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  He tested the door, opening it just enough to slip the mirror in and narrowed his eyes as he watched. The dog stuck his nose into the crack and started wrig [ stt egling. He could smell his mistress and wanted to go to her.

  Max put a hand down to calm the trembling dog.

  Max studied the situation in the mirror for long moments, trying to remain dispassionate. Looking at the vectors, figuring the odds, checking line of sight and angles. Because that’s what he was trained to do and that’s what he did well.

  He didn’t allow himself to think about what he was seeing.

  Paige, bound to a chair, head hanging low. Blood trickling from a cut in her forehead. Paige, with a black eye and swollen jaw. Bruised and battered.

  He put his reaction away, tamped it right down, put it in a box and locked it.

  Observed.

  Three men, two armed. All three with their backs to him.

  The unarmed one sitting on a chair to one side of her, one leg crossed over the other, foot casually swinging. The interrogator.

  The two armed fucks standing, holding their Berettas loosely by their sides. At that distance, they could never miss. She was tied up. They’d have plenty of time to kill her.

  The man in the chair swung his leg idly, got up, walked over, and bent his head close to Paige’s—much as a lover would. She moved back in revulsion and he laughed. The sound carried in the big room. He said something else and she spat at him.

  It was like a frozen tableau. Nobody moved; it seemed nobody breathed.

  The man next to Paige wiped his face, murmured something to her, then clicked his fingers. His voice was suddenly clear and echoed in the room. “Let’s end this.”

  The two armed men raised their gun hands.

  Max opened the door wider and lobbed a flashbang right into the geographic center of the triangle formed by the three men and, pulling the dog away with him, flattened his back against the wall next to the door, opened his mouth, and covered his ears.

  There was a way to deal with sociopaths, Paige was sure. Unfortunately, she had no idea what it was.

  There was no reasoning with Larry—none.

  In his money-crazed head, he had the perfect plan for instant riches and the only two people stopping him from raking in amazing wealth were herself and Silvia. To him, once he got rid of these two pesky women, it was going to be smooth sailing. A hole in one.

  He was going to kill her. Or, rather, have her killed, as she just couldn’t see him pulling the trigger himself. It was there, in his face and in his body language.

  Most of it was because he’d convinced himself that she stood in the way of a lifetime of champagne and Rolexes, but a part of it—she understood quite well—was because she had refused him. She’d wounded some deep insecurity in him and she was going to pay.

  She’d told him everything she knew, bits and pieces coming out with each blow. The pain was like razor flowers blossoming at odd points of her body. Her jaw, her shoulder, a wrist she suspected was broken when he punched her so hard she fell to the floor again.

  The only thing she didn’t tell him was about the thumb drive.

  If she’d had the slightest hope that he’d let her live, she’d have told him. No question. She ached all over, the pain deep and vicious. Anything to make this stop.

  But he wasn’t going to stop, and since she was as good as dead, she could leave this earth with the hope that even if they caught Silvia, too, Max could find the thumb drive, figure out what was going on, and go to the cops with the story.

  Max wouldn’t stop until he found the truth, though in all likelihood they’d never find her body. You can drag rivers and ponds but not the ocean. They’d weight her down, slip her body over the side of that boat, and no one would ever know what had happened to her.

  He’d take care of her dog, though.

  Oh God. How ironic. She’d never thought to find love, not the wild, pulse-pounding kind. She’d thought maybe someone would come along at some future point. A fellow research scientist, maybe. Some nice guy who didn’t turn her off. They’d date for a year or two, then start discussing marriage.

  Never, ever, would she have thought love could come [ve lig in another package. Tall and broad, a warrior. A wounded warrior who woke up every sense she had and made her feel alive down to her fingertips.

  And now she was going to lose that love the instant she found it.

  “Tell me!” Larry said, moving his face close to hers, spittle flying from his mouth. “Goddamn you, you bitch, talk!”

  He’d asked her a question and she had no idea what it was. Never mind. She didn’t even have the strength to raise her head. When she moved it, spikes hammered into her brain and she lost her vision for a second.

  She gathered her senses for one last effort and spat at him.

  Larry wiped his face and stood up, waving his hand at the two goons behind her. “Let’s end this.”

  They were raising their rifles. Oh God. This was it.

  Max, she thought, a solitary tear falling down her battered face. I love—

  The world exploded.

  A flash of blinding light so intense she continued to see it behind closed eyelids, and a noise so loud she heard it through her diaphragm like a punch.

  Was she dead? Is this what death was like? So bright and so noisy?

  She couldn’t think, she could hardly breathe. She opened her eyes, blinked, blinked again. All three men were on the floor, red seeping from their heads. Hands were tugging at her—a knife flashed, a big black one—and she shrank back, hoping it would be quick . . .

  But the knife didn’t cut into her flesh—it was cutting into the hateful tape binding her. And there was, there was . . . there was barking. How could that be?

  Suddenly the world righted itself. Max! And Max!

  The last strand of tape was cut and she stood up, then fell into Max’s arms because her legs wouldn’t hold her. His couldnheig [s c="-1" fact either. They fell to the floor in a heap and she landed on warm, hard male.

  “Oh God,” she breathed, her lungs clogged with emotion. “You came for me!”

  Max looked awful. Pale and drawn and drained, but smiling as he kissed her. “We came for you. Did you doubt we would?”

  Her dog was barking, frantically licking her face, front paws on human Max’s chest, wiggling and whining with happiness.

  “No.” the word came out as an explosion of joy. “No, I knew you’d come, both of you.”

  “Woof!” her Max said.

  “Woof!” her other Max said.

  “Damn straight,” she answered and embraced them both.

  Epilogue

  One year later

  Outside Eugene, Oregon

  “Silvia will be here in about an hour,” Paige said, flipping her cell phone closed.

  Max gave a sly smile. “Cory’s really happy. He just bought himself a tie. I never thought I’d see him in a tie, but once he found out she’s coming, there was no stopping him.”

  “A tie and those new titanium-blade legs. He’s going to be irresistible.” He was, too. Silvia had quietly tried to pry the guest list for their wedding anniversary party out of Paige and hadn’t stopped asking until Paige gave in and said Cory’d be there.

  “Just as long as he doesn’t con me into a race,” Max said sourly.

  “Because he’ll win. And you hate losing.” Man, did she know her husband. He’d acquired most of the use of his bad leg back, but no one could keep up with Cory’s blades.

  “Maybe I’ll dare him and if I win he has to join us. That would be an incentive.” Max’s company, Search Inc., was very successful. He put together different teams for every search-and-rescue job but Cory was always part of it. Search was growing so quickly, Max wanted a partner and he wanted it to be Cory.

  Search wasn’t the only thing that was growing, Paige reflected. She placed a hand on her belly and smiled up at her husband.

  “Did you get that shipment off?” he asked
. “Of . . . things?”

  Max still didn’t have a complete grasp of what she did and rarely ventured into her propagation lab, a little unsettled by the silence and rows and rows of tiny containers.

  “Yes, it’s safely gone. And I just got ten new orders.” She’d been surprised at the success of her own company, a small propagation laboratory that was growing exponentially. It felt so good to be her own boss and leave the corporate world behind.

  She looked out over their home, a restored nineteenth-century homestead that she loved, her gaze taking in her lab and Max’s high-tech bunker next to it, where he and his teammates planned their “extractions.” It was soul-satisfying work. Last week they’d rescued a four-year-old boy.

  The house glowed with candles and everything was ready for the guests, who would start arriving in about an hour.

  “It’s all good,” Max said softly, almost to himself, then smiled down at her. He bent to kiss her, the kiss growing heated, until she pushed at his chest. He lifted his head, dark eyes glowing.

  “No,” Paige said. “Absolutely not. I just put my makeup on.”

  Max gave an exaggerated sigh, but didn’t stop smiling. “A man can try.”

  A sharp bark sounded and Paige looked down at her dog. He lifted his muzzle and she could swear he smiled at her.

  “Is that a smile?” her husband asked.

  “I think it is. A smug one.”

  “Well, he’s a father, after all. Puppies will do that.”

  xml:lang="en-us" height="0em" width="1em" align="justify">Paige nestled her head against her husband’s shoulder and sighed with happiness. “Well, we’ll see how you react to your own puppies.” She smiled into his startled face. “We’re having twins.”

  SEALs and Why We Love Them

  Dear Reader,

  Anyone who has read my books knows I often write about SEALs, simply because I admire them so very much.

  I’m a romance writer and so part of what makes my writing heart tick is the appeal of my characters. On that level, any SEAL is off the charts. They are almost caricatures of manliness—brave and strong, with that relentless male focus that can be so effective, and yet can sometimes drive those of us who are married or in a relationship crazy. (I can hear you smiling.)

  Their macho is in their minds—not their muscles. I’ve read lots of books about SEALs and memoirs by SEALs, and what shines through is the incredible intelligence of these men (for they are all men). They are smart in every way there is. They are book-smart and street-smart, an unusual and unusually attractive combination. Reading the memoirs, in particular, you find that these men take an often chaotic world and make some kind of sense of it.

  The world they operate in is neither orderly nor rational nor kind, and they must act in ways that are orderly, rational, and, yes, kind. They are bound by rules their enemies do not in any way respect, so we’re asking them to go out and fight for us, put their lives on the line for us, and—oh yes, forgot!—please do that with one hand tied behind your back.

  I really admire human excellence, particularly the kind that isn’t innate, the kind you have to work really hard for. The med student who spends her weekends practicing tying sutures on the bedpost; the pianist who practices those extra hours to be able to put soul—and not just technical perfection—into that Bach sonata; the scientist who runs that test for the ten thousandth time and it turns out successful, when everyone else would have stopped at the thousandth iteration. That is, perhaps, the quintessence of being human.

  And, contrary to popular myth, SEALs are human, very human. They are not supermen. Bullets do not bounce off them. They bleed and they hurt and they die. They do what they do in the shadows and they do it for us.

  Hats off and my heartfelt gratitude.

  Lisa Marie Rice

  If you enjoyed Fatal Heat, don’t miss out on Lisa Marie Rice’s exciting Protectors series in which three heroes—former Navy SEAL, Delta Force Operator, and Marine Force Recon—walk through fire for the women they love.

  Into the Crossfire

  A Protectors Novel: Navy SEAL

  Available Now

  Hotter Than Wildfire

  A Protectors Novel: Delta Force

  Available Now

  Nightfire

  A Protectors Novel: Marine Force Recon

  Available February 2012

  Nightfire

  Chloe Mason sat in the very elegant waiting room of RBK Security, Inc., which was in a very elegant building in very elegant downtown San Diego.

  She’d spent a lot of time in plush, designer surroundings, but she was still impressed with the large room which managed to be both beautiful and designed for comfort and efficiency.

  It also had another quality with which she was very familiar. Everything in the room—from the color palette of light earth tones to the lush, healthy plants to the expensive couches and armchairs, the interesting but not shrill modern artwork—was designed to calm and to soothe.

  It was still the Christmas season, but the office didn’t have the usual loop of nauseatingly familiar carols playing, which many found grating and stressful, particularly if they were in trouble. Rather, the Christmas spirit was honored by soft medieval madrigals playing in the background. Instead of killing a tree, the company had put up a colored light sculpture that was both intriguing and beautiful.

  She’d spent all of her childhood and a good deal of her adolescence in and out of very expensive medical clinics, and that mixture of good taste and reassurance was one she knew well.

  Even the receptionist was soothing. Chloe had walked into this highly successful office and asked to speak with one of the partners. In American business-dom that just didn’t happen. She knew enough of business etiquette to be aware of that.

  And yet she hadn’t made an appointment. She’d propelled herself here from Boston without even thinking of making one—excited and terrified and hopeful, in equal measure.

  So she’d walked over to the elegant “U” design of the reception counter and quietly given her name to the slender, sharply-dressed receptionist with beautiful silver hair cut by someone who knew what he was doing.

  The receptionist hadn’t blinked at the unexpected request. She simply looked up and asked whether the appointment was urgent.

  Urgent? Was it urgent? Maybe, maybe not. Though if Harry Bolt was who she thought he was, it was more than urgent. It was life-shattering.

  So she simply nodded, throat too tight to plead her case.

  “Okay then,” the receptionist had said, tapping on her touch screen. “It’s a busy morning for Mr. Bolt, but I’ll do what I can.” She looked up again, eyes searching Chloe’s face. “Would one of the other partners do? Mr. Keillor has a free hour this morning.”

  Mr. Keillor would be Michael Keillor, former marine, former SWAT officer, current partner. She’d read his bio on the RBK web site and seen his unsmiling photograph. He looked smart and tough and capable, just like all the partners. If she had security problems, he’d probably be just as good as Harry Bolt.

  But her problems didn’t have anything to do with security.

  She shook her head, hoping the receptionist wouldn’t take her inability to speak as discourtesy. And while she was at it, that the receptionist wouldn’t notice Chloe’s shaking hands.

  The receptionist didn’t—she simply touched the screen again. “Okay, I can clear you for Mr. Bolt at nine thirty, if you don’t mind waiting.”

  Chloe had waited all her life for this moment. Another half an hour wouldn’t make any difference. She managed to choke out a thank-you through her tight throat, and sat down to wait on one of the incredibly comfortable armchairs that dotted the enormous lobby.

  So many emotions swirled in her chest that she couldn’t feel any single one in particular, just a huge pressure so powerful she could barely breathe. She wanted so much for—

  And she stopped herself right there. Wanting didn’t make things happen. If there was one thing her life
had taught her, it was that. She could want so fiercely she thought she would explode, and it wouldn’t make any difference at all. It was impossible to understand what really could make a difference. Fate? Perhaps. Randomness? Maybe. Wanting? No.

  So she sat back in the extremely comfortable and attractive armchair and . . . disappeared.

  It was her trick, learned harshly throughout her childhood. Bad things happened to her when she got noticed. She’d learned very early to sit back and become unnoticeable. She didn’t become literally invisible. It’s just that she could turn off all the subconscious signals humans sent to each other, so that no one noticed her.

  She sat there, unmoving, saying nothing, and observed. Observed the other people waiting for one of the three partners. There were three men in the room, all middle-aged or older, all visibly rich and powerful. Businessmen, who wanted RBK to help them in something or with something. Two were sweating so badly a slightly acrid odor rose above their expensive colognes. The other sat in Male Mode, knees apart, clasped hands between them. He radiated anger and aggression.

  Chloe didn’t dare look at him. Though she’d perfected the art of blandness, she knew through bitter experience that an angry male took even a chance meeting of eyes as aggression.

  She turned her head toward the entrance door so that he couldn’t even pretend to think that she was staring at him, and watched as the sliding door swooshed open.

  {"0ere, u

  A man walked into the waiting room and all male eyes swiveled to him, watching his progress across the lobby. The three rich-looking men might think that they were alpha males in their own environments, but they weren’t. Chloe knew many rich men who thought their money gave them top-dog status anywhere, any time. Often it did, but not always.

  This man, striding across the room, was the alpha male. He’d be the alpha male in any grouping—rich man, poor man, didn’t make any difference.