Jane M. Choate - Inherited Threat

But even that paled compared to the scars that marked his soul. From long habit, he pushed away the spiraling downward turn of his thoughts and focused on the client at his side.

Beauty was in the eye of the beholder, but this lady would make any man sit up and take notice. Flawless skin was complemented by heavily fringed eyes and a mouth that looked like it might have curved in a smile easily enough had the circumstances been different. As it was, her lips were firmed in an uncompromising line.

He didn’t fault her for that. Having two of the Collective’s foot soldiers on your tail tended to take the fun right out of you.

She held herself tightly, the tense posture saying more than words could that she was preparing for a fight. Her eyes blazed with the rush of adrenaline, and he knew his did as well.

“Relax,” he said. “I haven’t lost a client yet.”

His lame attempt at humor didn’t raise so much as a small smile from her.

“Sorry.” She lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “It’s been a pretty intense twenty-four hours.”

“I get it.”

After that brief exchange, she lapsed into silence.

* * *

Laurel understood that she was being vetted by the bodyguard. She didn’t mind. Much. She was doing some vetting of her own and decided that Mace Ransom was a straight shooter who didn’t waste time. She appreciated that. A complicated man, she judged.

He was tall, with a rangy build that spelled both strength and speed. Along with jeans and Frye combat boots, he wore an Under Armour shirt and a tactical Blackhawk Warrior Wear jacket system. She guessed there was a holstered weapon beneath the jacket.

His no-nonsense clothes echoed her own. With the temperature steadily dropping in the deep woods, she was grateful for her Duluth Trading jacket, flannel shirt, jeans and Asolo hiking boots.

She turned her attention away from his clothes to the man himself. A bladed nose, sharp cheekbones and narrow-set eyes hinted of Native American ancestry. It wouldn’t be surprising. Many people in the South bore a trace or more of Cherokee blood. All in all, it made for a compelling face.

His features were too rough-hewed, his eyes too full of determination for the bland good looks that found favor in the glossies and online e-zines. No, Mace Ransom would never be mistaken for a movie star or a media idol.

He was closemouthed but could ask questions when he wanted to know something. Even if she hadn’t known he was an ex-Ranger, she’d have made him as spec-ops. It was there in the smoke-colored eyes that missed nothing, in the ramrod posture with the resolutely set shoulders.

His bearing shouted military. She liked the reassurance of that, the familiarity of it. Everything about him was hard. Hard eyes. Hard hands. Hard driven. She’d been around such men for the last nine years of her life. They didn’t give in and they didn’t give up. For that, she was grateful.

The scar on his cheek didn’t repel her. She’d seen worse. Far worse. Along with a day’s growth of beard that roughened his jawline, it added to the dark and dangerous appeal of the man. She bore her own share of scars, some visible, others not. Stars and scars, one of the men in her unit had used to describe spec-ops soldiers.

There was a faint indentation on his chin that might have been a dimple if his lips were to curve in a smile, but the harsh lines bracketing his mouth told their own story, that of a man who rarely if ever smiled. Had life in the Rangers turned him bitter and angry or was there another explanation for the dark cast to his face?

He bore not a lick of the gloss that had characterized her onetime fiancé, though he had been military, too. Jeffrey had been all spit and polish on the outside. It was a pity that he’d been so ordinary on the inside. Laurel pushed memories from her mind of the man who hadn’t been able to handle her making Ranger when he’d washed out.

Unless she missed her guess, there was evidence of a deeper kind of pain in Mace Ransom, the kind that shadowed the heart and the soul. She saw it in the darkening of his eyes when he turned her way and the tight control with which he held himself. At the same time, she detected a steady kind of valor in his eyes, the kind that said he’d do what was right, regardless of the cost to himself.

Whatever put the pain in his eyes, it was not her problem. Or her business.

She wasn’t there to psychoanalyze the S&J agent. She needed his help. Ever since the explosion that had injured her shoulder, she had been functioning at half speed. She needed to step up her game.

“If I didn’t say it already, thanks. For coming. For being here.”

“No need. I go where the job takes me.”

Okay. That put her in her place. She was an assignment. “Still, I appreciate it. I’ve handled myself in plenty of tough situations, but this has me rattled.”

As if sensing her distress, Sammy nudged her neck with his nose. She reached back to scratch his muzzle. “It’s okay,” she murmured. His wet tongue laved her cheek, the small gesture of affection warming her.

“He’s a good animal,” the man at her side observed.

She let her nod answer for her, afraid that her voice would break if she said that Sammy was far more than that.

She returned to her study of the bodyguard. He deserved to know what he was up against. “The tangos on my tail belong to the Collective.”

“I’ve been briefed.” His face hardened, along with his voice.

“Just wanted to make sure we’re on the same page.”

“Gotcha. The Collective doesn’t play nice with others.”

“No kidding? I think they murdered my mother.” She left it at that. There’d be time enough later to go into details, that Bernice’s throat had been slashed, nearly to the bone.

Sammy nudged her with his nose.

“Do you need to go out?” The shepherd gave a sharp bark, and she turned to Mace. “Can we stop?”

He pulled to the side of the road. “Make it quick. Unless I’m wrong, there’ll be others on your tail besides those two idiots back there.”

She hopped out of the truck, let Sammy out. He spent a minute sniffing the grass before settling down to business.

“Good boy.” She patted her leg. “I wish we could let him run,” she said as Mace joined them. “He’s not used to being cooped up.”

“Sorry. We’ve got to keep moving.”

His words triggered a nasty memory. While she’d been deployed in Afghanistan, her unit had been assigned to take down a munitions dump. They’d succeeded but had taken fire, leaving a couple of men wounded, which had slowed them down. A small band of the enemy had managed to escape into the hills and then proceeded to track Laurel and her men relentlessly, intent on revenge. They had lost a man in the ensuing fight.

“Believe me, I know.”

* * *

Mace didn’t fool himself into thinking that they were home free. There were bound to be others tailing his newest client.

He wasn’t often taken by surprise, but Laurel Landry had managed to do just that. Instead of the hard-edged female Ranger he’d expected, he saw a beautiful woman with auburn hair, golden eyes and a soft mouth.

Not that she was soft. She handled herself like the professional soldier she was.

It was that dichotomy that intrigued him.

The big shepherd stayed at her side. Having only three legs didn’t lessen the fierce protectiveness he displayed when Mace made to help Laurel back in the truck. A sharp woof told Mace to back off.

“Sorry,” Laurel said. “Sammy’s appointed himself my guardian.” She knelt and wrapped her arms around the dog’s big neck. “It’s okay. He’s a friend.” She gestured for Mace to put out his hand to Sammy, who sniffed it. “Friend.”