The Keeper

Check out what RT Book Reviews is saying about Rhonda Nelson’s heroes in— and out of—uniform!

Letters from Home

“This highly romantic tale is filled with emotion and wonderful characters. It’s a heart-melting romance.”

The Soldier

“Wonderfully written and heart-stirring, the story flies by to the deeply satisfying ending.”

The Hell-Raiser

“A highly entertaining story that has eccentric secondary characters, hot sex and a heart-warming romance.”

The Loner

“A highly romantic story with two heart-warming characters and a surprise ending.”

The Ranger

“Well plotted and wickedly sexy, this one’s got it all—including a completely scrumptious hero. A keeper.”

Dear Reader,

While other women might think immediately of romance on certain days, I don’t—I think of chocolate. After nearly twenty years together my husband knows that I don’t require dinner out or a box of fancy truffles. Though I’ve sampled Godiva, Ghirardelli, See’s, Whitman’s and various different other chocolates, nothing tastes as good to me as plain old Hershey’s. It’s simple, delicious and in that sweet little kiss form? Ah … bliss. And speaking of kisses, the hero in this book certainly knows how to do that well.

Former Ranger Jackson Oak Martin is as big, steady and strong as the tree he’s named after. But when being too near a bomb when it explodes renders him partially deaf in one ear, Jack knows that his career in the military is over. When he’s recommended for a position at Ranger Security, Jack is unquestionably relieved. But when his first assignment results in forced proximity with pastry chef Mariette Levine and involves catching a “Butter Bandit”, Jack can’t help but wonder what the hell he’s gotten into. Particularly when he becomes obsessed with getting into her …

As always, thanks so much for picking up my books! I am so very thankful for my readers and love hearing from them, so be sure to follow me on Twitter @RhondaRNelson, like me on Facebook and look for upcoming releases and news on my website, ReadRhondaNelson.com.

Happy reading!

Rhonda

About the Author

A Waldenbooks bestselling author, two-time RITA® Award nominee and RT Book Reviews Reviewers’ Choice nominee, RHONDA NELSON writes hot romantic comedy for the Blaze® line. With more than twenty-five published books to her credit and many more coming down the road, she’s thrilled with her career and enjoys dreaming up her characters and manipulating the worlds they live in. In addition to a writing career, she has a husband, two adorable kids, a black Lab and a beautiful bichon frisé. She and her family make their chaotic but happy home in a small town in northern Alabama. She loves to hear from her readers, so be sure to check her out at www.readrhondanelson.com.

The Keeper

Rhonda Nelson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Prologue

“WHAT ABOUT YOU, OAK?” PFC Heath Johnson asked. “What do you want in a woman?”

Doing a routine sweep through his little portion of Baghdad, Major Jackson Oak Martin was only half listening to his fellow comrades enumerate what qualities their ideal woman would possess. He’d been through this area countless times over the past few months and was familiar with every pile of garbage, every mate-less shoe, every blown-out window. He carefully scanned the area ahead, every sense tingling.

Something had changed.

“Eyes out, guys,” Jack told them, slowing down as the hair on the back of his neck prickled uneasily. “I’m pulling a weird vibe.”

“Bullshit,” PFC Chris Fulmer scoffed, seemingly annoyed and bored, his usual mood. “It’s the same old, same old here, Major. Nothing’s happened in weeks in this area. I don’t know why we can’t move on,” he continued to predictably complain. He grunted. “Ignorant-ass waste of time, if you ask me.” He shot a grin at Johnson and pulled a cocky shrug. “You want to know what I want in a woman, Johnson? It’s simple enough.” He made an obscene gesture.

The group laughed and Jack quickly quieted them, growing increasingly uncomfortable. Dammit, he knew something was different. Could feel it. He looked left, then right, along both sides of the cluttered abandoned street. He scanned the rooftops and windows, the blown-out cars and debris. On the surface everything appeared undisturbed, innocuous even, but every iota of intuition he possessed was telling him that it wasn’t, that something—however small—had been altered.

And the small things were just as capable of getting them killed as the big things were.

“You’re a shallow bastard, you know that, Fulmer?” Johnson told him.

The young Nebraskan was as wholesome as the farm he’d grown up on, intelligent and wise beyond his years, and had quickly become one of Jack’s favorites.

A dreamy expression drifted over Johnson’s face. “I just want a woman who can cook. One who knows that potatoes don’t come out of a box and are better mashed, with gravy. One who knows how to fry chick—”

A blast to their immediate right cut off the rest of what Johnson was going to say, along with his legs.

Jack felt the power of the detonation roll over his body—a terrible shock of pain to his right ear—and felt himself fly through the air and land hard on his left side. He couldn’t catch his breath—it had been knocked out of him—and struggled to force the immediate panic aside. Debris and dust clouded his vision, making his eyes water and sting. He lifted his head, saw Johnson shaking uncontrollably on the ground, part of Fulmer’s skull clasped in his own hand, and Wilson and Manning were both bleeding from various parts of their bodies.

Oh, Jesus …

He immediately radioed for help, then, heartsick and terrified, lunged into action, crawling with more speed than grace to Johnson’s side.

The boy’s big blue eyes were wide with shock, and his mouth worked up and down. He grabbed Jack’s sleeve and yanked him down. His ashen lips moved shakily, but no sound emerged.

“Medic’s on the way,” Jack assured him, tearing bits of fabric from the edge of his jacket to fashion a makeshift tourniquet. So much blood, he thought, working frantically, his hands slippery with it. It was a mortal wound, he knew—he was familiar enough with war to know that—but he had to try, had to help. This was Johnson, dammit, his friend.

Johnson writhed and tried to bat his hands away, but Jack roughly pushed him back down. “I gotta do it,” he told him, feeling his insides vibrate with dread. “I know it hurts like a bitch, but just stay strong, buddy.” Jack could feel his heart thundering in his chest, the tremor in his fingers, a trickle of something wet and sticky running down his neck.

Before he could attach the second tourniquet, Johnson jerked him around hard, his pale, freckled face a mask of pain and desperation. He kept talking—seemed to be desperately trying to impart something significant—but his lips only moved. Seemingly frustrated when Jack didn’t respond, Johnson tried harder, appearing to scream. He said whatever it was again, gave him another little shake, then fell back against the ground once more. His eyes drifted shut.

Oh, no. No, no, no.

“Johnson,” Jack said, grabbing the boy’s shoulder. “Stay with me, Johnson. Dammit, don’t—”

A hand suddenly landed on his shoulder and Jack whirled and struck out, sending the medic sprawling. A second medic was right behind the first and a helicopter had landed in the street fifty yards from where they were located. Jack watched the blades whirl, belatedly noting the lack of sound. He frowned, his gaze darting from one person to the next, watched their lips move, saw the action and reaction.

Dread ballooned in his belly and his heart began to race even faster as the unhappy truth slammed into him.

PFC Heath Johnson had just uttered his last words … to a man who couldn’t hear them.

1

Six months later …

PERHAPS BECAUSE HE WAS now partially deaf in his right ear, former-Ranger Jack Martin was certain he had to have heard his new employers incorrectly. He chuckled uneasily.

“The Butter Bandit?”

Brian Payne—one of the three founding members of the infamous Ranger Security Company—nodded and shot a look at fellow partner Guy McCann. “That’s what Guy has dubbed him and, I’m sad to say, it’s stuck.”

Jamie Flanagan, who rounded out the triumvirate, flashed a what-the-hell sort of grin. “You’ve got to admit that it has a certain ring to it.” He pulled a face. “Besides, other than a few éclairs, cookies and bear claws, butter is the only thing this thief is stealing.”

How … bizarre, Jack thought. He was most definitely a fan of butter—who didn’t like it melting on a pile of pancakes or slathering it over a hot roll? He had fond memories of making it himself with nothing more than a little heavy whipping cream in an old mason jar and shaking it up until his arms were tired, the unmistakable “plop” against the side of the jar, signaling it was done. He’d learned the trick from his grandmother, who’d been more butter obsessed than Paula Deen.

But he couldn’t imagine even her stealing the stuff. It boggled the mind.

“Have there been any other butter thefts in the area?” Jack asked, trying to get his mind around the idea. Not a question he would have ever anticipated coming out of his mouth, but then again nothing about his recent life was anything he’d anticipated.

Leaving the military before retirement had never been in any plans he’d made—unless it had been in a pine box, which he’d been fully prepared to do—much less moving to anywhere other than Pennyroyal, North Carolina, upon retirement. He’d actually purchased property next to his parents there in his little hometown and had been toying with various house plans for years. Just something else he’d need to rethink at a later date.

At present he was just glad to have a job, to have had an alternative to sitting behind a desk for the rest of his career. The mere idea made him feel claustrophobic, hemmed in. While Jack knew there were many powerful men who did their best work from an office, he was not one of those men. He liked to move, needed some sort of physical action to coincide with his strategy.

Of course, sitting still had never been easy for him. Even in kindergarten his poor teacher had had to mark a square—with duct tape, the wonder material—on the floor around his desk to keep him there. If he came out of the “box” without permission, then he lost time on the playground.

While other people might think she was being cruel or unreasonable, Jack knew she’d had good reason. He’d given the poor woman sheer hell, had been virtually incapable of sitting still for any length of time. He could hear her, understand and learn without looking at her—while looking at something else or doing something else, like playing with a toy truck, for instance, he thought with a mental smile—but he hadn’t realized until much later that other people didn’t learn that way. With maturity had come discipline, but the underlying need to move was always itching just beneath the surface.

Even now.

That’s what had made the military so perfect for him. Action, reaction, strategy, purpose. It had been the ideal fit. And while Ranger Security wasn’t the military, it was run by former Rangers—men like himself—and, though he fully anticipated an adjustment, he knew he was up to the task. He almost smiled.

Even catching a butter thief, of all things, which was evidently going to be his first assignment for the company.

“No,” Guy replied to his question. “No other butter thefts in the area. Mariette’s store is the only one that’s been targeted. We’ve canvassed the area just to be sure.”

“Under normal circumstances we wouldn’t be taking this on at all, but after last night we just can’t sit back and do nothing,” Payne said, his tone grim. “Mariette’s more than a local business owner—she’s a good friend, as well.” He gestured to the other two men. “She’s provided many a cup of coffee, breakfasts and snacks for us over the past three years. She’s hosted our kids’ birthday parties—”

“For which we are eternally thankful,” Jamie added with a significant grimace.

“—and her shop is right here on our block.”

In other words, their turf, their friend.

Jack had actually noticed the little bakery when he first arrived here in Atlanta a week ago. It was a pretty redbrick with whimsical window boxes stuffed with yellow and lavender mums. “Raw Sugar” was written in fancy script from a sign shaped like a three-tiered cake. There’d been a teenage girl with Down syndrome sweeping the walk out in front and she’d looked so happy it had brought a smile to his lips.

“What happened last night?” Jack asked, a bad feeling settling in his gut.

The three men shared a dark look. “Mariette heard a noise and went downstairs to investigate—”

“She lives above the shop,” Jamie interjected, pausing to take a pull from his drink.

“—and interrupted the guy. Instead of running like a normal criminal who’d been caught, he picked up a dough roller and hurled it at her.” Payne’s voice lowered ominously. “It caught her behind the ear and knocked her out cold.”

Damn, Jack thought, anger immediately bolting through him. He’d like to take a dough roller to the jackass for throwing it at a woman. No wonder they’d decided to intervene. Even though she’d been assaulted this still wasn’t a case that was going to get high priority to an overworked local P.D. His grandfather, father and sister had all worn the uniform, so he should know. He’d thwarted tradition when he’d traded the badge for a pair of dog tags, a fact his father never failed to remind him of when he went home. Good-naturedly, of course, but Jack knew his decision to not follow in the “family business” had stuck in his father’s craw.

“Do you have any idea what he’s looking for?” Jack asked. “Aside from butter, that is?” There was no way in hell this was just about butter. If that were the case, their thief would be hitting multiple businesses, not just Raw Sugar.

Jamie shook his head and released a mighty sigh. “Not a damned clue.”

“That’s where you’re going to come in,” Payne told him. “She needs protection, obviously, but more than that we need to know what this guy’s after. You find the motive and you’ll resolve the threat.”

He certainly couldn’t fault that logic. He had no idea where in the hell he was going to start looking for motive—with Mariette, he supposed—but otherwise this didn’t seem as though it was going to be too involved and shouldn’t interfere with his other … project.

“Because the thief hasn’t struck during the day while the shop is open, we’re assuming that she’s in less danger at that point. We’re putting Charlie in under the guise of ‘helping out’ until Mariette closes, which will free you up to investigate during those hours and then cover protection at night, when he’s most likely to strike again.”

The mention of his sister, Charlie—who was the first female nonmilitary, non-Ranger employee hired on by the company—brought a smile to his lips. He and his sister had always been tight and, if there were a silver lining at all to his impromptu career change, it was that he’d get to see her on a regular basis. He’d actually moved into his new brother-in-law’s former apartment here in the building.

When the idea of coming on board with Ranger Security after the accident had first been mentioned, it was ultimately Jay who had convinced him that it would be the right move. The first look at the “boardroom” with its high-end electronics and toys, pool table and kitchenette—complete with its own candy counter—had been proof enough before anything else had been discussed. Between the unbelievable benefits package—the salary, the hardware, the furnished apartment—and the familiar camaraderie of former battle-worn soldiers, he knew that he’d been lucky to find a place where he felt sure he would eventually feel at home. He grimaced.

At the moment, even home didn’t feel like home.

But how could it, really? After what had happened in Baghdad? An image of Johnson’s frantic, desperate face loomed large in his mind’s eye—the dirt and the blood—and with effort, he forced the vision to recede.

For the moment, anyway. Until he could properly analyze it again. Sheer torture, but it had to be done. He would keep analyzing it for the rest of his life if he had to. He owed the kid no less.

Typically when Jack returned stateside it was to a big party and lots of fanfare. He was the only son and frankly, as the former all-star quarterback for the high-school football team, Pennyroyal’s golden boy. He was generally met with a cry of delight, a hearty slap on the back, a little nudge-nudge winkwink and a free drink.

The tone had been decidedly different this time.

The smiles had been pitying and bittersweet, the slaps on the back held a tinge of regret and finality and, because he’d been wounded, there hadn’t been a party.

It was just as well. He hadn’t felt like celebrating.

Payne handed him a thin file. He’d already given him a laptop, a Glock, the permit to carry concealed and the keys to his furnished and fully stocked apartment. Brian Payne had thought of everything, but then, that’s what one expected out of a man dubbed “the Specialist” by his comrades, Jack thought, surveying the seemingly unflappable former Ranger. His gaze briefly shifted to the other two men.

With a purported genius-level IQ and an equal amount of brawn, Jamie Flanagan had been the ultimate player until he met and married Colonel Carl Garrett’s granddaughter, and Guy McCann’s ability to skate the fine edge of recklessness and never tip over into stupidity was still locker room lore.

He couldn’t be working with finer men. Or woman, he belatedly added, knowing his sister wouldn’t appreciate the unintended slight.

“Mariette is expecting you,” Payne told him. He hesitated and, for whatever reason, that small delay made Jack’s belly clench. He glanced at his partners, whose expressions suddenly became mildly humorous, then found Jack’s once more. “While she appreciates our help, she’s not exactly happy about the way in which we’re providing it.”

Jack felt his lips slide into a smirk. In other words, she didn’t want him to spend the night with her.

In truth, he wasn’t exactly looking forward to spending the night at her place, either. He was still having damned nightmares and didn’t relish the idea of having to explain himself. Besides, cohabitating with a woman for any reason made his feet itch and triggered the urge to bolt.

Irrational? Probably.

But he’d given it a go with his former college sweetheart and that had ended … disastrously.

Both the relationship and the cohabitation.

Who knew that having only one foot of five in closet space would irritate him to no end? Or that the way she ground her teeth at night would feel like psychological torture? Or that when he’d rebelled against the minimal closet space she’d thrown all of his shit out into the yard and set it on fire with charcoal starter and a flame thrower? Jack frowned.

In retrospect she’d been a little unbalanced—brought a whole new meaning to the phrase “crazy sex”—but the lesson had been learned all the same. He liked his own space. He liked his own bed. He liked making his own rules. As such, he didn’t do sleepovers. When the goal was met—typically a little mutually satisfying sex with no strings or expectations—he ultimately retreated to his own place.

And planned to always retreat to his own space.

Jack didn’t know when he’d made the conscious decision to never marry, but when his mother had concluded her I’m-so-glad-you’re-home speech with a succinct nod and a “Now you can settle down and get married,” he’d mentally recoiled at the thought.

The reaction had been jarring and, even more so, unexpected.

In all truth, he’d never really given much thought to the idea of marriage. He’d been busy building a career he loved, distilling the values he’d always appreciated—courage, honor, love of country, being a man who didn’t just give his word, but kept it, one who followed through and always got the job done. He worked hard on the battlefield and played hard off it.

Life, full friggin’ throttle, unencumbered by any other ties.

And he’d liked it that way.

He hadn’t realized exactly how much until after the accident, when everything in his world had shifted.

Losing Fulmer and Johnson had certainly changed him—death had a way of doing that to a person—and the hearing loss had ultimately cost him a career he’d loved, but he’d be damned before he’d give up the only part of himself he’d managed to hold on to. He was still Jackson Oak Martin and, though this life was a stark departure from the one he left behind, he’d figure out a way to make it work.

Because that’s what he did.

And the alternative was simply unacceptable.

And, friend of Ranger Security or not, this Mariette person was just going to have to deal with it because he had a damned butter thief to find.

PAYNE WATCHED THEIR newest recruit leave the boardroom and then turned to his partners and quirked a brow. “That went better than I expected,” he said. “A lesser man might have balked at catching a butter bandit.”

Guy pushed up from the leather recliner he’d been slouched in and grabbed a pool stick. He carefully lined up his shot and sent the number three into the corner pocket. “He’s certainly the most determined man we’ve ever brought on board, I’ll say that.” He frowned thoughtfully. “And not twitchy, but … barely contained.”

Payne had noted that, as well. Jack Martin didn’t shift in his seat, avoid eye contact, tap his fingers or his feet—didn’t fidget at all, actually—and yet, like a thoroughbred waiting behind the gate, the energy was there. Banked anticipation. Bridled action.

Having joined Guy, Jamie took a shot at the nine and missed. He swore and absently chalked his cue. “Charlie said that the only thing that made leaving the military bearable for him was the job he knew would be waiting here.”

Payne could definitely see where that would be the case and Colonel Carl Garrett had seconded Charlie’s opinion. According to the Colonel, before the incident in Baghdad, Jack Martin had been rapidly rising through the ranks, on the verge of lieutenant-colonel status. He was well-favored, determined and dedicated. He was a man who had been in love with his career and, though he could have stayed on in another capacity within the military, he couldn’t have continued along the same path.

It said a lot about his character that he was willing to blaze a new one.

“You can barely see the hearing aid,” Jamie remarked. “I wouldn’t have noticed it at all if I hadn’t been looking for it.”

The blast that had killed two of his men and injured two others had shattered Jack’s eardrum so thoroughly that he’d needed multiple surgeries to repair it. As injuries went, he was damned lucky, but it had to have been an adjustment, all the same.

“Has Charlie found out why he’s taking the lip-reading classes yet?” Guy asked.