Jackie Manning - Tough As Nails

She wrinkled her pug nose and grinned. “What a lovely compliment, Mike. Dad was six foot five, almost three hundred pounds of muscle, and wore size eighteen combat boots.” She feigned a glare. “I’m a size four, in case you haven’t noticed.”

He grinned. “You know what I mean. The same red hair. Same freckles. Same sass.”

She rolled her eyes, and he chuckled as she moved to the side of his desk and gazed at the framed picture of the Fifth Special Forces TALON-team that hung on the wall beside the bookcase. Six rugged men, dressed in combat tiger stripes, their faces darkened with camouflage grease, stood at the edge of the Colombian jungle, staring somberly into the camera. The picture was taken just six weeks before Bailey’s father, Master Sergeant Stewart Thomas was killed in action. From that time on, the five remaining members of TALON-team vowed to take care of Stu’s wife and daughter as their own family.

“Since I’ve come to work with all of you here at TALON-6,” Bailey said, her voice tight, “I’ve come to realize how lucky Dad was to have you guys in his life.”

“Your dad would be real proud of you, Bailey.”

She nodded, her eyes bright. “Oh, before I forget,” she said, her manner suddenly all-business. She put the file folder in front of Mike on the desk. “You have a client waiting. She refused to fill out the standard office questionnaire. Said it may not be necessary because you might not want to take her case.”

Mike glanced up, curious. “Funny thing to say. Did she say why?”

Bailey shook her head. “No. But I’d see her if I were you. She’s drop-dead gorgeous with legs a mile long. And she’s not wearing a wedding band.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Not you, too. I don’t need any help with my love life, thank you.”

Bailey grinned. “Only trying to help. With Clete and Russell out of the country, Liam at Stacey’s wedding and Jake holed up in a Florida hospital, you’ve got smooth sailing.”

He growled. “Out of here. Oh, by the way, does Miss America have a name?”

“Yeah. Her name is on the folder in front of your nose. Brianna Kent,” she said as she stepped out the door.

Brianna Kent? Mike swiveled in his chair and opened the folder. He reached into his T-shirt pocket for a cigarette, then remembered he’d given up the filthy habit over two years ago.

Bailey must have heard the name wrong. He almost clicked on the office intercom for her to recheck the name, but he knew deep down in his gut that this was his Brianna. He’d always had a sixth sense where she was concerned.

His phone buzzed and he pressed the lever. He heard Bailey’s voice ask, “Mike, shall I send her in?”

Refuse. Say you’re not taking new clients. Mike took a deep breath and braced himself.

Well, if she could face him, then he’d face her, too. “Send her in.”

Mike rose, shrugged into his jacket and raked his hair back by the time the door swung open and Brianna Kent stepped into his office.

Tall, willowy, and dressed in a summery, watery-blue silk dress, Brianna looked as he remembered her: warm, sexy and completely off-limits.

“Hello, Michael.”

Her smoky contralto was nearly his undoing. For one brief, overwhelming moment, he didn’t move. All he wanted was to look at her and absorb every changed detail about her. He knew how her skin felt beneath him. Knew the intimate places she’d loved him to touch, and her sounds of pleasure when he did.

“Brianna.” His voice was huskier than he would have liked. Not trusting his voice now, he pointed to one of the leather chairs that faced his desk. She nodded, then eased gracefully into the seat, the motion sending her shoulder-length, silvery-blond hair shimmering in the afternoon light from the window.

His fingers twitched as he remembered brushing that hair until it shone like moonlit waves of satin down her back. When he’d first known her, she wore her waist-length hair parted in the middle and loose. She had looked like what he imagined a storybook princess to be. His golden princess, he’d called her, and she’d laugh in that rich, throaty way that always went straight to his heart.

“Thanks for seeing me on such short notice.” Her voice held no hint of emotion, but he noticed her fingers grip the strap on her leather bag.

Her gaze swept his office, more out of politeness than curiosity, he would guess. “Nora told me you were doing very well.” She smiled. “I’m glad for you, Michael.” Her eyes held his. “And you’re looking well.”

The proper boarding schools had taught her to be gracious under pressure. He wondered if she really gave a damn how he was doing, business or otherwise. But he let the comment drop. “And so are you.” He swallowed. “How is Nora?”

The smile she gave him warmed her eyes. “Nora’s fine, thank you. She left this morning for Denver to visit her sister for several weeks.” Brianna hesitated, and he couldn’t quite believe that his wife—his ex-wife—was really sitting in front of him.

Hell, they were chatting away as though nothing had happened seven years ago. But his palms were damp and his throat felt as if he’d swallowed a basketball.

“I’ve been back in the city for two years, Brianna. I hardly think you just happened to find yourself in my neighborhood.”

“Of course.” She fixed those moss-green eyes on him, and he could see reluctance and something else.

“You’re right. I’ll get to the point.” She slipped her handbag strap from her arm and withdrew a large envelope from inside the bag. “I’m a psychologist now, with an office here in the city.”

Over the years, he’d kept track of almost everything about her through her aunt. Nora mentioned that Brianna had finished her doctorate, opened her office and became engaged to a London plastic surgeon. Nora also told him when Brianna’s engagement had been broken, and he cursed himself for the relief that news had given him.

“Most of my clients are women and teenagers from the city family-violence shelter.”

He noticed her hands tremble as she slid the envelope across the desktop toward him. He leaned forward, curious what would bring her to see him.

“Over the past two weeks, I’ve received four anonymous envelopes, each containing one picture.” As she spoke, Mike lifted the flap and pulled out three black-and-white photographs, all eight-by-ten glossies, and laid them across the front of his desk. “There’re only three here.”

“I left the last one with Lieutenant Jeffries at the local precinct on my way here. It was slipped under my door early this morning.” She averted her gaze from the photographs, as though not wanting to face the evidence.

“Did Jeffries say he was running it for prints?”

“Yes, although I doubt if the lab will find any. The other photos were clean, too.”

Mike nodded, then studied the pictures. Each one focused on Brianna in full close-up. The first picture showed her in a parking garage as she slid behind the wheel of a Jeep Wrangler hardtop. “Your car?” he asked.

She nodded. “I rent a parking space at a garage across from my office building.”

Anyone could have easy access to her car, especially using a zoom lens, and not be seen, Mike thought. The second photo was taken in a crowded restaurant. Brianna was in the center of a circle of women, laughing. On the table, a basket of brightly wrapped gifts hung from the beak of a tall, smiling stork.

“A colleague’s baby shower,” she said. “That was taken two days before the photo arrived.”

Mike’s gaze lingered on the next photo: Brianna, drinking wine with a good-looking, dark-haired, bearded guy at a cocktail bar. “Your boyfriend?” He hoped the question sounded motivated by professional rather than personal curiosity.