Code Name: Bikini. Christina Skye

      She blew out an irritated breath and gathered her equipment. At least she’d made a lot of people happy. With every new event she worked harder, pushing her skills. On the days when her headaches and dizziness were too intense, she’d pull out the bottle of pills hidden inside an empty package of Kona coffee and swallow two.

      The pills were working for the moment. But they weren’t a cure. Worse yet, they created side effects.

      Without a word her brawny Brazilian sous chef slid the tray from her hands. No one said a word, but Gina felt the eyes of her staff. They knew. They had noticed her unguarded moments of pain.

      Funny, she’d been so sure she had fooled them. Maybe you didn’t fool anyone but yourself.

      As she felt their silent concern, tears burned at her eyes. Tall, studious Andreas from Brazil touched her arm. Then the others closed ranks around her, two in front and three walking behind.

      Emotion engulfed Gina at the unspoken signs of trust and protection. She’d lost her father years before; she hadn’t seen her mother in months. This was her real family, the people she had cursed and laughed, sweated and trained with.

      The only real advice her mother had ever given her was that falling in love was a curse. Nice advice for a teenager. But over time Gina had come to believe it. Lucky for her, she was too busy for relationships to have a place in her life.

      She squared her shoulders. “Andreas, Reggie, did you finish tempering that white chocolate for the tea cakes?”

      “All done, boss. But I need some help with the spun sugar.” Andreas rubbed his jaw. “It keeps cracking at the edge of the petals.”

      “Did you double-check the temperature and humidity?”

      Gently the conversation turned to safer waters. In the sharp argument over the merits of Colombian vs. Mexican chocolate, Gina forgot about her fear and the bouts of occasional pain. She forgot the headaches and the sudden dizziness.

      Who needed love or sex when you could make a killer crème brûlée?

      CHAPTER FOUR

      Foxfire training facility

       Northern New Mexico

       One month later

      TWENTY.

      Twenty-one.

      Twenty-two.

      Sweat beaded his shoulders and chest, and exhaustion hammered at his concentration. Trace ignored everything until only the heat and pull of his muscles remained, strength returning in slow, almost cruel increments. As the weights rose, he focused on his arm, battling against his own weakness. He had work to do, missions to run. Foxfire men were constantly prepped and ready to deploy at the ring of a pager. Each man had unique skills, and Trace knew his absence made everyone’s work harder.

      Thirty-three.

      Thirty-four.

      More sweat.

      More pain. Muscles screamed, their boundaries reached and then crossed until Trace was lost in a haze of pure muscle memory and hints of his old, preambush strength.

      His commanding officer appeared in the doorway. “Nice to see you have a good work ethic. Just the same, you should take it easy.”

      Trace grinned. “I’ll take it easy the same day you do, sir.”

      Wolfe Houston smiled faintly. “Point taken.”

      All of the team had been by to see Trace in the past few weeks, offering dry humor and information about current personnel deployment or upcoming missions. Trace had reveled in the details of the job that was his life, the focus of his whole passion for nearly eight years.

      It was a job he could discuss with few others, not even his brave, tough sister, Kit, who managed an isolated ranch northwest of Santa Fe, where she trained the finest military service dogs Trace had ever seen.

      It was his sister Trace worried about now. But he kept his tone casual as he finished his last set of curls. “Have you seen Kit and the dogs? Is everything okay at the ranch? No sign of any more cougars, I hope.”

      His commanding officer eased his long legs down, settling into a nearby chair. “Kit’s fine. So are the dogs. Damned if those four don’t get smarter every day. Last week we were running a bomb-detection scenario and the team figured out where I’d hidden the dummy device even before I’d let them off their training leashes. It’s a sad day in Red Rock when four puppies make a trained professional look bad.” But there was pride in the officer’s voice.

      Wolfe Houston had good reason to know the state of the ranch. He had just returned from two weeks of canine assessment exercises—and a passionate homecoming with his soon-to-be wife. Although Kit never asked for details about where the dogs had come from, she had enough experience to know that they were special.

      Of course Wolfe could never reveal the nature of the secret program that had produced such unusual animals.

      Trace was relieved that things were fine at his family’s ranch. The unmistakable happiness in Wolfe’s face meant that things were fine with Kit, too. It was strange to think of his stubbornly independent sister getting married. But if she had to pick anyone, this man was the right one.

      Trace put down his weights and dried his face with a towel. “So they’re as good as everyone hoped?”

      Wolfe stretched his arms behind his head and chuckled. “Is the Pope Catholic? I’ve put in a recommendation to Ryker that the four dogs never be split up once they’re sent on military assignment.” A shadow crossed his face. “Kit is worrying about them already.”

      “She’ll tough it out. By the way, has Ryker finally okayed your request to set a formal date? I’d like to be there to give away my sister, you know.”

      Lloyd Ryker was a long-time government power broker at the highest levels; he kept his cards close to his chest and ruled the Foxfire facility like a medieval potentate. Because he got results, his foibles were overlooked.

      Wolfe frowned. “One day it’s yes, the next day it’s maybe. When I pressed Ryker, he told me I’d have an answer this week. It might even be true,” the SEAL said dryly. “He’s not going to be happy when he finds out that I got the marriage license anyway, and our blood tests are already submitted.” His eyes narrowed. “Or what will pass for a specimen of my blood.” Rules were rules. Any scientific details relating to Foxfire were top secret and that included all team members’ medical reports.

      “Give him hell,” Trace said wryly. “My sister deserves to be happy, and for some crazy reason she’s set her sights on you.” His shoulder had begun to ache with a low, dull throb.

      Ordinarily he’d agree that marriages involving Foxfire team members wouldn’t work, but Kit knew the score. His sister could handle whatever fate—and the U.S. government—threw at her.

      So Trace hoped.

      It was Wolfe’s career choice that gave Trace some bad nights. Who knew better than a fellow SEAL how often work would intrude? Trace knew just how much uncertainty his sister would have to live with. He hoped she could learn to accept the unknown, because virtually every aspect of the Foxfire program required absolute secrecy.

      He and Wolfe and the rest of the team had volunteered, and they knew the rules. But could Kit or any other woman—no matter how remarkable—live with the tight constraints that program security imposed?

      Trace didn’t have an answer for that.

      Ryker, the civilian head of Foxfire, had a rule against personal involvement, and for good reason, in Trace’s opinion. But Wolfe and a second Foxfire member had gotten involved up to their eyeballs. Now they were part of deep, stable relationships that had to be faced, not swept under the carpet. If Ryker couldn’t accept that fact, he would lose two of his best men, including Wolfe, their team leader.

      Trace realized