At Your Command

Still, though she’d like to think that someone was mouthing off because he’d gotten his wallet or pride hurt and that the need to strike back would eventually flicker and die, a smart woman wouldn’t take any chances. Becky breathed in deeply and curled her fingers through the chain-link fence blocking off the parking lot in front of her. She needed to purge the moment of panic and gather her wits.

Catching a glimpse of a pair of shoulders filling a bus window so completely that she could barely make out the square jaw and light-brown hair above them should not have her squealing like a schoolgirl who’d just been winked at by the senior boy on whom she had a crush. So what if Zachariah Clark’s impressive body and effortless strength had plagued her most erotic dreams these past eighteen months?

Eighteen months since she’d thrown Owens expectations to the wind and done exactly what she wanted.

She’d defied her father in order to land a job that allowed her to actually make a difference in the world.

She’d shared a blistering affair with a man she’d met in a bar—an unpedigreed soldier who worked with his hands instead of his family’s money.

She’d married him.

Becky exhaled that deep breath between tightly compressed lips. Her conscience had been paying a heavy price for her impetuousness ever since. She wasn’t sure she could handle it if her mother or father, or any one of her clients, got hurt because she was distracted and failed to live up to her promises. Their safety and well-being came first. That stalker toad and her own desires had to come in at a self-disciplined second.

She couldn’t allow a man’s being in her life again to give her a false sense of security, either. Zachariah wouldn’t be around for long. And people were depending on her, not him. She’d dealt with her problems while he was overseas, and she’d deal with them again after he was gone.

Cool, calm and collected was also the Owens way.

Ha! So why was she standing on tiptoe, trying to steal another glimpse through the windows of the approaching bus? Catching herself, Becky lowered her heels into her Italian leather sandals.

“You don’t do giddy,” she reminded herself on a muttered breath. She glanced from side to side once more, seeing nothing but eager children and anxious spouses and parents.

Nothing to fear.

No one who seemed interested in her at all.

She forced an angry breath from her lungs, hating that she’d given in to any degree of paranoia. She was here alone. Period. Get over it.

She focused her attention back on the bus.

As the only child of power broker Bertram Owens, “society”—meaning politicos in Richmond and D.C., the family tree and Bertram himself—demanded a certain degree of decorum from her. Whatever spontaneity that hadn’t been bred out of her by birth had been thoroughly reined in by years of training—except for six-and-a-half fabulous days with one certain Marine.

In the courtroom and at home, the restraint that she exercised almost daily served her well. She needed it now more than ever, knowing her father was home at the family estate outside of Richmond, waiting for her to fail. Waiting to pick up the pieces of what he considered her misguided adventure into independent living. Waiting to give her an I-told-you-so, let-me-take-care-of-this-for-you hug and steer her back onto the path an Owens heiress should be taking toward securing the family’s future. Namely, marrying one of the stuffy, upper-crust bores on her parents’ list of approved suitors, and settling down to expand the family dynasty like a good little girl.

Claiming she was seeing someone—who conveniently traveled a lot outside of the country so she wouldn’t have to produce him for family dinners or political receptions—had temporarily staved off her father’s obsession with marrying her off to make mergers and grandbabies. If push came to shove, she’d even pull out the marriage certificate. Though the deception would hurt at first, it was just the sort of crafty business maneuver her father might eventually respect.

However, Becky intended to save that revelation as an absolute last resort. Her mother, Lily, was still recovering from chemo and radiation treatments to forestall any recurrence of the breast cancer she’d conquered a year ago. Causing her mom stress by ruining her dreams for her only offspring wasn’t particularly appealing. And pissing off Bertram Owens wasn’t something that anyone—even his own daughter—did lightly.

It certainly wasn’t fair to Zachariah to thrust him into the midst of the secrets and lies that had become Becky’s life this past year.

In D.C., his proposal had seemed like the perfect out to get her father off her back about settling down with the right young man. Plus, she’d fallen victim to the foolish idea that saying yes would somehow prolong the wild and crazy freedom of their week together.

But then her mother’s condition had worsened. To be on hand for his wife’s treatment and recovery, Becky’s father had left his advisory appointment in Washington and moved back to Richmond full-time, working as a political consultant and party fund-raiser. Now he was close enough to check on Becky every day. Joy. In person if he wanted. Rapture. He played buddy-buddy with her superiors in the State Attorney’s office more often than she lunched with her girlfriends. She was a twenty-eight-year-old woman, for gosh sakes!

As much as she loved her parents, Becky refused to surrender her independence. She understood her father’s need to control and protect was rooted in love. She understood her mother’s dreams were equally altruistic. But Becky wanted to live, thrive—succeed—on her terms. She’d find a way to be her own person, a crackerjack attorney—and the Owenses’ daughter.

But none of it was easy.

Zachariah deserved to know what he was really getting into as her husband—what he probably wouldn’t want to get into if he did know.

And he should hear it from her—face-to-face.

But one look at those tanklike shoulders and her hormones had overridden every sensible intention. Swamped by emotions, she’d gotten carried away by the cheering crowd. There was something uniquely inspiring and heartwarming about welcoming home a busload of Marines returning from a war zone. Flags were flying. A band was playing. Her patriotism had kicked in, that was all.

She didn’t really expect that falling into Zachariah’s arms would make all her stresses go away. Not even for the night or two they’d have together.

Zachariah Clark was a man, not a myth. He was a good time. Okay, a very good time.

Be honest, girl.

He was the best time she’d ever had.

But he was a fallback plan, a welcome chapter in her life—not the whole book. He was a Marine who’d left her to do his job while she stayed at home and did hers. She suspected he was damn good at that job, or he wouldn’t be given assignments about which she knew so little and he told her even less. But he wasn’t a superhero. Okay, so Captain Clark might be built along superhuman proportions, but he was still just a man.

Becky breathed deeply—in through her nose, out through her mouth—steeling herself the same way she did each time she stepped up to argue a case before a judge. She could handle this. She could handle him.

That was the Owens way.

The bus pulled to a stop, and the liaison officer signaled the waiting families to enter through the gate onto the parking lot. But as the crowd carried Becky forward, an anxious anticipation buzzed across her skin, raising goose bumps. Despite her resolve to keep this reunion at arm’s length and impersonal until she could explain her situation and determine how Zachariah would fit into her life while he was home on leave, Becky found herself hurrying right along with everyone else, trying to spot him the instant he filed off the bus.

Was he as tall as she remembered? Had he been injured in any way? Would he still overlook the extra pounds that stress and genetics wouldn’t let her lose, and show that same lusty desire for her in his eyes?

Oh, my. Becky’s breath caught in her chest. Zachariah.

He was leaner and more tanned than she recalled. Harder somehow, through the squint of her eyes. Still, Zachariah Clark was impossible to miss. Standing a head taller than most of his comrades, he stepped off the bus with a wary alertness, already scanning the crowd.

“Zachariah!” Damn. Her hand shot into the air again and she waved.

Play it cool, Owens. Play it cool.

But his green eyes had already zeroed in on her. They widened with recognition. His rugged features softened with a lopsided grin. “Beckster!”

Screw decorum. Becky ran to greet him.

The people between them parted for those broad shoulders and captain’s bars as Zachariah pushed his way through the crowd. She met him halfway. He dropped his duffel bag, and his long, strong arms snaked around her as she leaped. He caught her and swung her around, squeezing her tightly and waking every feminine cell inside her with an instant reminder of just how powerfully built and masculine he was. His mouth crushed down over hers long before the world stopped spinning and her toes touched the asphalt beneath her again.

Who was she kidding? She wanted this. Talking could wait. Becky wound her arms around his neck and held on, kissing him, consuming him with a hunger that hadn’t abated one whit since D.C. She inhaled his clean, undoctored scent. Absorbed his heat. Clung to his hard strength. Reveled in the evidence of his desire for her, unabashedly swelling against her thigh.

Rational thought fled as embracing Zachariah reminded her how uncomplicated this was between them. Parts of her body that had lain dormant for eighteen long months roared to life with a frenzy that shook the Owens family tree. Her blood thickened and pulsed. Her breasts tingled with excitement. She lost track of the crowd, of curious eyes, of unpleasant realities—of everything except the desire to burrow beneath this soldier’s starched exterior and wrap herself up in the raw, sensual man inside the uniform.

She was still reaching for another kiss when his mouth withdrew beyond her reach. Zachariah had come to his senses sooner than she had. With his hands massaging circles at her waist, Becky braced her palms against the ragged rise and fall of his chest and tried to recover her own breath. “Wow.”

Bending to touch his forehead to hers, Zachariah’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “Now that’s what I call a welcome home.”

Beaming beneath the approval in his low, rumbly voice, Becky twisted her fingers beneath his collar. “You haven’t seen half of what I’ve got planned for you this weekend, soldier.”

“It’s Marine, darlin’.” He pulled her hips forward into his, reminding her that he was ready for action. “But as long as you’ve made plans, I won’t quibble over…”

He angled his face as if he intended to kiss her again. But he jerked back, halfway to his destination, leaving her lips puckered with anticipation. His grip pinched hard at her waist and her mouth rounded into a startled, “Ow!”