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At Your Command [Secure eReader]
eBook by Julie Miller

eBook Category: Romance/Romance
eBook Description: The Few. The Proud. The Married.... U.S. Marine Zachariah Clark spent his last furlough between the sheets with voluptuous socialite Becky Owens--a steamy week he never wanted to end. So he proposed. They secretly said their "I do's" and Zachariah shipped out on an eighteen-month tour. Stateside again--nursing serious war wounds--Zach begins a tough new mission: getting to know his bride. In the bedroom things are perfect, but outside, Zach has plenty to learn about Becky, a steely divorce attorney who's as fierce a warrior in her own way as he is. The question is: who's giving the orders now?

eBook Publisher: Harlequin/Blaze
Fictionwise Release Date: January 2008


13 Reader Ratings:
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1

Eighteen months ago

MARINE CORPS CAPTAIN Zachariah Clark was so tuckered out he could barely put on his uniform, much less speed up the process.

But, oh, man, what a way to go.

He had only five hours until he had to report for duty at the training base in Quantico, Virginia—forty miles away. Against city traffic. Through the mushy dregs of the snowstorm that had blanketed Washington, D.C. He should be kickin' his ass into gear and bookin' it out of this hotel.

But as he tied off his boots, all he could think about was the naked woman in the shower, singing a bluesy rendition of "Too Darn Hot" that danced against his eardrums like a seductive whisper and heated his groin like the touch of a slow, firm hand.

"Keep dressin', Clarksie," he chided himself as he carefully buttoned the fly of his camouflage pants.

After nearly a week in this room with Becky Owens, he thought he would have gotten the woman out of his system. He'd already had her six ways to Sunday, and she'd had him back.

Enough, man! Duty calls.

But she was in there.

Naked.

Absolutely his favorite version of the Beckster. He'd seen her in every role from buttoned-up exec in a chaste gray suit to adorable sex kitten in her funky flannel pajamas. He'd had fun with them all. But naked? He swallowed hard, doing his damnedest to blank out the image of soft, decadent curves, flexing and bouncing with each precise movement she made. The pale, perfect skin, the result of her Scandinavian heritage, would be steaming beneath the spray of the water.

Naked.

Zachariah reached for the khaki T-shirt he'd pulled from his duffel bag. Maybe if he kept puttin' his clothes on, he'd quit obsessing about takin' hers off.

Of course, he wouldn't have to take off anything because she was already…

Naked.

Shit. His dick stirred in response.

"Helluva pep talk, Clarksie."

He pulled the T-shirt over his head, stretching the cotton over his chest and arms until the Corps tattoo of eagle, globe and anchor peeked out beneath the sleeve on his left bicep. Yeah. Focus on that. Think Semper Fi. Think duty. Honor. His responsibility to his men and country. Neutralizing threats around the world. An eleven-year career.

Naked.

"Geez."

Zachariah's pants tightened.

He resolutely tucked in his T and pulled his camo overshirt off its hanger as Becky's husky serenade ended. The pulse of beating water dwindled to a few noisy drips and then silence. Lordy. If she walked out here naked…

Zachariah inhaled a deep, steadying breath and buttoned his shirt. He was a Marine, damn it, not some lovesick puppy. Though, with his mug, he hadn't had the same success as some of his poster-boy comrades; this wasn't the first time he'd come home on leave, picked up a woman at a bar and spent the night with her. It was the first time he'd spent six nights with the same woman. The first time he'd ever had any trouble kissing her goodbye, thanking her and walking away.

Hell. He was beginning to feel like he was never going to get enough of her. The cool, conservative attorney with the secretly sinful alter ego wasn't intimidated by his crew cut or brawn or bad-ass bravado. If anything, the challenge of going head-to-head with him seemed to excite her. It excited him. From the moment she'd walked into Groucho's Pub in the heart of D.C. nearly a week ago, and refused to let him buy her a drink, the game between them had been on.

How could he leave before the game was finished?

The bathroom door creaked open.

Despite his best, self-preserving intentions, Zachariah's gaze searched the mirror over the hotel room desk where he was dressing. He zeroed in on the cloud of steam filtering into the archway behind him, a tempting prelude to the Venus who'd follow.

The steam carried the exotic scent that was uniquely Becky's—a heady fragrance that reminded him of long nights in the tropics. Everything in him tensed with anticipation. If she was naked…

"Whew! Now I'm awake." The steam cleared and Becky appeared in the doorway.

Thank God. He'd be able to walk away.

Maybe.

She wore a white, fluffy towel, tucked around her breasts sarong-style, covering her from her armpits to her thighs. It was a demure enough look if he didn't already know what was hidden underneath. The skin he could see was pink from the shower's heat, and try as he might, he couldn't look away from the tempting sight. She dried her hair with a second towel, then tossed it onto the marble vanity beside the bathroom sink.

Zachariah dropped his gaze to the glimpse of rounded butt cheek that appeared beneath the edge of the terry cloth as she leaned in closer to the mirror running the length of the vanity. He glanced back up as she finger-combed her hair. Damp from her shower, the white-gold waves had darkened to the color of wheat. One tendril stuck to her cheek, and before Zachariah could even identify the urge to do the job for her, she pulled it free and tucked it behind her ear. Only then did her deep cobalt eyes look up to meet his reflection in the mirror. "Good morning, big guy."

I have to go, he meant to say.

"God, you're gorgeous," he said instead. That's tellin' her, Clarksie. Way to be large and in charge. How the hell was he supposed to begin this farewell conversation? Where was that hoo-yah drive to get the job done?

Copyright © 2008 by Julie Miller.


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