A week with a professor? His smile faded.
“Ms. Barlow is writing a book about your latest mission. Top brass believes she wants to focus too much attention on what went wrong during the rescue you boys pulled off while riding those damn horses.”
“And they gave her the go-ahead to look into it?” Hunter had been laid up in the hospital at the time, but he knew there had been questions about his last mission. Specifically, how he’d ended up with a bullet in his shoulder. The extraction had been a disaster
. His teammate had been too distracted to cover him, his mind still on the wife he’d buried before they’d deployed, and Hunter had taken a bullet. Better him than the aid worker he’d been carrying to safety at the time.
“Top brass granted her access because her old man was a decorated Ranger. He came home injured and received a medal or two for his actions. The generals don’t want the press to find out we denied a decorated war vet’s daughter access.”
“Can’t afford to say no.” Hunter nodded. “I get it.”
“But we also can’t let this woman run hog wild, writing whatever she damn pleases about what you boys did over there.” The colonel sped through a yellow light. “After the SEAL debacle, with that one soldier publishing a goddamn outline of the bin Laden mission, a memo came down from the top about letting classified information—hell, any substantive information about how we work—get out into the public. And the last thing we need is a public record of our mistakes.”
Hunter nodded, his jaw clenched. This mission reeked of internal politics and if he had a choice he’d say count me out, sir. He’d rather jump out of a helo than read some goddamn manuscript any day. But he knew the colonel well enough to know this assignment wasn’t optional.
“You won’t find it written up in the paperwork,” his CO continued. “But your job is to control what goes in her book. Act as her liaison, set up interviews with your teammates, but be damn sure you’ve coached the boys on what to say. Let her ask you a few questions and lead her away from sensitive issues. With the details of the SEAL’s mission out there in print, we can’t afford to be the next Special Forces group to spill our guts to the public. Stonewall her. Distract her. I don’t care. Just keep the upper hand and be certain you’ve read her drafts before she sends them off to her fancy New York publisher. Succeed and you’re the new team leader. I’ll have you shipping out with your team as soon as this is over.”
“Yes, sir.” Give a few interviews, distract a professor from telling the public about his teammate’s mistake and receive the job he’d always wanted and the money to take care of his sister? It sounded like a win-win. Everything he’d ever wanted was being handed to him on a platter.
Except Maggie.
When was the last time a one-night stand had distracted him from doing his job and protecting his family? Try never. He didn’t look back. Never wanted more. Sierra and the thrill of his job were enough for him. But somehow Miss Maggie had gotten under his skin. Or maybe it was the boredom from being sidelined from missions that were more exciting than babysitting and reading books. If he couldn’t deploy with his team, fulfilling Maggie’s fantasies was the next best thing.
On the bright side, a week, maybe more, in upstate New York 100 percent increased his chances of running into Miss Maggie again. She lived around here somewhere and he did have her shoes.
But he’d have some old professor with him. Might not help his chances for getting laid again.
“She’s practically a child,” his CO said, turning into the West Point main entrance. Hunter tuned his attention back to his mission. “It shouldn’t take much to keep her under control.”
“Yes, sir.” Okay, so the professor didn’t sound ancient. But with Colonel Johnson, one never knew. Any woman under forty was practically a child in his mind.
His CO spun the wheel, guiding them into a parking spot, and turned to him. “I’m counting on you for this one.”
“I’m on it, sir.” Hunter opened his door and followed his CO into one of West Point’s castle-like buildings, ready to meet Margaret Barlow, complete his mission and earn his promotion and pay raise.
* * *
MAGGIE ADJUSTED HER boxy gray suit jacket, checked her PowerPoint presentation and scanned the conference-room table to make sure the packets she’d prepared were in front of each seat. As she straightened her presentation notes on the podium, her mind drifted to Saturday night. It had been perfect, really. A handsome stranger, orgasms—three of them—and the freedom to return to her world on Sunday morning.
Perfect.
Well, almost.
The side of her mouth drooped. Hunter had satisfied something deep inside her, but he’d also left her feeling helpless. An hour after he’d fallen asleep, panic had washed over her. She’d escaped as fast as she could, even though part of her—the part that craved orgasms—wanted to know just what he’d meant when he’d said the words that played through her mind on repeat.
Honey, I could teach you things that would blow your fantasies out of the water.
She wanted to learn those things, and she wanted to learn them from him, which scared her even more than the way she’d followed his commands in bed. Hunter was the worst possible match for her. She needed stable and dependable, not commanding.
Plus, she didn’t have the first clue what sort of demons Hunter had faced in his personal life since his return from the war. The writer in her might be curious, but the part of her that wanted to savor the memory of those orgasms? That part of her needed to remember him just the way he was Saturday night. Let someone else deal with his depression and the potential drinking and drug problems when he tried to adapt to a normal life. Let him send someone else’s life spiraling out of control. She’d been there and done that. She had no intention of going back. Not even for the best orgasms in the world.
Of course, setting aside the fact that he was an elite soldier, once they got to know each other, it probably wouldn’t work. Maggie glanced down at her plain black flats, nearly hidden by her gray slacks. Scratch probably and make that definitely. If he saw her now, he wouldn’t even recognize her, never mind date her. He certainly wouldn’t demand she remove her clothes. Not this shapeless suit, which was exactly why’d she’d worn it to her meeting and not out for her wild Saturday night.
In this room, surrounded by a group of men who could put an end to her book before she even got a chance to write it, she couldn’t afford to look like a sexy, single woman. She needed them to listen to her, not stare at her breasts like a pack of hormonal boys. Today, in this suit, she could not be caught thinking about the best orgasms of her life. These men would know the minute they set foot in the room if she was thinking about sex. And then they’d never take her seriously. Not that they were doing so now.
Their chosen space showed the top brass’s interest in her book. Instead of a conference room inside West Point proper, they’d placed her in a trailer-turned-meeting-room. Sure, it held a podium, a screen for her PowerPoint and a conference table, but it was still a singlewide that could be disposed of any minute.
The trailer door opened with a whine and a middle-aged gray-haired man in dress uniform stepped in. “Are you ready for us, Ms. Barlow?”