Maximum Force: A Career Soldier Military Romance Read online

  For the first time all afternoon, Reardon straightened his spine. “Sir, that isn’t true. None of it is.”

  “From a certain point of view, it is, and that’s all that matters to these people. They’re responding to a sound bite they heard over their breakfast cereal, and some of them are operating off years of resentment against the Army, against Fort Lee and against any of us who go into their town and mess with their people.” I tapped on the edge of my desk. “Lake, what about Petrowski? He didn’t see anything of this, I take it? He was still too busy getting his rocks off outside the bar?”

  Lake looked pained. “No, sir, he didn’t see it. But when the cops showed up, he went back inside and figured out what was going on. He was the one who called first sergeant and filled him in.”

  “Maybe he can at least give a statement about what happened before he went outside. He might be able to speak to the actions of the girl and how Reardon was handling her.”

  “I’ll talk to him, sir. He said he offered his statement to the local police, but they said they weren’t interested since he hadn’t actually been present during the altercation.”

  “Of course not,” I muttered. We tried to keep a cordial relationship with the nearby police departments, but it wasn’t always possible. “Well, find out what he has to say, and if we need to do it, we’ll drag him back down there and convince them to put him on record. If he can even speak to Reardon’s state of mind prior to the fight, that might be helpful.”

  “Got it, sir.”

  “All right.” I waved my hand. “That’s all for now. Once we get all the details straight and find out what the police intend to do, we’ll see what’s going to happen on this end.”

  Both of the men stood, but Reardon lingered when Lake made to leave. “Sir, I just want to say—I know this was my fault. I know I didn’t do everything exactly like I should have. I should’ve walked away, or I should’ve taken the girl out of there, if I felt she was in danger. And I’m sorry I put you in a bad position.”

  “Yeah.” I pressed my lips together. “I appreciate that, Reardon. If you’re being straight with me, if everything you just told is true, I understand that you were in a tough position. You did the right thing to defend the girl, but you went about it the wrong way, and that’s probably going to fuck up your life for a while. But I’m going to do whatever I can to make sure you get justice. You have my word on that.”

  Reardon looked as though he wanted to say something else, but finally, he simply nodded. “Thank you, sir.”

  Lake closed the door behind the two of them, and I leaned back in my chair, stretching my back.

  “Fuck.” I closed my eyes. A nasty headache was beginning to brew inside my brain, and I had a feeling that it was only going to get worse before it got better.

  Chapter Two

  Samantha

  “How much longer do we have to stay here?”

  Harper’s voice was dangerously close to a whine, and I cut her a look. She hastily straightened her shoulders and corrected herself.

  “I mean, how much longer do you think we’ll be? I was just asking. You know.” She bit down on her lower lip and quirked one eyebrow at me.

  Sighing, I shrugged. “Why don’t you head home now? We’re only going to be here about another half hour or so, I’d think. We just want to make sure all the personnel who go off the clock and leave post between four and five see us here. It’s important that they understand we’re not going to let the Army get away with protecting that son of a bitch.”

  Harper nodded. “Okay. Well, at least you already got some media coverage, right? That reporter from Channel Ten News seemed really interested.”

  I grinned. “Oh, yeah. That was a big coup. She told me she thinks their national news might pick up the story, too, if not tonight, then definitely by tomorrow morning.” I paused. “Unless, of course, something more newsworthy comes along that bumps us off their radar. Or the government hushes it all up.”

  “Does that really happen?” My roommate’s eyes widened, and I tried not to roll mine.

  “Yeah, it really happens, hon. I wish I could say it doesn’t.” Harper and I had been living together in Petersburg for about eight months now. We’d met through a mutual friend, Jeff; he’d grown up in Lexington, Virginia with Harper, while I’d met him at Brown, where we’d both gone to college. When I’d nabbed this job with National Park Services at the Petersburg Battlefield, Jeff had told me about his friend who’d been working as a chef in the same area and was looking for a new roommate.

  My parents, bless their hearts, had helped me move into the small apartment Harper and I now shared. After we’d spent two hours carrying in boxes and furniture, listening to my new friend’s happy chatter, my mother had pulled me aside.

  “Honey, this girl needs her consciousness raised. Badly.”

  I’d fastened my mom with a steely glare. “Please don’t scare her off, Ma. I need her to share this place with me, okay?”

  My mother had affected an expression of total innocence. “I never would do anything of the kind! I’m just saying, living with you is going to be a good thing for her. It’ll be life-changing.”

  Now, as I watched Harper gather her bag and the sign she’d been carrying, I thought that my mom had been right, apparently. Even though I would never change the way I’d been raised, there was part of me that envied my friend’s natural state of accepting the world as it came. She rarely questioned the intent or motives of anyone in leadership, whether that was at the restaurant where she worked or the federal government. I wondered what it was like to have that lack of cynicism, that sunny view of the world. As long as I could remember, I’d been suspecting conspiracies around every corner.

  Thanks, Ma and Dad.

  “Hey, I’ll have dinner ready when you get home,” Harper offered, hiking the strap of her purse onto her shoulder. “How does risotto sound? With fresh asparagus, of course.”

  “Yum.” My mouth began to water. The girl really did have a gift in the kitchen. “Do I need to pick up anything to go with it?’

  She considered and then shook her head. “Nope. Just don’t get arrested, okay? I’d hate all my hard work to go to waste.”

  I gave her a mock salute. “You got it. I’ll keep my head down and won’t throw anything at anyone.” At my friend’s questioning gaze, I laughed and shook my head. “I’ll tell you that story later. See you back at home.”

  “Be careful.” Harper wrapped me in a quick, tight hug and turned to make her way back across the street, where we’d left our cars.

  The man standing next to me watched her go. “That one doesn’t seem like a pro at this, huh? Not the way you are.”

  I winced. Being labeled an expert at protesting somehow didn’t sound like a good thing to me. “She’s fine. She’s a beginner, that’s all. Today was only her second protest.”

  He nodded. “Well, this is definitely a worthy cause. I’ve lived here all my life, and I can’t tell you how many times we’ve had trouble with guys from this post. They come into our town, get drunk and then start fights or destroy property—or both. The command here tells us the same thing they’ve been saying for generations. They boast about how much better they make our economy and how many jobs they bring to the area.” He snorted. “But at what price, I ask you? Ask that poor guy laying in the hospital if he’s okay with getting his head bashed in, as long as it means his friends aren’t unemployed.”

  “Yeah. I haven’t lived here very long, but I know how heavy-handed the military can be. The soldier who did this should be held accountable, and not just by the Army. He needs to face justice the same way the rest of us do.”

  “Exactly.” The guy glanced over my shoulder, and his expression perked up. “Hey, it’s four-thirty. People are starting to leave post. We should look lively.”

  I picked up the sign that rested against my legs. “Yeah, let’s remind them that we’re here to make sure they can’t get away with covering this up.”<
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  * * *

  An hour later, I trudged back to my car, feeling every one of my twenty-six years. “It didn’t used to be this way,” I muttered to myself. “I used to leave these things feeling uplifted and energized. I was ready to take on the world, or at least to go out and have dinner with friends. Now I’m just exhausted and want to crawl into bed.” I grimaced as my shoe rubbed against a nasty blister growing on one heel. “This must be what getting old feels like. I’m starting to lose it. Hell, I’m even talking to myself.”

  My ancient Ford was the only one left in the grassy field where we’d all parked earlier in the afternoon. I reached the driver’s side and dumped my heavy backpack and the sign I’d been lugging around onto the ground as I dug in my pocket for my keys. When I found them, I unlocked the door, tossed my bag and sign into the backseat and collapsed behind the wheel before I turned the ignition.

  Nothing happened.

  My heart plunged, and my stomach turned over. “Shit. Shit, shit, shit. I don’t have time for this.” Taking a deep, calming breath, I closed my eyes and focused on centering my energy. This was an old car. Sometimes it didn’t turn over on the first try. There was no need to panic.

  I tried again. Nothing.

  “Fuck, shit, damn. Goddamn it to hell.” Launching myself out of the car that was betraying all the trust and love I’d given it for the last eight years, I stalked to the front end and opened the hood to take a look at the engine.

  At first glance, I couldn’t see anything amiss. No parts were smoking or missing or glaringly having an issue. I went through the checklist in my mind of possible causes for an engine not turning over. The battery cables looked good. No corrosion there, and the battery itself was fairly new, since I’d bought it before the trip down here.

  “Hey, you okay?”

  The voice startled me so totally that I jerked my head up and banged it on the underside of the hood. For a solid ten seconds, I saw nothing but stars as pain shot down the back of my neck. It was followed in short order by panic: here I was, alone in this field, with a car that didn’t work, and someone—a male—was here, too. And shit, I’d left the keys in the ignition, so I couldn’t even thread them through my fingers as a makeshift weapon.

  The pain and the panic combined to make my blood boil. “Fuck!” Backing up, I shaded my eyes from the late afternoon sun, trying to locate the source of the voice. My fear subsided a bit when I saw a sleek silver car at the curb that bordered the field. The man in the driver’s seat had lowered his window and was gazing out at me from behind dark sunglasses. He was in a uniform I recognized.

  The good news was that he wasn’t some vagrant skulking around, waiting to prey on what he assumed was a helpless female. This guy—this soldier—likely worked at Fort Lee and was on his way home. He was probably just trying to be nice and gentlemanly by checking on a woman whose car wasn’t working.

  The bad news was that he was a soldier from Fort Lee, where I’d just spent the better part of the afternoon protesting. There was a better than good chance he wouldn’t take kindly to that. I snuck a glance into the backseat of my car, where the sign that read JUSTICE FOR ALL MEANS MILITARY TOO was lying face up for all the world to see.

  And oh, great. I stifled a groan. Now he’d turned off his own car and opened the driver’s side door. He was coming over here.

  “Hey, I’m okay. You don’t have to do that.” I called out the protest, but either he didn’t hear me or ignored what I’d said, because he unfolded his body from the seat and stood up.

  And in that moment, I forgot my car, his car, the reason I was here, the sign in my backseat and even my own name, because . . . hot damn, this man was built.

  He was in the same camo suit I’d seen on all the people leaving post today, and the same one I’d seen around town since I’d moved here. On most of the men, the fit was almost baggy, hiding any definition or lack thereof. And it wasn’t as though my new friend here was any different, but somehow, even this uniform couldn’t disguise the broadness of his shoulders or the narrowing of his waist or the thickness of his thighs. I was willing to bet my last dime that the chest beneath the jacket was solid and chiseled, too.

  It was hard to get a good view of his face, given the fact that his sunglasses covered his eyes and his uniform cap was pulled low on his head, but the mouth that was visible was very possibly the most beautiful mouth I’d ever seen on any man. The lips, slightly parted, were sensual, with the full lower one jutting under the thinner upper. I had a sudden and visceral sensation of what that mouth would feel like against my own . . . or fastened on one of my now-puckered nipples . . . or buried between my legs, moving—

  “What seems to be the trouble?” He was close to me now, stopped a few feet away, one hand on his hip and his weight shifted to the side.

  I became abruptly aware of two things: one, that I was still staring at him without speaking and two, that all my lady parts were singing the song of my people. Oh, happy day, oh, happy day. We want him! Take us now!

  “Uh, you okay?” Since I still hadn’t spoken, he was probably beginning to assume that I was somehow challenged. Reaching up, he removed the sunglasses from his face.

  Mistake. BIG mistake. If he’d wanted me to somehow become coherent—or communicative in any way at all—he’d just done the wrong thing, because the eyes that he’d uncovered were a molten brown, fringed with dark lashes. And as he gazed down at me, I saw something there that echoed my own pulsing need.

  It was at that point that my brain function came back, and the ability to speak returned. I decided it was my inherent instinct for survival finally kicking in.

  “Uh, it won’t start. My car.” I pointed at it like I was an idiot. Okay, I’d said brain function was back. I hadn’t said it was brilliant or in any way intelligent.

  “Yeah, I figured that by the way your hood was up.” He smirked, but it wasn’t snarky or mean, just a gentle reminder that I was stating the obvious.

  “Right.” I took a deep breath to center again. I could handle this. I’d never met a guy who could fluster me for long, and this one wasn’t going to be the exception. “It’s not the battery or the cables, and I don’t think it’s the alternator. It didn’t click when I tried to turn it over.” I waved one hand in the direction of the engine. “I know it’s an old car, but I’ve taken good care of it. I just gave it a tune-up last month. There really isn’t any reason it shouldn’t be starting up.”

  “Huh.” He looked down at me with new respect. “You know your stuff.”

  I bristled a little. “Yeah, imagine that. The female understands how her car works. Alert the media. Stop the presses.”

  “Whoa there.” He lifted a hand, and I tried not to stare at his tapered fingers and picture them plunging into my—no. We weren’t going there. Not right now.

  He was speaking again, and with effort, I pulled my attention back to his voice. “I wasn’t trying to intimate that women can’t know about cars or engines. I respect anyone who understands what she—or he—drives.” Those dangerous kissable lips curled into a smile. “I’ve met plenty of guys who talk big about their vehicles but don’t know shit about what’s happening under the hood.”

  I relaxed a bit. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to be reactionary. I guess I’m used to men assuming that I don’t know shit about what’s under the hood.”

  “No problem.” He slid off the camouflage cap, rubbed his hand over the short dirty blond hair there and then replaced the hat. “Okay, so it’s not the battery, the connectors or the alternator. How about the starter?”

  “Yeah, that was my thought.” I nodded. “Which means I’m going to have to have it towed to a mechanic, I guess. I could probably do the work myself, but I’ve never actually replaced a starter.”

  “Do you have a mechanic you trust?” He’d moved to the front of the car and was leaning down over the hood, checking out everything. I breathed in deep through my nose as the material pulled over his ass. Oh, mama.
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  “Um . . . no. I haven’t lived here that long, and everything’s been running fine that whole time.” I lifted one shoulder. “I did the tune up myself in the parking lot of our apartment complex, but there’s something in the lease that says we’re not supposed to perform any kind of auto maintenance or repair on the premises. I guess they don’t want people leaving their cars around on blocks or whatever. So I’m pretty sure I’ll have to find someone to do this. I can ask my roommate, though, if she knows a decent shop. She’s been here longer than me, and she works in town.”

  “You don’t?” He was staring at me again, frank interest and appreciation on his face. “You don’t work on post, do you? I mean, this is a strange place to park your car if you do.” He frowned. “What were you doing out here? Clearly your car didn’t break down, if starting it up is the only issue.”

  “No, I don’t work at Fort Lee.” I tried a diverting tactic. “I’m a historian on site at the battlefield.” I held out my hand. “Samantha Crewe.”

  He gripped my fingers automatically, and my breath caught as we touched. He swallowed, the sound audible, making me hope that he was feeling the same tug that I was.

  “Max Remington.” He pointed in the general direction of the gate to Fort Lee. “I’m stationed here.” He didn’t let go of my hand as he continued to hold my gaze, too. “So why were you parked out here, Samantha Crewe, historian? Were you looking for artifacts?” His tone held a bit of humor, and I grabbed onto that, laughing a little.

  “No. Not exactly.” I pulled my fingers away from him and took a step back. “I was, uh, part of the demonstration here this afternoon. We were protesting what happened in town Saturday night. Maybe you didn’t hear about it, if you were at work all day, but a soldier went into Petersburg, got into a fight with a local guy and messed him up pretty bad. And then the Army came in, bailed him out and is claiming jurisdiction over his trial and sentencing.”