Rhonda Nelson - The Rule-Breaker

Twelve military heroes. Twelve indomitable heroines. One UNIFORMLY HOT! miniseries.

Mills & Boon® Blaze®’s bestselling miniseries continues with another year of irresistible soldiers from all branches of the armed forces.

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THE RISK-TAKER

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by Tawny Weber

A SEAL’S SURRENDER

by Tawny Weber

THE RULE-BREAKER

by Rhonda Nelson

UNIFORMLY HOT!

The Few. The Proud. The Sexy as Hell.

The Rule-Breaker

Rhonda Nelson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

A Waldenbooks bestselling author, two-time RITA ®Award nominee, RT Book Reviews Reviewers’ Choice nominee and National Readers’ Choice Award winner, RHONDA NELSONwrites hot romantic comedy for the Mills & Boon ®Blaze ®line. With more than thirty-five published books to her credit, she’s thrilled with her career and enjoys dreaming up her characters and manipulating the worlds they live in. She and her family make their chaotic but happy home in a small town in northern Alabama. She loves to hear from her readers, so be sure to check her out at www.readrhondanelson. com, follow her on Twitter @RhondaRNelson and like her on Facebook.

For Ollie, my sweet, neurotic little fur baby, who sits at my feet from the first word on the page until the last. That, dear readers, is dedication.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Epilogue

Prologue

Mosul

ELI WESTON NOTED THE Bible, the rosary and the bottle of Jack Daniel’s on his friend’s bedside table with a burgeoning sense of disquiet. Not that all three items didn’t make regular appearances on Micah Holland’s table—they did—but usually it was only one or two, not all three together.

That knowledge, combined with the increasingly blank expression on his friend’s face, made the hairs on the back of his neck rise.

Eli emptied his pockets and dropped heavily onto his bunk. “Another day in paradise,” he muttered, shooting Micah a smile. “You been back long?”

Micah shook his head. “Nah.”

A beat slid to three. “You look tired.”

He knew his friend hadn’t been getting much sleep, especially over the past two weeks. It was understandable, given what had happened. War was hell, and this war, in particular, had been fought in ways that boggled the mind. They’d been trained to fight other soldiers, to honor the rules of war, but this enemy didn’t play by those rules and thought nothing of strapping explosive devices onto pregnant women and then sending them into a hospital.

That’s what Micah had witnessed two weeks ago—what he’d tried to prevent—and he hadn’t been the same since. Not that Eli blamed him, but...

He hesitated, not wanting to cross a line, but not wanting to see Micah deteriorate any further. They’d met in basic training, had been friends since Jump School. There were a lot of blood and bullets under the bridge. And if the situation were reversed, he knew Micah would try to counsel him, as well.

“Listen, man. There’s no shame in talking to someone. I know you—”

Micah whirled on him, like a reanimated corpse, his eyes blazing. “You know nothing,” he spat. “Nothing. So don’t insult me by giving me the standard line. I’ve got to sort this out my own way and the only person I have to talk to about it or square it with is the man upstairs.” He jerked his head heavenward, gave an ironic little laugh, one that, for reasons which escaped him, made Eli nervous. Micah released a heavy breath. “Just leave it, Eli. I know you mean well...but I’m handling it.”

Rather than irritate his friend further, Eli merely nodded. But whether Micah wanted to admit it or not, he needed help. And if he wouldn’t get it on his own, then Eli had every intention of making him by other means. One word to the right person would set the ball in motion.

Finally, he nodded. “Yeah. Fine.” He arched a brow, pretending as if the exchange never happened. “You want to go get something to eat? I’m about to head over to the mess hall.”

Micah shook his head. “No, thanks. I’m not hungry.”

Eli heaved a silent sigh, then stood. He’d reached the door when Micah’s voice stopped him.

“Eli?”

He turned expectantly.

Micah opened his mouth, then closed it. He seemed to be struggling with what he wanted to say, a myriad of expressions flashing rapid-fire over his tortured face. Finally, he muttered, “You’re a good friend.”

Eli swallowed, gave him an up nod. “So are you, man.” Then he slowly walked away.

He’d made it to the front of the barracks before he heard the gunshot. And he knew before he’d frantically retraced his steps back to the room what he’d find.

Oh, Jesus. He dropped to his knees and gathered up his friend. Sightless eyes, so much blood, rosary still in his hand. “Micah! Dammit to hell,” Eli sobbed, rocking him back and forth, his voice broken. “Oh, Micah, what have you done? What have you done?”

1

Eight months later...

CAPTAIN ELI WESTON glanced at the invitation again, grimaced then tossed it back into the passenger seat of his rented truck as the city limits sign loomed into view. His belly clenched with dread, and tension inexplicably tightened his fingers on the steering wheel.

He so didn’t want to do this.

In fact, Eli could confidently say that if he could choose any place on earth he wanted to be right now, Willow Haven, Kentucky, would undoubtedly occupy the dead-last position on his list.

Not because it wasn’t a perfectly lovely little town, the quintessential Southern burg with lots of antebellum homes, majestic oak trees and a festival for every food group. Not because he could think of a million other things he’d rather do on his much-needed, too-short leave. He’d seen enough war—enough of the ravages of it, more specifically. Not even because he’d be working on the memorial for his late, beloved friend, Micah Holland.

It was the damned lying he most dreaded.

He’d been doing it for the past eight months, insisting to every superior officer who’d interrogated him about Micah’s death that his friend had been cleaning his weapon when it misfired, that he’d actually witnessed the accident.

Accident, of course, being the key word.

Lies, all lies. And they knew it, too. But they couldn’t prove it, so his “eye-witness” account stood.

And it was because of that account that his friend’s parents had been able to confidently bury their beloved oldest son in hallowed ground, believing his death was an unhappy circumstance, not a deliberate act by his own hand. Having lost his own father to suicide, Eli was well-acquainted with that particular brand of grief and had decided within seconds of Micah’s death to spare the Hollands that aspect of the misery, to do everything he possibly could to preserve his friend’s memory and military legacy. Micah had been one of his best friends and a damned fine soldier. He’d been like a brother. Eli swallowed, his throat suddenly tight, an inexplicable anger welling inside of him.

It was the least he could do, really.

Well, that and sling a hammer, he thought, glancing once more at the invitation in the passenger seat. Honestly, had Sally, Micah’s mother, not called and pressed him into coming to help build the Micah Holland Memorial in the heart of the town square, Eli wouldn’t have come. He’d have simply begged out of the event or made up an excuse as to why he wouldn’t be available—being deployed, in that sense, had its advantages.