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Damien did not move an inch. He merely watched her through narrowed eyes as she hastily yanked her clothes on and fled. She loved him! His heart swelled but his mind panicked.

But it should not have been such a shock. He had suspected—no, he had known she loved him.

But he never expected to hear the words. He did not want to hear the words.

Staring through the open bedroom door, he mulled over the situation. He did not dare give the words back. It changed everything. He could not remember the last time he had heard those three words. Why did it shake him up so much? Was it because she loved him or because he loved her? He didn’t want changes. He liked his life the way it was. Being a Navy SEAL

suited him perfectly.

“Shit.” He grimaced in self-disgust and confusion. He sat up and rubbed a weary hand over his face. Standing, directing mental curses at himself, he pulled on his underwear and trousers.

Bare-chested, he roamed the house until he found her in her office. He glanced over the computer system and inexpensive but comfortable furniture. Bookshelves, filled with a variety of fiction and on-fiction books, covered two inner walls. Framed book covers lined the wall above ALWAYS A WARRIOR Patricia Bruening

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her desk. He noted all the details of the room in a single lightening glance but his gaze riveted on her.

She leaned a shoulder on the window frame and stared into the back yard. Sunlight streamed through the window, framing her in a golden glow. She moved and the image faded but remained imprinted on his brain. He blinked and focused on her again as she crossed the room and sat at her desk.

“Sorry,” she said, a trace of self-deprecation in her tone. “Got caught up in the moment, I guess.” She smiled brightly.

Too brightly
, he thought, watching her intently. He stared at her for so long she looked away. Her smile faltered slightly and didn’t reach her eyes.

“Don’t worry about it,” she insisted. “It was just a slip of the tongue. People say things they don’t mean in the midst of passion.”

“I don’t think so, Laurie.” Damien shook his head as he crossed the room and stood next to her. “I think you meant every word.”

Part of him, deep down, wanted it to be true—needed her to love him, even if he didn’t want such a messy emotion in his life.

“Forget I said anything,” she said flatly. “A lot has happened in the past couple of weeks—romance novels, adrenaline, and hero worship.”

Dismissing the subject as inconsequential, she moved the electronic mouse and looked at her computer screen. The cursor blinked in the middle of the page.

“You probably don’t have much time but I need to get some work done before Stacy gets home.” She flashed a genuine, warm smile. “She’ll be glad to see you.”

Uncertain how to pursue the subject, or if he even wanted to, Damien settled onto the old leather sofa. A comfortably worn recliner sat diagonally to the end of the sofa. Tired from the long drive on his motorcycle, he stretched out. His head lay on the arm of the couch. His feet stuck past the other end. With a weary sigh he relaxed more than he had in a month.

Sleep, however, eluded him. Did Laurie really love him? Or were her rationalizations nearer the mark? It made perfectly logical sense. He didn’t doubt the powerful sexual attraction that drew him to her like a magnet. Passion exploded like a volcano every time he touched her.

But there was no future for them. Their relationship, their needs, was based on the tension and adrenaline of danger. It would never last. They had nothing else to hold them to each other.

And he was a Navy SEAL. He took risks no one else wanted to think about. He did jobs no one else could or would do. Love and family—those parts of the American Dream did not fit into the simple equation of his life. So why had he returned to her? To exorcise a ghost? Unable to find the answers, he slipped into the dreamless sleep of exhaustion.

“Mommy!” Stacy called excitedly as she ran through the house. “Whose motorcycle is that?”

Abruptly jerked out of sleep, Damien rolled off the sofa. He was wide-awake and alert as he rolled over the floor. Heart pounding fiercely, he quickly scanned the room for danger. He turned his puzzled gaze on Laurie. She didn’t look upset or concerned.

She chuckled. “It’s just Stacy. She saw your bike.”

“Where are you, Mommy?”

“In the office, honey.” Mischief and pleasure sparkled in her emerald eyes.

Damien shook his head. That brief surge of adrenaline had his pulse thundering in his ears. He closed his eyes, counted to ten as he listened to small pounding footsteps. Calmer, he ALWAYS A WARRIOR Patricia Bruening

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opened his eyes and waited. Stacy ran up the stairs, down the hall, and stopped abruptly in the doorway. Her eyes widened in shock then sparkled with pure delight.

“Damien!” She launched herself at him.

He caught her and fell backward on the fall. Stacy wriggled excitedly on his stomach, planting wet sloppy kisses over his face. Looking up at her, Damien swallowed hard. He didn’t remember the last time anyone had been glad to see him.

“Hi, Shortstuff.” He grinned at her and sat up. Stacy stayed in his lap and smiled broadly at him, her arms tight around his neck.

“Are you going to stay?” she demanded with a child’s bluntness. Eager delight gleamed in her eyes.

Damien blinked, swallowed again to rid his throat of the sudden emotional ache.

“For a few days,” he said, lifting his gaze to meet Laurie’s.

“Okay.” Stacy jumped off his lap and raced into her bedroom across the hall.

Caught in Laurie’s speculative gaze, he arched an eyebrow. “What?”

“She likes you,” Laurie said softly, seriously.

“That worries you?” He studied her, curious and oddly uncomfortable.

“Not at the moment.”

“I shouldn’t have come back,” he stated gruffly. He had not been able to stay away from her. He wanted a few hours, a few days, before he disappeared from her life for good. It would be harder to leave every time he came back. So he had to make sure this was the last time.

“Maybe not,” Laurie agreed huskily. “But I’m glad you did.”

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Six months later, Damien McAllister lay almost half buried on top of a sand dune overlooking the Khash River in Afghanistan. Even his tan and brown desert camouflage uniform did not do anything to stop the blistering sun blazing over his head. Though hot and uncomfortable, he didn’t move a muscle as he scanned the riverbank through state of the art range finding binoculars. Tents and various jeeps and trucks dotted the sand under camouflage nets. He studied the largest tent. One whole side remained open. Several shabbily uniformed men sat around a large rectangular table.

“Check the west side. Look like a couple of missiles to you?” Via radio, Neal’s voice interrupted Damien’s steady scrutiny.

Damien shifted the binoculars to the other end of the encampment and swore softly. Two elongated shapes, pointed at one end, lay lengthwise on flat trailers raised to forty-five degree angles. They pointed west.

“Copy that,” Damien said quietly into the almost invisible radio beneath the Islamic headpiece he wore. “Tell that spook to get his fucking pictures ASAP. I want to get out of here.”

A single click of confirmation told him Neal understood. Damien swore again as he watched a flat barge on the river unload more armed men. The number of tangos—SEAL slang for terrorists—in the compound had almost doubled in the last three hours.

Damien dropped the binoculars to dangle by a cord around his neck and inched back from the top of the sand dune. Swaddled in the hot Islamic robe that disguised him, he made his way back to the rickety old bus that would carry him, his team, and the agent back to CharharBorjak, the only town between their position and the border of Pakistan.

Within five minutes, four of his five men scrambled into the bus. Hidden in the sweltering robes, they looked like a handful of traveling Islams. Damien scanned the dune next to the one he had just vacated. Heavy robe trailing in the sand, Neal herded a silent though obviously reluctant agent toward the bus.

Damien scowled fiercely. He hated missions that involved spooks—SEAL slang for CIA agents—especially on sneak and peak missions like this one. All he had to do was baby-sit the asshole while he took pictures. He usually ended up with a jerk like Breckinridge, who tried to run the whole show. Damien stood by the bus door, his rifle ready, and kept an alert eye on the tops of the sand dunes.

Neal climbed on the bus and Breckinridge stopped in front of Damien. “Lieutenant, I need more information, more pictures. We have to get closer.”

“No way,” Damien replied stonily. “I'm not getting my men shot up crossing an open expanse of desert.”

“I’m in charge of this mission,” Breckinridge blustered angrily.

Damien shot an icy glare at the agent, his voice dangerously low. “It’s my job to get your scrawny ass out of here alive. If you don’t get in this bus, I will personally shoot you and dump you, still alive, into the middle of that compound.”

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Breckinridge spared Damien a cold glance and climbed into the bus. Damien snarled a vicious curse and slid into the driver’s seat. They still had a long way to go before they were extracted from this god-forsaken corner of the world.

The following day, debriefed aboard ship as it headed out of the Arabian Sea, Damien stretched out on a bunk in the temporary quarters he shared with Neal. With the mission over, his thoughts turned to Laurie. In six months, in some of the worst hellholes on the planet, he had not forgotten her. More often than not, especially after a mission, he wanted only to crawl into her arms for a few minutes peace.

The teasing spark of laughter in her eyes had the power to make him feel human. Her love and acceptance humbled him. When her eyes smoldered with barely leashed passion he was a sex-crazed maniac. Sinking into her was like coming home. His body stirred at the burning memories of her writhing beneath him as she cried out his name. Her presence alone was enough to let the violence and danger of his life recede for a while.

Stretched out on the bunk, he pulled his wallet from his back pocket and stared at the childish drawing. It went where he went. A slight smile curved his lips. Stacy. She was the spitting image of her mother—bright, outgoing, and eager. In the course of just a few days, Laurie’s daughter had effortlessly entrenched herself into his heart. He thought of her almost as much as he did Laurie and, lately, more often that he thought of his own two children.

He suppressed the immediate stab of regret in his heart. He had not seen Michael or Danielle in almost ten years. His ex-wife had taken full custody in the divorce. For the first couple of years, he used his leave time to visit a few times a year. He dutifully paid child support and struggled to stay in contact. Then, their mother remarried and thwarted Damien’s attempts to keep some relationship with his children. Letters went unanswered, or undelivered. He was told during intermittent phone calls the children were not home. A few years ago, Damien had stopped trying.

The door opened and Neal sauntered into the room with a good-natured grin. “Ready to go home?”

“More than ready.” Damien wearily slipped the drawing back into his wallet.

* * * *

A few days later, after a shower and a fresh uniform, Damien strode into SEAL

headquarters. He wanted a solid twenty-four hours of sleep but he first had to answer Captain Nolan’s summons. He rapped sharply on the door then, without waiting for permission, walked into the office.

Perusing an open file, Nolan motioned Damien to a chair. He closed the file, pulled some printed forms out of a drawer, and shoved them across the desk.

“It’s that time again, McAllister.” Nolan leaned back in his chair, hands linked casually behind his head. “Your second enlistment is up in thirty days.” He grinned. “You know the drill.

We need your skills and qualifications. Nobody makes computers dance the way you do. Yada, yada, yada.”

With a careless shrug, Damien scanned the forms. The pertinent information was accurate. He snatched a pen off the desk and touched the tip to the signature line. Visions of Laurie and Stacy swam in his head, a stream of memories that hit him with the force of a bullet.

He hesitated. Re-enlist and stay with the only life he knew? Or was it possible, at this late stage, to find what he had lost once before? Could he change his life? Did he want to? Could he succeed with Laurie? He stared indecisively at the forms and finally put the pen down.

“Problem,

Damien?”

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He snapped his gaze to Nolan. Nolan only used first names when he intended to get personal. But Carl Nolan cared about his men—always there to counsel, listen, and if he deemed it necessary, kick some ass.

“A year ago, I would have signed this without hesitation,” Damien admitted, shocked as his reluctance to do just that. “Now? I’m not sure.”

Nolan’s eyes narrowed in speculation. “Laurie Crawford?”

The accurate deduction did not surprise Damien. His captain was extremely perceptive.

Six months ago, he had had a long discussion with Nolan, convincing both of them that any relationship with Laurie was short-lived and doomed to failure. Nolan had looked at him with the same intense speculation but let Damien’s decision stand. In the last month or so, Damien had grown aware of Nolan’s increasing scrutiny though the man kept his thoughts to himself.

Damien frowned but nodded curtly. “I can’t stop thinking about her, wanting her. The SEALs are my life. She can’t fit into that. She shouldn’t have to try. But after twelve years, I don’t know if I can be a civilian again—an ordinary guy.”

“You’ll never be an ordinary guy, Damien,” Nolan said thoughtfully. “But you have thirty days to find out if you can be a civilian—if you want to be, or even should be.”