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  "Sir, I thought you had called it a night."

  "Just wanted to check on a few things at the office first. A fax was waiting for me. Captain Stuart has accepted. He’ll be here in time for your confinement hearing tomorrow."

  Rowan sagged against the cell bars. "Thank you, sir. There’s one more thing I need before he gets here. A favor, sir."

  "Sure, what’s that?"

  "I need you to remove something from my military record book."

  Chapter 3

  * * *

  ENTERING A CALIFORNIA DESERT CONSERVATION AREA.

  The faded brown sign flashed past at seventy miles per hour and on cue the dry heat slammed into Phillip. He shook his head over the irony of the situation. His car was in the shop because the air conditioner didn’t work and he didn’t have time to fix it. So what does the government give him to drive? A vehicle with a broken air conditioner. Typical government efficiency.

  Should have left well enough alone.

  At least in his ’65 Mustang he could have put the top down.

  A bead of sweat trickled down his back. At this rate he’d be drenched by the time he reached Twentynine Palms.

  Phillip peeled his arm off the edge of the door. He was lucky to be working on this case at all. His colonel was reluctant to let two attorneys go from his legal office at the same time. Sending Laura as a prosecutor was one thing—the counsel in Twentynine Palms were too familiar with Rowan. But anyone could defend her.

  It had taken an hour of fast-talking to convince his colonel of how important this case was to Phillip’s career. Finally, the man relented. Phillip could go. In the event the colonel might change his mind, Phillip didn’t hesitate to make a hasty departure.

  Just thinking about this opportunity brought a rush of adrenaline that made his heart race and his body tense with anticipation. He hadn’t felt this way about his work in a long time. This trial would put him over the top. His career would be golden from this time on—if he could prove his case. Rowan’s case.

  He also admitted to a certain curiosity. What would Rowan look like after nine years? What kind of person had she become?

  He glanced at his watch. In less than two hours the military magistrate would decide whether or not to transport Rowan to the brig in Miramar to await trial. With a murder charge there usually wasn’t much of a decision to make.

  Phillip doubted this Captain Connors was experienced enough to prevent it. From what he could find out, Connors had been out of Naval Justice School less than a year like most of the attorneys at Twentynine Palms. No wonder Rowan had asked for more experienced counsel.

  He thought of Rowan imprisoned—the overwhelming fear she would experience once cooped up—and refused to allow that to happen. No, no pretrial confinement for his Rowan.

  Phillip stopped himself short. She wasn’t his Rowan and hadn’t been for a long time. He needed to remember that. Whatever they had in the past had to remain there. Objectivity was paramount to victory.

  He jammed down on the accelerator and turned onto the exit for Twentynine Palms. The mountain pass beckoned beyond, its rocky landscape dotted with sage and mesquite. City smog and haze melted away, leaving a sky so blue, it hurt his eyes.

  Plunging into the portal to the high desert, he leaned into the curves as the little white car chugged with slow determination upward through the pass. At the end of the ridge, the first small desert community greeted him. Had this been a pleasure trip, he would have enjoyed exploring the area’s wildlife and hiking trails.

  Phillip shook his head. When was the last time he had taken a moment for pure enjoyment? It was always work, the career, getting ahead. He had even fought to keep from being stationed in Twentynine Palms because it lacked the profile he was seeking. Now, seeing the abundance of nature in these pristine surroundings, he wondered if maybe he had made a mistake.

  "Are you crazy, Stuart? The heat must have turned your brain to mush. Twentynine Palms? Try the Pentagon. Now there’s an assignment."

  A covey of quail—male, female, and a long string of chicks—darted across the road, and Phillip smiled. "Cute."

  He shook his head over his foolishness, and pushed the car up the steep grade that challenged him.

  The vehicle sputtered and lurched. Forward momentum slowed to a crawl. An old man in a battered pickup truck zipped past him.

  "This is absurd. A snail could move faster than this heap." Phillip smacked the steering wheel with his fist. "Come on, you piece of trash. Move!"

  With a sickening feeling of dread, he watched the needle on the temperature gauge swing to hot. Seconds later an ominous cloud of steam squealed from under the hood.

  Phillip eased to the shoulder, jammed the emergency brake into position, and flicked on the hazard flashers. He rested his sweaty forehead against the steering wheel.

  "And I’ll bet there isn’t a drop of extra water in this vehicle."

  In reply, the right front tire popped.

  "What else?"

  Phillip rummaged through his briefcase and pulled out his cell phone. "At least the battery isn’t dead."

  He punched on the power and gave a humorless snort. "But, lucky me, no signal."

  He jerked open the door. The hinge protested. "Yeah, I know."

  Shoving the door closed, he trudged up the road.

  * * *

  Rowan rubbed the feeling back into her wrists. Standard procedures called for cuffs, but she was sure her guard put them on extra tight, expecting her to complain. She wouldn’t give him the pleasure. He hovered over her as if waiting for her to make a run for it now that she was unencumbered. Although his constant presence was annoying, Rowan kept the irritation to herself.

  "Wait outside," Captain Connors told the guard.

  Begrudgingly the Marine left, shutting the door behind him.

  "The confinement hearing will be in a few minutes. The delay was unexpected. Sorry we couldn’t get to it sooner."

  "Is Captain Stuart here yet?"

  "I was expecting him an hour ago, but he still hasn’t shown. Something about car trouble. Not that it matters. You know you can’t choose your own counsel for a pretrial confinement hearing."

  Rowan wrapped her arms around her midriff. "I know. I just—"

  "Would feel better if he were here?"

  When she didn’t answer, he leaned forward, forearms braced on his desk.

  "At least now I understand why you wanted him to defend you. Now that I’ve seen your files, tell me this much, Staff Sergeant McKinley, attorney to client…am I to expect a charge of fraternization to be added to the list?"

  Rowan forced herself to look him square in the eyes. "No, sir. It happened a long time ago. Just two civilians, not enlisted Marine and officer."

  "And you haven’t seen him since?"

  "Or spoken to him."

  Captain Connors sank back in his chair, rubbing his eyes. "I’m growing less fond of Phillip Stuart with every minute that passes. How could a man ignore his child?"

  "It’s fairly easy when he doesn’t know he has one," she replied softly.

  "Good Lord. You’ve got time bombs all over the place, don’t you?"

  That was a fact she couldn’t deny. "There’s no need for him to be bothered with it now. He shouldn’t come in contact with Ian."

  Connors’s face grew stiff. "This is wrong, Rowan. In my opinion, it was wrong from the start. A man should know he’s a father."

  "What am I supposed to say now, sir? ‘Oh, hello, Phillip, long time, no see. Thanks for coming to my rescue. Oh, by the way, we have an eight-year-old son.’ I’ll be lucky if he doesn’t try to prosecute me himself." She caught herself and realized she’d gone too far, speaking to an officer in such a sarcastic manner.

  Connors ignored her outburst and toyed with his pen, rolling it back and forth between his thumb and forefinger. He disapproved. Fair enough. But she needed him in her corner.

  She dusted her wispy bangs away from her forehead. "He won’t leave
here without knowing. I know how I’ll tell him and I know when. I’ve got it all figured out. Once this is over, I’ll tell him. Even let him meet Ian if he wants. This has to be done in a controlled manner and at a time of my choosing."

  "You mean once you don’t need to be in his good graces any more," Connors said.

  "That’s a little harsh, sir. But surely you can see the sense in waiting. Why be distracted by personal matters when…"

  He lifted an eyebrow, questioning her motives.

  Rowan wiped her sweaty palms on her dusty camouflage trousers. "Don’t judge. You don’t know what happened. I had my reasons. At that moment, they were the right ones. All I ask is that you help buy me some time until this is over."

  The captain tossed the pen to his desk. "I’ll do what I can. Colonel Scott wants to see you before the hearing. Trust me, you’ll have to do some talking to buy his silence."

  "You told him?" It sounded more like an accusation of betrayal than a question.

  Connors lifted one brow. "How could I not? You know as well as I do that if you want to keep Colonel Scott on your side, you don’t keep secrets."

  He called for the guard. For a moment Rowan thought the man would put the metal handcuffs on her again. Instead he motioned her on. It didn’t matter. She was still a prisoner—of her own lies.

  * * *

  Phillip paid the cab driver and hauled his bags out of the taxi. He was hot, sweaty, angry, and unimpressed with the two long, concrete buildings housing the Staff Judge Advocate’s Office. They looked like adobe bomb-shelters.

  Over an hour late.

  He stomped toward the front door, ready to shout the structure to the ground if Rowan was on her way to the brig. No receptionist greeted him. No signs directed him. A military clerk passed, ignoring him. Another approached, ready to do the same. Phillip stepped into his path, planting his captain’s bars in the man’s line of sight.

  "I’m looking for Captain Connors." His voice was gritty with dust, and barely above a croak.

  The Marine drew back, blinked twice, then pointed. "He’s down the hall, sir, in Military Justice. Want me to get him?"

  "No, I’ll do it myself."

  Phillip’s heels rapped a staccato rhythm as he marched a determined line down the hall to glass-partitioned walls. A thin captain with wire-rimmed glasses glanced up. The young Marine beside him backed up a step, eyes wide. The captain’s jaw dropped a fraction. He recovered more quickly than the clerk.

  "Captain Stuart, I presume?"

  "Well, I’m certainly not Dr. Livingstone. Where’s Staff Sergeant McKinley?"

  "We’re getting ready for the hearing."

  "Good, then I’m not too late. She is not to go into pretrial confinement. She suffers from acute claustrophobia." I have the scar to prove it.

  "I have everything under control."

  "I sincerely hope so, Captain Connors. Because if you don’t, I guarantee I’ll have her out of the brig tomorrow and we’ll do the hearing all over again…the right way. Do I make myself clear?"

  Connors leveled a cold stare at him.

  "Abundantly. I have Staff Sergeant McKinley’s record book for your review. If you’ll sign here," he shoved a logbook forward, "you can take it to the empty office down the hall and look through it."

  Phillip shoved the book back. Was the man blind? Had he lost his sense of smell? Couldn’t Connors see that he was melting away like a sno-cone in July?

  "I’m not signing anything. Have the clerk make a copy for me. Right now I need a driver to take me to my room. I’ll be back after the hearing."

  With a jerk of his head, Connors motioned the clerk into action.

  From the building to the car, the young man shot looks at Phillip from the corner of his eye.

  "Something wrong, Corporal?" Phillip snapped.

  "No, sir."

  "Then quit acting as if I’m about to bite your head off."

  "Yes, sir." The corporal locked his gaze forward and kept it there.

  They drove up the hill from the Staff Judge Advocate’s Office, passing lines of concrete buildings that were all identical in size and shape. Long, low, and grimly efficient.

  The base bustled with activity. The loud pulse of helicopter rotors mingled with the hum of military equipment and automobiles. Phillip watched Marines load gear into trucks and stack boxes of equipment for transportation into the desert. Another training exercise was about to begin. The Marine Corps was all about action.

  The driver pulled up in front of yet another concrete building labeled "Bachelor Officers Quarters/BOQ."

  "This is it, sir. The room should be ready. Want me to check?"

  "That won’t be necessary. Pick me up in about fifteen minutes." Phillip got out and retrieved his bags from the back seat.

  The room was ready as promised. The first right thing to happen all day. He thanked the young woman from the front desk when she escorted him to his room. Once alone, he dropped his bag on the bed and turned the air-conditioning unit up as far as it would go. With arms braced on either side, he let the cool air envelop him.

  "God, I could stand here for hours."

  But he only had minutes that seemed like seconds.

  Phillip pushed away and peeled his sodden uniform from his sticky skin. With any luck, he could return to the office before the hearing was over.

  A quick shower. A fresh uniform, and he was back at the curb by the time the driver returned.

  No side-long glances accompanied their ride to the office this time. A good thing since he was in no mood to be ogled. Once there, Phillip was shown to the empty office, which would be his to use for the duration of the case.

  Spartan was a good way to describe the small room. Judging from the gym locker and the lingering scent of stale workout clothes, it appeared to double as a changing area. No window existed to clear the air, and he made a mental note to at least find an air freshener of some kind.

  A copy of Rowan’s military record book lay in the center of the desk. He knew he should spend some time reviewing it, but nerves wouldn’t let him. He had to know how the hearing was progressing.

  A prisoner escort stood outside a door at the end of the hallway. As Phillip approached, the guard snapped to attention and made a crisp salute.

  "As you were." Phillip nodded toward the door behind him. "How is it going in there?"

  "Don’t know, sir." He lowered his voice. "As far as I’m concerned, after what she’s done she should be taken into the desert and left to die."

  Phillip took a menacing step toward the man. "If I ever, ever hear you making any more threats toward my client, you’ll be the one on trial. Do I make myself clear?"

  The Marine stiffened at the rebuke and nodded, eyes wide.

  Phillip moved back. This was taking too long. And just as that thought left his head, the door swung open.

  Rowan sucked in a breath at the sight of Phillip standing outside the doorway. Overhearing his voice earlier from out in the hallway was nothing compared to actually seeing him once more.

  Time had chiseled his good looks to perfection. Yet those silvery eyes of his were as fiercely penetrating as she remembered. His gaze enveloped hers, stripping away the years of separation. Her heart quickened. His eyes narrowed, blazing. He was angry. No…furious. Too late she recalled the livid bruise emblazoned across the side of her face. That’s where his gaze focused.

  For a moment, Phillip wasn’t sure what shocked him more. The fact that her once long, auburn hair was now in a pixie cut, or that hideous bruise. He stared at the injury and raged boiled beneath his skin that someone dared hurt her.

  "Have you seen a doctor yet, Staff Sergeant McKinley?" He struggled to keep his voice level and calm.

  Rowan blinked. He’d spoken. She should answer. Thankfully, Captain Connors did so for her.

  "Medical diagnosed her with a mild concussion. No broken bones. Nothing requiring hospitalization."

  "The hearing?"

  Rowan fo
und her voice. "Base restriction. No brig time at Miramar…sir."

  "Then I guess we can get started." His gaze hadn’t left her face. "Follow me, Staff Sergeant."

  "Yes, sir."

  She watched her coworkers peer from their offices as she and Phillip walked down the hall. Whispered comments followed them. She was a fool to think they wouldn’t notice Phillip’s resemblance to Ian. It was stronger than she recalled. Her body remembered, though, and ached with a longing only he could inspire.

  She felt her face flush with awareness.

  "Would you prefer to return to your barracks room to clean up first?" he asked.

  Rowan swallowed her panic. "I don’t live on base, sir. I have a house out in the country. They’ll have to assign me a room for the restriction. I hope it’s not too small."

  "Try to keep the blinds open as much as possible and you’ll be fine."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Will you stop calling me sir?" he whispered. "You make me feel like my father."

  Rowan paused in the doorway of his office and looked at him from under her brows. "Excuse me, sir, but I heard you barking orders at Captain Connors when you arrived earlier. You are your father."

  Chapter 4

  * * *

  Phillip’s gaze narrowed to two menacing silver slits. Rowan had seen that look before and dreaded it even though it had never been directed at her. Now it was…because she had accused him of being like his father, the very person who had trademarked the Stuart glare in the first place.

  She didn’t care. He was wrong and no intimidation he could muster, no division of rank, would force her to back down.

  "Just what do you mean by that, Staff Sergeant?"

  Rowan set her jaw. Too late to back down now. "Permission to speak freely, sir?" Sarcasm refused to die. Her defense against a familiar need for him and the aching pulse of desire that built inside her.

  He waved one hand with irritation. A pity rules existed between them now when their relationship had once been no-holds-barred. Or maybe those rules were a blessing, keeping everything in its neat and proper place.