrust into his hand a couple of weeks back.
Mac’s Bar. Gaslamp District. San Diego.
Yeah, this was the place all right.
Jesus, what kind of “special operations” outfit had their headquarters in a rundown-looking bar?
The woman who’d given him the card had approached him out of the blue, while he’d been drowning his sorrows in an Ocean Beach bar not far from his house, telling him that she’d heard of his “performance” in the Middle East and asking him whether he’d be interested in being part of an ex-military unit called the “11th Hour” that dealt in “last-resort type of scenarios.” Not entirely legal, yet not entirely illegal either, they helped people with “problems” when all other avenues of help had run dry.
He’d been drunk and his hip had been giving him pain, and he’d just had yet another “thanks but no thanks” from a security firm who didn’t want him because of his injuries. The whole thing had sounded sketchy as fuck and he hadn’t wanted anything to do with it. He’d told her to go the hell away so she had, but not before leaving him with her card.
He hadn’t known what had made him pick it up and put it in his pocket, but he had, and now, a couple of weeks later after a fourth potential job offer had fallen through, here he was.
He supposed this officially meant he was desperate. Shit, since recovering from that fucking grenade attack he’d spent six months trying to find work and failing, so maybe desperate was exactly what he was.
Still, it was either this or he had to settle for some nine-to-five piece-of-shit job behind a desk. And he wasn’t a desk kind of guy. He was a marine, military through and through, and even though he didn’t wear the uniform these days, that didn’t mean he’d stopped being a marine.
He’d be one till his dying day.
Laughter and shouting sounded behind him as the evening crowd began to get rowdy. The two restaurants on either side of the bar in front of him had tables that spilled out onto the sidewalk, and they were full of loud groups of people obviously having fun. A pedicab went by carrying a couple of drunk guys who were shouting and waving at people.
A crowd of girls went past him, one of them smiling at him. Then as she caught sight of his scars, her eyes widened in shock.
Ignoring her, he pushed open the door to Mac’s Bar and stepped inside.
The interior of the place was as rundown and seedy-looking as the exterior. Stained carpet. Battered wooden tables and chairs. Booth seats covered in cracked red vinyl along one wall. There was a TV above the bar with a football game on and several old guys sitting on barstools watching it.
It smelled of spilled beer and cigarettes, and apart from the old guys at the bar, it appeared deserted.
Then he noticed a tall, slender woman behind the bar. She had thick brown curly hair held back in a low ponytail and there was a slightly suspicious expression on her sharp, pointed face. Not exactly a good look for a bartender.
“What can I get you?” she asked as he approached, her hazel eyes narrowing.
“Nothing.” Jack figured he might as well get straight to the point. “I need to talk to Faith Beasley.”
The woman gave him a measured look. “Who’s asking?”
“Jack King.”
Her gaze lingered on his scars. “Gimme a second,” she muttered, and before he could say another word she’d turned and disappeared through a doorway behind the bar.
He waited.
On the TV someone scored a touchdown and the old men grunted their approval.
Christ, what the fuck was he doing here? He was grasping at straws, that was for certain, and he hated the feeling. Of course, what he really wanted was to rejoin his unit and get back out in the field, but since the attack that had left him scarred all the way down the left side of his body, that was an impossibility. He wasn’t fit—as his CO had told him—and no amount of trying to convince the medics otherwise had made them change their minds.
He wasn’t fit to serve and so back into civilian life he went.
He fucking hated it.
“Mr. King.”
Jack turned sharply to find a woman in an expertly tailored gray pencil skirt and matching jacket standing beside him. Her black hair was shiny and smooth, her makeup perfect, and the smile she gave him wintry. She looked like a high-flying New York lawyer rather than a recruiter for a shady ex-military operation, and definitely out of place here in this bar.
“Yeah,” Jack said. “So. I’m here.”
“Indeed you are,” said Faith Beasley, the woman who’d shoved her card into his hand a couple of weeks earlier. “If you’d follow me, please, I’ll introduce you to the rest of the team.”
“You don’t seem all that surprised to see me,” Jack commented as she led him through the same doorway the woman behind the bar had used earlier.
“I’m not. I knew you’d turn up eventually.”
They were moving down a dimly lit corridor, a heavy-looking door at one end.
“How did you know that?” Jack asked as Faith stopped in front of the door, pausing to press her thumb to the keypad on the doorframe.
The sound of a lock turning echoed.
She put her hand on the door handle and pulled it open. “You’re a marine with no unit. Of course you’d turn up eventually.”
Jack scowled at her back as he followed her through yet another long corridor, uncomfortable with being read so easily.
“We’ve done a lot of research into you, Mr. King,” she went on, continuing to read his mind. “We know what you’re after and we’re very confident we can provide it.”
“Yeah?” He knew he sounded belligerent but didn’t much care. “And what’s that?”
She’d stopped at yet another door, though this time there was no lock. She gave him another cool smile as she pulled it open. “A purpose, Mr. King.” She gestured for him to go through. “After you.”
The words resonated inside him, even though he didn’t want them to, because of course that’s why he was here. That’s why he’d picked up her card in the bar weeks earlier.
Because that grenade had stolen his purpose from him and now he fucking wanted it back.
Jack walked through the doorway, coming out into a huge, vaulting space that for a second made him wonder where the hell he was.
Then he realized he was standing inside the echoing shell of a building where all the floors had been taken out, leaving nothing but empty air and soaring walls above him, and a vast open space in front of him.
The space had been divided up not by partitions, but by the strategic placement of different sorts of equipment. One area was obviously a gym, with treadmills and rowing machines, a couple of weight benches, and a punching bag, while another area had desks with lots of computer screens on it. The woman from behind the bar was standing at one of the desks, bent over a keyboard and typing furiously.
There was a tall blond man standing next to her who’d obviously just been working out, given the fact that he was wearing gym shorts and nothing else, a towel slung around his heavily muscled shoulders. He had scars too, burns from the looks of things. Clearly another medical discharge case.
Off to Jack’s left was another area with a whole lot of couches and armchairs that had been arranged to look like someone’s living room. There was even a floor lamp with fucking fringe standing next to a leather recliner.
Another man was sitting in the recliner and talking on his phone. He was tall and grizzled-looking, in his mid- to late forties, salt-and-pepper beard, with the hard, uncompromising look that all military men got once they’d been in the armed services long enough.
He looked up as Jack entered what had to be—finally—the 11th Hour’s HQ, with Faith following along behind him.
The older guy ended his call and pocketed his phone, then pushed himself out of the recliner and came over. He didn’t hold out his hand, merely gave Jack a long, hard stare, his brown eyes absolutely expressionless.
Jack stared back.
“This is Jack King,” Faith said coolly to the man. “Jack, this is Isiah Graham, leader of the 11th Hour team.”
Isiah gave Jack a curt nod, then looked over to the desk area, where the blond man and the curly-headed woman were standing. “You owe me fifty bucks, Kellan. Told you he’d be here.”
The blond man muttered something, then came over, the woman trailing behind him. He looked like a goddamn movie star, all chiseled jaw and piercing blue eyes. Only his tats gave him away, the eagle and trident across his chest unmistakable. The guy was a Navy SEAL.
Fucking frogmen.
The man gave Jack a cool stare. “Great. Thanks for doing me out of fifty bucks.”
“Ignore him,” the brunette muttered, stepping up and sticking out a hand. “I’m Sabrina Leighton and that’s Kellan Blake. Happy to meet you.”
It was a nice enough introduction so Jack shook her hand. The SEAL didn’t offer to shake, but Jack wasn’t a stranger to pissing contests. If that’s what the guy was after, then hell, he’d play.
Ignoring him, he turned to Faith instead. “So what? This is your team?”
“It’s not my team.” She gave him another of those wintry smiles. “It’s Mr. Night’s team.”
“Who’s Mr. Night?”
“The boss,” Isiah said flatly. “And he’s got a job for us already. Though since you’re the new guy you can take it.”
Well, shit, this was moving fast.
Without showing his surprise, Jack gave Isiah an assessing look. “As job interviews go, that was pretty fucking easy.”
Kellan laughed. “What? You think you’re on the team? Ha, no, buddy. Doesn’t work like that.”
Jack glanced at him. “Want to tell me how it does work then?”
Kellan’s blue eyes were cold. “You do the job we give you and then maybe, if you don’t fuck it up, you’re on the team.”
Christ, more pissing contest bullshit. He didn’t really have time for this.
You’ve got nothing but time and you know it.
“Thank you, Kellan.” Faith’s cool voice interjected smoothly. “But maybe you could try not putting off new recruits right away?” She gestured toward the couch area. “Why don’t you sit down, Mr. King, and I’ll show you the job we have lined up, and then you can decide whether this is something you want to be a part of or not.”
Unfortunately, as much as Jack hated to admit it, that snide voice in his head was right. He did have nothing but time. So he might as well sit down and at least see what kind of job it was. Had to be better than being a bouncer at a goddamn nightclub, which was his only other option.
Shrugging, Jack went over to the couch and sat, Faith and Isiah coming over with him. There was a folder sitting on the low coffee table beside the couch, which Faith pushed wordlessly over in his direction.
He picked it up and flicked it open, glancing down at the files that were inside and giving them a once-over.
Fuck’s sake. This was the job?
“Babysitting duties?” He looked at Faith, who’d sat down beside him. “Seriously?”
She didn’t bat an eyelash at his tone. “It may not be what you’re used to, but I assure you it’s an important job.”
Jack looked at the files again. “So, protecting some politician’s socialite daughter?”
“Miss Callie Hawthorne, yes. We have a jet that will take you to Boston in the next couple of hours if you decide to accept the job.”
Jack stared at her, momentarily distracted “A jet?”
Isiah gave a low laugh. “Now you get his attention.”
Ignoring the other guy, Faith folded her hands in her lap. “Mr. Night provides the team with any and all supplies they might need.”
Holy shit. Perhaps this little outfit wasn’t as half-assed as he’d thought it was.
Still. Babysitting duties.
He tried to twist his mouth into a smile to be pleasant, but smiling had always been difficult for him even before the damn grenade—fuck, it wasn’t as if he’d ever had a lot to smile about—so he stopped. “Look, Miss Beasley—”
“Ms.,” Faith interrupted crisply.
“Ms. Beasley. I appreciate the offer of the job with the team. But this . . .” He shoved the folder back toward her. “I’m a marine. Force Recon. And this . . . Well, this is bullshit.”
If his language bothered her, she gave no sign and Jack didn’t apologize. He wasn’t a poet using fancy-ass words. He was a warrior who fought for freedom and his country and for the people in it. And he’d earned the goddamn right to speak any way he chose.
Yeah, you’re not a fucking warrior now, asshole.
Jack scowled at the reminder.
“Told you,” Isiah muttered.
Ms. Faith Beasley calmly reached over the table and picked up the piece of paper. “That’s fine, Mr. King. If you don’t want to be a member of the team, then that choice is up to you.”
Jack scowled harder. “Hey, hey—I didn’t say I didn’t want to be a member of the team. I just didn’t want to do protection bullshit.”
This time it wasn’t Faith who spoke, but Isiah, his brown eyes surprisingly chilly. “And is that what you said to your superior officers when you were handed orders? ‘Sorry, sir, but I don’t want to do that’?”
Ah, fuck. Of course he hadn’t. He’d obeyed every order he’d been given.
Faith gave a nod, obviously agreeing with Isiah. “Orders are orders, Mr. King. If you don’t like them, then perhaps the 11th Hour isn’t for you. There are, after all, plenty of other jobs out there for you.”
But that was the problem. There weren’t any other jobs out there, and he knew because he’d spent the last six months since he’d moved to San Diego trying to find one.
Christ, if he wasn’t careful, he’d have to get some stupid desk job, which would drive him nuts since he hated sitting still. He always had to be doing something and he preferred that something to be physical.
As if on cue, his leg started aching like a bastard and he had to grit his teeth to stop from jogging it up and down to relieve the pain.
“So basically my only option if I want to join the team is to do this assignment.” His voice was a growl. “Is that what you’re telling me?”
“Yes,” Faith replied. “The 11th Hour is a military operation and Mr. Night runs it as such. Which means you have to prove you can follow his orders. Do your assignment and do it well and you’re in. Don’t do the assignment . . .”
She didn’t need to finish the sentence. Jack knew already.
It’s not like you have a choice.
Sadly, that was true. He could take this assignment, become part of the team, or he could drink himself to death, because that’s pretty much where he was headed if he didn’t fucking do something.
Shit, since when had he become such a pussy bitch that he couldn’t handle being a bodyguard to a socialite? And wasn’t being part of something, having people who had his back like his buddies used to, exactly what he’d been looking for? What he’d wanted?
Something inside him ached, something that for once wasn’t his leg.
Yeah, of course that’s what he wanted. A purpose, she’d said she’d give him . . .
Jack let out a silent breath, then leaned over and pulled the file back toward him.
One dark eyebrow rose. “Do I take that as an acceptance, Mr. King?”
Jack gripped the folder. “You can take it any way you like, Ms. Beasley. Now, when the fuck does that jet take off?”
Callie Hawthorne flung out a hand and accidentally-on-purpose overturned the glass containing the rest of her margarita all over the floor.
It was after midnight in The Globe, Boston’s newest and most exclusive nightclub, and everyone was either drunk or high, which made the accidental spilling of a drink hilarious.
Callie, who was neither drunk nor high but pretending to be both, shrieked and laughed with the rest of the large group she’d attached herself to after entering the nightclub a couple of hours earlier, then got unsteadily up from the couch, muttering something about going for a refill, and tottered toward the bar down the other end of the balcony area where she’d been sitting.
Halfway down, she stopped, glanced back at the couch where her “friends” were, then moved over to the railing that ran the length of the balcony and leaned back against it.
The group wasn’t looking at her, thank God, which meant she could have a couple of minutes to catch her breath. She did a quick survey of the rest of the balcony area to see if anyone else was looking at her—you never knew where journalists could be lurking—but she couldn’t see anyone, so she turned around and put her hands on the rail, gazing out over the heaving dance floor below her.
The club was in an old theater, the band she sneaked away to see playing on the stage, while in front of them the crowds danced. Tables and velvet couches were situated around the edges, all darkly lit and populated by shadows, while brilliant shafts of colored light strobed over the crowds, glistening over sweat-slicked skin and glancing off sequins.
The music was hard and driving, and she could feel the beat of it travel up through the soles of her feet, pulsing low in her belly, then in her chest, wrapping its rhythm around her heart. Making her forget everything but the intense rush that listening to good music always gave her.
God, she loved this. Listening to a fantastic band and feeling the energy of the crowd flow through her. It had been too long since she’d managed to escape like this. Way, way too long.
She missed live music. It reminded her of college and that brief year where her horizons had opened up and she’d realized what she’d been missing out on. Before her father had figured out exactly what it had meant to give his daughter freedom. And cut it short.
But no, she wasn’t going to think about her father, not here. Not now. The late-night charity event she’d snuck away from would cover her until at least one a.m., so she could relax a little and enjoy herself without worrying her father would discover where she’d actually gone.
Below her the crowd danced and she found her gaze snagging on a man moving through it. He was half a head taller than just about everyone on the dance floor, making him instantly noticeable, though it was the way he moved that caught her attention. He didn’t thread through the knots of people; no, the crowds simply parted before him like the Red Sea before Moses.
She’d never seen people do that for anyone who wasn’t a celebrity or important in some way. How weird. Who was he?
Tall, yes, and leanly muscular, she could tell by the fit of his dark blue jeans and black T-shirt. He had a black leather jacket pulled over it and he moved as if there weren’t hundreds of people in front of him. He moved as if he were surrounded by nothing but space.
And how he moved . . .
Stalking like a panther, fluid and graceful and somehow in time with the beat of the music, yet . . . not quite. There was a hitch to his walk, very slight if you weren’t looking for it, but now that she’d noticed it, she couldn’t look away.
He wasn’t like any of the manicured party boys in the group of people she’d been sitting with so she didn’t have to look like she was here by herself. Or the guys she’d met in college, or the preppy sons of the über-wealthy whom her father had introduced her to. And she was guessing he didn’t have anything to do with the trendy clubbing crowd that currently flooded The Globe, given that the clothes he wore were definitely not label.
She leaned her elbows on the rail, watching him. And she wasn’t the only one, judging by the heads turning in his direction.
She couldn’t quite make out his features in the dim light, but he seemed to have very short dark hair, almost a buzz cut, which made him very much not one of the in-crowd here.
The man stopped in the middle of the dance floor, taking absolutely no notice of the people dancing around him, and lifted his gaze to the balcony where she stood. And looked unerringly at her.
It felt like someone had punched her in the stomach. Hard.
His face . . . Strongly carved features, sharp and predatory, like a hawk’s. Straight black slashes of brows, deeply set eyes, and . . . scars. As if a tiger’s paw had clawed at half of his face, twisting the corner of his mouth and pulling one eye slightly upward, his brow drawn up along with it. There was white scar tissue snaking along his jaw and across his cheeks, marring the smooth olive skin.
Horrifying and yet completely mesmerizing both at once.
A dangerous face. And the look in his deep-set eyes was dangerous too, like she was a target he was locking on to.
The lights flashed, illuminating his scarred features, and she blinked, trying to find some air where there was none to be had.
Green. His eyes were green. Like fir trees and forests and jungles.
Her heartbeat echoed, suddenly loud in her head, a deep, hard rhythm like the music vibrating through the club, and something unfamiliar coiled inside her.
It felt like fear and yet wasn’t, or maybe it was somehow related to it, she couldn’t tell. Whatever, his intense gaze disturbed her on some deep level and she had to turn around and lean back against the rail just to fill her lungs.
Her breathing had quickened and she could feel her pulse going like a rocket. Jesus. What the hell was wrong with her? She’d never had a reaction like that to a man before. She’d never had a reaction like that to anyone, period.
Men hadn’t figured much in her severely curtailed life—at least men her father hadn’t thoroughly approved of, and she had a feeling he would definitely not approve of that one.
Something pulled at her, the little devil inside her that she could never quite quell, the one her father was always trying to crush. Whispering in her ear that she should go down onto the dance floor, find that tall, scarred figure, and draw him into the mass of writhing bodies. Dance with him. That this was one of the very few chances she had to break out of her usual life, do something she’d never had an opportunity to do.
No. She couldn’t. It would draw too much attention and she wasn’t here to attract attention. She was here to enjoy the music, that’s all.
She took a deep breath, her pulse slowing, and relaxed against the rail at her back. Okay, another minute and then she’d go to the bar, get another margarita that she wouldn’t drink, then maybe she’d go back to that group of people and pretend they were her friends. Pretend she was a normal twenty-two-year-old with a normal life.
Pretend that she wasn’t the only child of a future presidential candidate. A daughter with the weight of an entire dynasty on her shoulders. Who had to be worthy and do whatever her father said. And if she didn’t . . .
No. No thinking about that now. She was in the moment now. Her father didn’t know where she was and she hadn’t been discovered yet, which meant she could still enjoy herself. The consequences of tonight were future Callie’s problem.
Pushing herself away from the rail, she walked unsteadily up to the bar, keeping up her drunken act just for the hell of it, grinning at the barman and earning herself a piece of paper with his number on it as he pushed her margarita toward her.
She giggled, privately thrilled to have gotten it—her first successful flirtation!—even though she’d never follow up on it. Giving the barman a wink and a finger wave, she then turned toward the table where the group was and began to make her way back, making sure to slosh as much of the drink out of her glass as she could so she didn’t have to swallow all of it.
Then came to a dead stop.
Because the guy she’d seen on the dance floor, the scarred man who’d made her heart miss a beat, was standing at the table talking to the others.
Oh shit. What the hell was he doing up here?
Sylvia—at least Callie thought that was her name—turned and pointed toward the bar, and the man lifted his head and looked in her direction, that intense dark green gaze slamming into her once again.
The margarita glass suddenly felt slippery in her fingers and it was all she could do not to drop it. Her heartbeat, which had settled down nicely, began to pick up speed again, getting faster and faster as the man began to head in her direction, pinning her with that mesmerizing stare, moving with that strange hitching walk that was nevertheless as predatory as any panther’s.
Something cold settled down inside her, at the same time as something hot ignited. And it confused her. She didn’t know what to do, whether to drop her glass an. . .
We hope you are enjoying the book so far. To continue reading...
Copyright © 2025 All Rights Reserved
