At Your Command. Julie Miller

home on leave, Becky found herself hurrying right along with everyone else, trying to spot him the instant he filed off the bus.

      Was he as tall as she remembered? Had he been injured in any way? Would he still overlook the extra pounds that stress and genetics wouldn’t let her lose, and show that same lusty desire for her in his eyes?

      Oh, my. Becky’s breath caught in her chest. Zachariah.

      He was leaner and more tanned than she recalled. Harder somehow, through the squint of her eyes. Still, Zachariah Clark was impossible to miss. Standing a head taller than most of his comrades, he stepped off the bus with a wary alertness, already scanning the crowd.

      “Zachariah!” Damn. Her hand shot into the air again and she waved.

      Play it cool, Owens. Play it cool.

      But his green eyes had already zeroed in on her. They widened with recognition. His rugged features softened with a lopsided grin. “Beckster!”

      Screw decorum. Becky ran to greet him.

      The people between them parted for those broad shoulders and captain’s bars as Zachariah pushed his way through the crowd. She met him halfway. He dropped his duffel bag, and his long, strong arms snaked around her as she leaped. He caught her and swung her around, squeezing her tightly and waking every feminine cell inside her with an instant reminder of just how powerfully built and masculine he was. His mouth crushed down over hers long before the world stopped spinning and her toes touched the asphalt beneath her again.

      Who was she kidding? She wanted this. Talking could wait. Becky wound her arms around his neck and held on, kissing him, consuming him with a hunger that hadn’t abated one whit since D.C. She inhaled his clean, undoctored scent. Absorbed his heat. Clung to his hard strength. Reveled in the evidence of his desire for her, unabashedly swelling against her thigh.

      Rational thought fled as embracing Zachariah reminded her how uncomplicated this was between them. Parts of her body that had lain dormant for eighteen long months roared to life with a frenzy that shook the Owens family tree. Her blood thickened and pulsed. Her breasts tingled with excitement. She lost track of the crowd, of curious eyes, of unpleasant realities—of everything except the desire to burrow beneath this soldier’s starched exterior and wrap herself up in the raw, sensual man inside the uniform.

      She was still reaching for another kiss when his mouth withdrew beyond her reach. Zachariah had come to his senses sooner than she had. With his hands massaging circles at her waist, Becky braced her palms against the ragged rise and fall of his chest and tried to recover her own breath. “Wow.”

      Bending to touch his forehead to hers, Zachariah’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “Now that’s what I call a welcome home.”

      Beaming beneath the approval in his low, rumbly voice, Becky twisted her fingers beneath his collar. “You haven’t seen half of what I’ve got planned for you this weekend, soldier.”

      “It’s Marine, darlin’.” He pulled her hips forward into his, reminding her that he was ready for action. “But as long as you’ve made plans, I won’t quibble over…”

      He angled his face as if he intended to kiss her again. But he jerked back, halfway to his destination, leaving her lips puckered with anticipation. His grip pinched hard at her waist and her mouth rounded into a startled, “Ow!”

      Becky twisted, trying to free herself. He’d never hurt her before. Not once. Not even in fun. So what was the deal?

      “Zach…” But her protest died at the face frozen above her. Staring straight over the top of her head. Her own warning jets fired and she quickly glanced behind her. “What is it?”

      Families. Marines. Flags. Laughing. Crying. Hugging. Nothing weird.

      No one watching.

      Becky turned back to the blankness chilling his eyes. “Big guy?”

      Grooves deepened beside his eyes and mouth, twisting his features into a frown. His nostrils flared with a deep, stuttering breath. What was happening here?

      Becky skipped curiosity and moved straight to concern. She nudged at his chest, then reached up and caught his jaw between her hands, giving him a little shake. She uttered his name with more force. “Zachariah!”

      He blinked and his eyes blazed back into focus so suddenly she thought she might have imagined the whole weird disconnect.

      Except Becky Owens wasn’t given to idle imaginings. “Where did you go?”

      He shook his head as if confused by her question. “I’m right here.”

      “A second ago, you were a million miles away.”

      “Fatigue, I guess.” Zachariah seized her wrists and pulled her hands from his face. “I’m pretty wiped out, adjusting to the time differences and all.”

      “Are you sure? It seemed like more than that.”

      If it weren’t for the almost tentative restraint in his normally confident touch, she might have believed the cocky grin that slid back into place. “It’s good to see you again,” he said, without explaining anything to her satisfaction. “And to touch you.” He brushed the tip of her nose with his finger.

      Okay. Nose tapping aside, she’d go along with the diversionary tactic instead of following up with a more probing question. After all, she couldn’t very well force the husband she barely knew to unburden his secrets to her if she wasn’t ready to do the same for him.

      But she could care. She did care. Putting her desires on the back burner, Becky slid her arms around his waist. She walked into his chest and hugged him tightly, offering him something a little calmer, a little saner than the healthy lust that zinged like perpetual lightning between them.

      After a moment’s hesitation, Zachariah folded his arms around her shoulders and hugged her back. “Hey. What’s this for?”

      She turned her nose into the crisp, starched scent of his uniform. “I’m sorry I wasn’t a better letter writer, and that I didn’t e-mail you more often. I’m sorry I’m not a better…” Oh, crud. The word was sticking to her tongue. “Wife.”

      “Hey.” She felt him nuzzle the crown of her hair. “There’s no blame here. It wasn’t like I was a devoted penpal. Besides, there’s no guarantee I would have gotten your messages. Not where we were.”

      “So where were—” His hold on her tightened, derailing Becky’s question. Deliberately? Had something changed between them? Or was he drifting again? Just what had Zachariah and his men been doing that he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—talk about it? The APO address and military domain name that he’d sent her several weeks after his departure had told her as little about his location and assignment as his brief messages had. Outside of the base headquarters where his unit had reported in between missions, he and his comrades seemed to have disappeared for weeks, even months, at a time. “Are you okay?”

      Captain Somber here was so not playing into the let’s-recapture-what-we-had-but-I-really-need-to-keep-it-light-so-I-can-walk-away-without-either-of-us-getting-hurt scenario she’d planned for this weekend. Was he normally this moody? She hadn’t seen any indication of a darker side to Zachariah Clark back in D.C.

      Beyond the military information he couldn’t share, taciturn and evasive were hardly words she’d use to describe her conversations with Zachariah back then. Not that they’d had any deep heart-to-hearts. He’d been so refreshingly up front about what he wanted from her that Becky had found his lack of an agenda as much of an attraction as the breadth of those muscled shoulders and chest. He’d been blunt. He’d been bold. He’d worn his thoughts and emotions on his sleeve, and Becky had responded to his easy forthrightness.

      The Zachariah Clark who’d gotten off the bus this morning was too complex for her to read, and that left her at an unfamiliar disadvantage. Becky couldn’t be sure he would understand,