A Façade to Shatter

A Façade to Shatter
Lynn Raye Harris

For the forgotten Corretti - is one night enough?Jackson Scott wakes from nightmares to the echo of gunfire. So when he stirs from a flashback and finds himself not in the cockpit of a fighter jet but at a party, pressed up against the soft, womanly figure of Lia Corretti he rages against the sweet pity in her eyes.The forgotten Corretti, Lia is desperate to love and be loved. The hot heat of Jackson as he trapped her to him is something the innocent Sicilian girl has never experienced. Perhaps one night would be enough to sate the fire he’s lit inside her. Or will it just add fuel to the flames?

‘Congratulations, Lia,’ he said, his voice chilling her. ‘You’ve won the jackpot after all.

‘You’re about to become a Scott.’

‘This is not how I wanted this to happen,’ she said, on a throat-aching whisper. Tears pressed the backs of her eyes. She couldn’t let them fall.

‘You came here,’ he said, his voice hard. ‘What did you expect? Did you think I would be happy?’

She dropped her gaze. A single tear spilled free and she dashed it away, determined not to cry in front of him. Not to be weak.

‘I had hoped you might be, yes.’ She lifted her chin and sucked back her tears. ‘Clearly, I was mistaken.’

‘We’ll marry,’ he said. ‘Because we must. But it’s an arrangement, do you understand? We’ll do it for as long as necessary to protect our families and then we’ll end it when the time comes.’

About the Author

LYNN RAYE HARRIS read her first Mills & Boon

romance when her grandmother carted home a box from a yard sale. She didn’t know she wanted to be a writer then, but she definitely knew she wanted to marry a sheikh or a prince and live the glamorous life she read about in the pages. Instead, she married a military man and moved around the world. These days she makes her home in North Alabama, with her handsome husband and two crazy cats. Writing for Mills & Boon is a dream come true. You can visit her at www.lynnrayeharris.com

A Façade to Shatter

Lynn Raye Harris

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

For all those who serve in the armed forces,

thank you for your service.

CHAPTER ONE

ZACH SCOTT DIDN’T do parties. Not anymore.

Once, he’d been the life of the party. But everything had changed a little over a year ago. Zach shoved his hands into his tuxedo trouser pockets and frowned. He’d thought coming to Sicily with a friend, in order to attend a wedding, would be an easy thing to do. There’d been no wedding, it had turned out, but the reception was taking place anyway. And he stood on the edge of the ballroom, wondering where Taylor Carmichael had got to. Wondering if he could slip away and text his regrets to her.

His head was pounding after a rough night. He’d been dreaming again. Dreaming of guns and explosions and planes plummeting from the sky.

There was nothing like a fight for survival to rearrange a man’s priorities. Since his plane had been shot down in enemy territory, the kinds of things he’d once done—fund-raisers, public appearances, speeches, political dinners—were now a kind of torture he’d prefer to live without.

Except it was more impossible to get out of those things now than ever before. Not only was he Zachariah James Scott IV, son of an eminent United States senator and heir to a pharmaceuticals fortune, he was also a returning military hero.

Zach’s frown deepened.

Since his rescue—in which every single marine sent to extract him had perished—he’d been in demand as a sort of all-American poster boy. The media couldn’t get enough of him, and he knew a big part of that was his father’s continual use of his story in his public appearances.

Zachariah J. Scott III wasn’t about to let the story die. Not when it could do him a world of political good.

His son had done his duty when he could have chosen an easier path. His son had chosen to serve his country instead of himself. It was true that Zach could have sat on the Scott Pharmaceuticals board and moved mountains of money instead of flying jets into a war zone. But the jets were a part of him.

Or had been a part of him until the crash had left him with crushing, unpredictable headaches that made it too dangerous to fly.

Yes, everyone loved that he’d bravely gone to war and survived.

Except he didn’t feel brave, and he damn sure didn’t feel like he’d done anything extraordinary. He didn’t want the attention, didn’t deserve the accolades. He’d failed pretty spectacularly, in his opinion.

But he couldn’t make them stop. So he stood stiffly and smiled for the cameras like a dutiful military man should, and he felt dead inside. And the deader he felt, the more interested the media seemed to get.

It wasn’t all bad, though. He’d taken over the stewardship of the Scott Foundation, his family’s charitable arm, and he worked tirelessly to promote military veterans’ causes. They often came back with so little, and with their lives shattered. The government tried to take care of them, but it was a huge job—and sometimes they fell through the cracks.

It was Zach’s goal to save as many of them as he could. He owed it to them, by God.

He made a visual sweep of the room. At least the media attention wasn’t directed at him right now. The Sicilian media was far more interested in the fact the bride had jilted the groom at the altar. Zach was of no interest whatsoever to this crowd. That, at least, was a bonus.

It wasn’t often he could move anonymously through a gathering like this one.

Still, he was on edge, as if he were being followed. He prowled the edges of the crowd in the darkened ballroom, his headache barely under control as he searched for Taylor. She wasn’t answering his texts, and he was growing concerned. She’d been so worried about this trip, about her return to acting, and about the director’s opinion of her.

But Taylor was tough, and he knew she would have gone into the press event with her head held high. She wanted this film badly, wanted the money and respectability for the veterans’ clinic back in Washington, D.C., where she’d spent so much time working to help others. He thought of the soldiers, sailors, airmen and marines—most suffering the debilitating effects of posttraumatic stress—the clinic helped, thought of the constant need for funding, and knew that Taylor would have entered that room determined to succeed.

What he didn’t know was how it had turned out.

He stepped into a quiet corner—if there was such a thing—and reached into his breast pocket for his phone. A small medal hanging from a ribbon came out with it, and he blinked as he realized what it was. The Distinguished Flying Cross he’d been awarded after returning from the high Afghan desert. Taylor must have put it in there when she’d picked up the tux from the cleaners for him. He fingered the starburst, squeezed it in his palm before putting it back into his pocket.

He hadn’t wanted the medal, but he hadn’t had a choice. There were other medals, too, which his father never failed to mention in his speeches, but Zach just wanted to forget them all.

Taylor insisted he had to realize he deserved them. She meant well, damn her, but she drove him crazier than any sister ever could have.

He dialed Taylor’s number impatiently. No answer. Frustration hammered into him. He wanted to know she was all right, and he wanted to escape this room. The crowd was swelling—never let it be said that Sicilians let a chance to party go to waste—and the noise level was growing louder.

He was in no mood.

He turned toward the exit just as the DJ blared the first track and the crowd cheered. The lights went completely out and strobe lights flashed. Zach’s heart began to thud painfully. Against his will, he shrank into the wall, breathing hard.

It’s just a party, just a party. But the flashes didn’t stop, people started to shout, and he couldn’t fight the panic dragging him down any longer.

No, no, no …

Suddenly he was back in the trench, in the pitch of night, the bursts of gunfire and explosives all around him, the thrumming of their bass boom ricocheting into his breastbone, making his body ache with the pressure. He closed his eyes, swallowed hard, his throat full of sand and dust and grit.

Violence and frustration bloomed inside his gut. He wanted to fight, wanted to surge upright and grab a gun, wanted to help the marines hold off the enemy. But they’d drugged him, because he’d broken his leg, and he couldn’t move.

He lay helpless, his eyes squeezed tight—and then he felt a soft hand on his arm. The hand moved along his upper arm, ghosted over his cheek. The touch of skin on skin broke his paralysis.

He reacted with the instincts of a warrior, grabbing the hand and twisting it until the owner cried out. The cry was soft, feminine, not at all that of a terrorist bent on destroying him. Vaguely, he realized the body pressed against his was not rough. It was clad in something satiny that slid against the fabric of his own clothing.