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“You can’t go inside yet,” he told her, his voice low but firm. “My men are still searching.”

She shot him a puzzled glance of protest. “But they carried everyone out.”

“Bombs,” he answered calmly. “Or anything else they might have left behind.”

He fixed his steady stare on her. Her expression went from shocked confusion to fury in the blink of an eye. Her emerald eyes flashed fire.

“Bombs!” The word exploded from her, followed by rapid questions. “What is going on here? Why would there be a bomb in my house? Who were those men? Why are you here?”

Ignoring her furious battery of questions, Damien only looked around the area. Neighbors and a few media representatives formed a half-circle in the street. The low buzz of scattered voices hummed in the night air. Damien shifted his gaze back to Laurie. She appeared unaware of the speculative glances and outright stares, the people around her, as two of his men kept the crowd under control. She only stared at her house.

Two men fastened a huge sheet of sturdy rigid plastic over the window and another replaced the door on its hinges. Only minutes passed before two men exited the house and declared it clean. Damien nodded acknowledgement but heard Laurie’s sigh of relief as she led her daughter inside.

Damien followed her, listening. The neighbors gossiped in loud whispers as they wandered back to their homes. The truck roared off into the night. Finally, all was silent. She stumbled into the house and Damien shook his head. Now came the hard part—telling her what was going on without telling her what he was really doing.

* * * *

Laurie stopped abruptly in the living room, gripping Stacy’s hand, and stared dejectedly at the destruction. The explosion had ripped through the room. Bullets punctured walls.

ALWAYS A WARRIOR Patricia Bruening

7

Everything had to be replaced, though most were priceless—the value sentimental rather than financial.
This is unreal
, she thought desperately.
It can’t be happening.

“I’m securing this door.” The soldier’s voice startled her and she spun around, gaping at him.

He locked the door, checked the hinges, and stood and faced her, his expression unreadable. “Put the child to bed. This will take a while to explain.”

Rather than waste time defying his order, Laurie did as she was told. Once Stacy was safely tucked into bed, clutching her stuffed dog for comfort, Laurie detoured to her bedroom.

Anxious for answers, she pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt then dragged a brush through her hair before twisting it into a ponytail. A glance at the clock drew a groan from her. It was three thirty in the morning. She wanted coffee.

The huge mess in the kitchen almost put her on her knees. While the coffee brewed, she cleaned. Her frenzied efforts soon had the kitchen presentable if not perfect. Rinsing the rag, she glanced up from the sink. The soldier watched her from the doorway. She busied herself putting cream and sugar on the table.

“You rescued us,” she declared, awestruck. Sanity returned with a jolt. “From who? How did you know? I don’t even know your name.”

Her hands shook as she poured coffee into two mugs. She placed one on the table in front of her rescuer as he sat down. She leaned against the counter, sipping from her mug. Absently, she fished a pack of cigarettes out of the drawer by the sink. Fumbling, she got one out and lit it.

“Who are you?” She took a long drag off the cigarette. It steadied her nerves and gave her something to do with her hands.

“Lieutenant Damien McAllister,” he supplied as he picked up the mug and drank slowly.

His steady stare never left her.

Laurie smoked her cigarette and sipped her coffee, eyeing him intently. In the bright light of her kitchen, his rugged good looks commanded attention. Even sitting at the table, he looked tall, muscular, and trim. Strength and determination emanated from him but he appeared unaware of his own attractiveness. He had a job to do and radiated his confidence in his ability to do that job. Those compelling dark brown eyes speared her where she stood. Caught and held in his relentless stare, she almost felt helpless. This was not a sensation she wanted or liked.

Adrenaline
, she mused, waiting for the letdown. She gripped the mug tighter in an effort to stop the shaking. Her heart beat erratically, painfully. She had studied the effects of adrenaline rushes, written them into her books, but rarely experienced the phenomenon herself. Forcing herself to draw a deep breath, she dragged her gaze from the soldier. A bullet lodged in the doorframe grabbed her attention. Her heart lurched at the thought of everything she had nearly lost.

She blinked but could not look away from that bullet. She took a slow step back, slowly crushed out her cigarette in the ashtray on the counter. Her hand trembled and she curled her fingers around the edge of the counter. She struggled for calm logic but her efforts were no match for terror sparked adrenaline.

* * * *

Damien watched her carefully controlled movements. Long familiar with the effects of adrenaline, he knew what she faced. The mug slipped from her fingers and smashed on the floor.

She flinched at the sharp sound. Coffee splattered on the floor. Her green eyes blazed with rage and fear. Her whole body trembled. Damien approved. His mission was far from over. Tense, he waited for the storm to break. He was not prepared for tears as delayed reaction set in.

ALWAYS A WARRIOR Patricia Bruening

8

She clenched her fists until her knuckles whitened. Her fingernails cut into her skin.

Blood seeped from the half-moon cuts. Tears glittered in her eyes, fell in streams as she fought and lost the battle for control. With a wild shake of her head, she squeezed her eyes shut.

Damien watched her closely as she staggered then caught herself on the counter. He raked his gaze over her, lingering on her split, swollen lips. He’d have to treat that when she calmed down. When she opened her eyes again, that helpless confused look shot right through him. Her tears touched a chord deep within him. His combat hardened heart cracked a little but none of his carefully honed instincts told him what to do. He did the only thing that came to mind. He went to her and pulled her roughly into his arms.

* * * *

Laurie felt his arms slide around her and sagged against him. She gasped for breath, sniffling between sobs, and leaned on his broad chest. Listening to his heartbeat, she allowed the strong rhythm to steady her until her knees stopped wobbling. She lingered for a moment, wrapped in his strong arms, and drew a deep, slow breath. The aroma of strong black coffee mingled with the sheer masculine scent that proclaimed him man. Something indefinable shimmered inside her, something that resembled desire.

With a deliberate shake of her head, denying the brief sensation, she backed out of his embrace and stared up at him. The glimmer of concern in his eyes disconcerted her. He awkwardly brushed away the last trace of her tears with his finger. Such tenderness seemed out of place for him. His flustered, uncertain expression touched her and she almost smiled.

His finger lingered, gently tracing her lips. Sharp pain shot through the soft tissue, made her rudely aware of the damage and the fierce throb under the swelling. She winced and took another step back from him. He dropped his hand, lifted his gaze to hers.

“Some ice might help,” he murmured.

She shrugged. “Later.”

She bent over to pick up the remains of her mug and wipe up spilled coffee. It was time to put things back in perspective.

“All right,” she said as she dropped the rag into the sink. “Tell me what is going on here, Lt. McAllister. Who were those men and why were they in my house?”

She poured herself another cup of coffee with still trembling hands and sat at the table.

Watching him intently, she waited until he was seated again. Her stomach churned, anticipating only bad news.

“What do you know about your father?” he countered curtly.

She shot him a sharp glare and shook her head, refusing to tell him anything about her family.

He sighed, sipped his coffee, and peered into her eyes. “You’re not going to like it.”

She let out a frustrated breath. “I already don’t like it. Spill it.”

“All right.” The dangerous gleam in his eyes unnerved her despite the matter of fact tone of his voice. “Your father is working with terrorists. He’s smuggling weapons and technology out of the country. We don’t know if he joined them willingly or if he is being forced. If that is the case, you and your daughter could be part of a plan to keep him in line.”

Laurie shook her head in automatic denial. “Not my father. He died before I was born.”

“Are you sure?” he persisted. “Maybe he simply left and your mother lied to you.”

“No!” she argued, rattled by his persistence. “He’s dead. If he had simply left, Mother would have found him and forced him to pay child support and alimony. She always hated that he died and left her nothing but me.”

ALWAYS A WARRIOR Patricia Bruening

9

Laurie looked away from him, stared at her own hand clenched around the cup. In the last twenty-nine years, Marjorie Crawford had never failed to remind her daughter of how she had done everything for Laurie with no help from anyone, especially her husband.

“Are you close to your mother?”

Laurie stiffened at his insensitive question but lowered her head. Marjorie wanted very little to do with the daughter she heartily disapproved of so Laurie had stopped trying to bridge the distance.

“She says I’m too much like my father,” she finally said, her voice full of regrets she could not banish.

“Whether or not this man is your father, your life and your daughter’s are in danger.

Someone believes you are related to Nathaniel Crawford.”

Her head snapped up again and she stared at him. “That doesn’t make sense,” she stated skeptically and rubbed her hand wearily across the back of her neck. “Why? I don’t have anything that would interest terrorists.” She blinked and rubbed her neck again. “I’m too tired to think straight.”

“It’s

crystal

clear.” Conviction rang in his voice. “The terrorists believe you to be related.

If Crawford is giving them a hard time, then by threatening to harm or even kill you, they can force him back in line. They would have had you tonight if we had not stopped them.”

Laurie cocked her head, puzzled. “How did you know?” She fiddled with the cup in her hand but did not want any more coffee. Her nerves were already jangled and wired for sound.

“Intelligence,” was the terse response. “The government has been looking for this group for years. They’ve been elusive until now. When we had a name, we looked for possible connections and strike points. You were at the top of the list.”

Exhausted, Laurie smothered a yawn. “What happens next? I assume there’ll be more trouble.” She propped her chin on her hand and struggled to keep her eyes open and her mind focused. “They won’t just give up.”

“That’s why I’m here,” he said. “I’m staying to protect both of you.”

She snapped to abrupt attention at that declaration. “Just how do you intend to do that? I don’t want the Army camped on my doorstep.”

He snorted with derision. “Not Army. I’m a Navy SEAL.”

“A psycho,” she muttered under her breath. “That’s all I need.” Of course she had heard of the Navy SEALs—the Navy’s fiercest, best trained soldiers. They were an elite group, the best commandos in the world. They thrived on danger and risk.

If McAllister heard her muttering, he gave no indication. She sighed in resignation. She could not ask for a better bodyguard but she did not have to like it.

“You’d better get some sleep,” he suggested, staring into his coffee cup. “We’re leaving in the morning.”

Just a few hours later, morning dawned bright and clear but the morning air carried a distinct October chill. Laurie stretched wearily under the thick blue comforter and shut off the annoying buzz of her alarm clock. Resisting the urge to roll over and go back to sleep, she slid out of bed to stand barefoot on the plush gray carpet. Bleary-eyed, she wondered why she felt as though she had not slept long enough. She had gone to bed at her usual time. She frowned, brief images of gun fights, terrorists, and soldiers flitting through her mind.

“What a weird dream.” She yawned and stretched away the lingering effects of sleep but could not chase the weariness. After Stacy left for school, she would catch a nap.

ALWAYS A WARRIOR Patricia Bruening

10

She dressed quickly in a gray sweatshirt and faded jeans as she shrugged off the vague memories of the odd dream. But she could not forget those compelling dark brown eyes. Just the memory of him looking at her, of that gentle finger on her face, his strong arms around her, sent pleasant tingles along her spine.

“Too bad he was just a dream,” she murmured as she tugged on socks and shoes. “A product of your vivid imagination.”

She dragged a brush through her hair, twisted the length into a ponytail, and dashed down the stairs. Stacy would be up soon wanting breakfast. Her foot hit the bottom step. Her casual glance swept the living room, and then jerked back and she stumbled to a halt.

The room was a disaster, the picture window and furnishings destroyed. Various holes yawned in the walls. Laurie clutched the corner of the wall and gaped at the destruction. Every vivid detail of the night before rushed back into her head. Her heart pounded in her throat and she swallowed hard.

“Shit,” she groaned, devastated, and looked around the room.

Her glance landed on a framed eight-by-ten picture that had fallen off the wall. Dazed, she deftly picked her way through the rubble to retrieve the photograph of her and Stacy on Stacy’s fifth birthday. Holding it in trembling hands, she gently blew off dust and glass fragments. Why? Who?

She knew. McAllister had told her. She did not want to believe it. Ordinary people in ordinary places did not have to deal with terrorists. The situation had all the earmarks of a movie-of-the-week. But it was real, and it was happening to her. Laurie frowned and, illogically, hung the picture on the wall and turned away. Damien McAllister stood in the living room entrance.