Desperado by Sandra Hill
Desperado by Sandra Hill
To my cousin, Robert Kobularcik, one of the most avid supporters of my books. As an unpublished writer, I confessed to him one day that I was writing romance novels. He hugged me with excitement and said, “I’m going to say a prayer for you tonight.” The next week I sold my first novel.
To all men who aren’t afraid to read women’s fiction. They are the real romance heroes.
And a special thank you for the help from writers Kathleen Morgan and Lynn Raye Harris, as well as my good friend Bruce Heim, a handsome West Pointer and ex-Airborne Ranger, who served with the 101st in Vietnam.
Chapter One
“Hut, two, three, four… hut, two, three, four…”
Rafael Santiago peered up over the rim of his dark aviator sunglasses, watching the young trainees who marched like blooming idiots across the blistering tarmac in front of him.
“Eenie, meenie, minie, moe,” their platoon sergeant called out in a raspy, Clint Eastwood-style voice.
Like robots, the soldiers echoed their leader’s singsong “jody call” in time to their pounding footsteps.
“Catch a virgin by the toe…”
Oh, great! It’s 1996, and I’ve landed in boot camp from hell — with a bunch of grunts calling out raunchy marching cadences.
Rafe put a hand to his throbbing head and wished he could be anywhere but in the middle of the California desert, on a hot August morning. Hell, I think my hair’s startin’ to singe.
“If she hollers, let her go…”
Geez! I’m thirty-four years old. I have a law degree. I should be soaking in a gold-plated Jacuzzi, instead of serving in the damn loony bin National Guards. I’m gonna kill Lorenzo for screwing around with my calendar.
“On the other hand… hell, no!”
Rafe’s eyes widened with disbelief. He would have thought “Grody Jodies” went out with the Anita Hill hearings. Didn ‘t you military fruitcakes learn anything from Tailhook? he thought with a rueful shake of his head. Some feminist is gonna slap a sexual harassment suit on you quicker’n a hometown hooker’s five-dollar trick.
But that was their problem, not his. Rafe had enough of his own. It was bad enough that he’d been forced to serve in the Guard these past twelve years to pay back college loans and to earn extra cash for bills. If he didn’t get back to his law practice, his scatterbrained legal assistant, Lorenzo Duran, would have him representing every deadbeat on the West Coast, and he’d be even deeper in debt — if that was possible.
Rafe threw the backpack holding his gear over his shoulder and made his way across the airfield toward the C-141 Starlifter. The piercing sun beat down so unremittingly that even his toenails felt like they were sweating.
He’d arrived two days ago for the usual orientation in the special forces unit, but he still had twelve more agonizing days to go. He wondered idly if he’d survive. Or die of boredom.
Then he saw the tall redhead standing at the foot of the ramp to the training jet, her straight-as-an-arrow, slim body encased in puke camouflage — the standard green, brown, tan, and black BDU, or battle dress uniform — just like his. The female officer was checking off the soldiers’ names on a clipboard as they boarded. She must be the replacement for Colonel Barrow, who’d suffered a heart attack the day before.
He recognized her immediately.
“Prissy” Prescott? My commanding officer for this ludicrous two-week military trek is Helen “Prissy” Prescott?
In that moment, Rafe knew his bad day was about to get worse.
As the woman turned her ramrod-stiff body toward the chanting soldiers, a sudden backdraft clearly outlined her curvy hips and long legs in their Army regulation pants, also camouflage chic. A few wisps of flaming hair escaped the tight bun anchored at the base of her neck like a badge of her no-nonsense personality. Then the dull gold of the oak leaf cluster embroidered on her collar caught his eye.
Gold oak leaf? A major? She must have spent the past twelve years since their college graduation in the service — a lifer. She clasped the clipboard against her body when there was a lull in the embarking soldiers. Rafe’s eyes shifted lower to her chest. And a very nice chest, it is, too, Rafe thought, glancing appreciatively at the full breasts straining against the blouse — identical to his own shirt, but immensely different.