Her gaze went to the box under his arm. Fear whispered.

“What do you want?” she called out.

“I just need a minute of your time.” He came up the porch stairs as he spoke, the sound of his boots heavy on old wood. Up close Ellie could see the color of his eyes; intense, very dark blue. His face was scarred. His knuckles, too. A fighter, a broken one. She judged him to be in his late thirties, although it was hard to tell. His coat hung open to reveal a black T-shirt stretched taut over muscled pecs.

The small hairs at the nape of her neck began to tingle. She wrapped her arms tighter around her stomach.

“You’re Max,” she said quietly.

“Maddox McDonough,” he said. “Max for short.” A wry smile curved his lips. “Or Mad Dog. But that was another time, another place.” His eyes went to the ring on her finger.

Her spine straightened and her fingers tightened around the cell phone clutched at her waist, her thumb hovering near the keypad.

“I shouldn’t have called the show. I’m sorry if I upset you, Ellie.”

“You’ve got a minute to tell me what you want before I call the cops.”

He inhaled slowly, something tightening in his features. It took several beats before he spoke.

“I was with Lieutenant Flynn Traeborn when he died.”

Blood drained from her face.

She didn’t move. Couldn’t. Her eyes locked defiantly onto his. “You’re lying,” she whispered. “You’re some sick fuck who’s come to mess with my head. Get off my porch before I call 9-1-1.”

Visit the author: Loreth Anne White

Loreth Anne White was born and raised in South Africa, but now lives in a ski resort in the Pacific Northwest, a place of vast, wild and often dangerous mountains, larger-than-life characters, epic adventure, and romance. It was here she was inspired to abandon a 16-year career as a journalist to escape into a world of romantic fiction filled with dangerous men and adventurous women.

When she’s not writing you will find her running, biking or skiing the trails with her black lab, and generally trying to avoid bears – albeit not successfully. Her real-life hero, her husband of 26 years, is an ex-naval serviceman whose veteran father was a pilot in two wars.

Loreth has won the Romantic Times Reviewers’ choice award, is a double Romantic Times Reviewers’ choice award finalist, a Rita finalist, a double Daphne Du Maurier finalist, and multiple CataRomance Reviewers’ choice winner.

Chris checked his scope and then he froze, not from anything in his vision but from that familiar feeling that had been a part of him for as long as he could remember – some called it sixth sense, his father called it the sight and Jake called it that psychic Cajun bullshit and no matter what it was, it had saved Chris’s ass more time that he could count.

Now, it would do so again. Next to him, Saint’s head jerked up like he’d sensed the problem as well.

“Incoming,” Chris told him quietly. It wasn’t surprising – they’d learned of the Al Qaeda militant’s location from a Somalian warlord who was paid for his cooperation. Now, the warlord would no doubt start an attack so it wouldn’t look like he sold the operative out.

Everything in this part of the world was tricky, touch and go and no one could be trusted for very long. This trust lasted longer than most.

A short moment later, the series of explosions started, came from both sides of their building without actually harming it, tearing down the walls of one structure next to them and upending an old Land Rover on the other side.

It hadn’t been meant for them, but they weren’t the only ones with a bounty on the militant’s head. Still, if they didn’t pull out now, they’d be headed back to their makeshift base and command center under the line of direct fire.

If they pulled out now, Chris would lose the shot.

It took a second of eye contact between the men and the decision was made.

“Get the shot and we’re gone,” Saint said, and since it was his direct order, Chris would follow it. He settled back in behind the scope to wait for the militant to evacuate.

With the heat sensor, he could make out shapes through the covered window and the stone and mud mixed walls. But he’d prefer not to expect a bullet to go through stone. And they’d been told to get a clean shot and Chris wanted nothing less.

Visit the author: Stephanie Tyler

New York Times Bestselling author Stephanie Tyler writes what she loves to read – romantic suspense novels starring military heroes and paranormal romance novels, all complete with happy endings. She also co-writes as Sydney Croft. She lives in New York with her husband, her kids and her crazy Weimaraner, Gus.

“Son of a bitch. He sent someone to kill me.”

Someone who obviously could do the job. The man must have been six two and damn near two hundred pounds of rock solid muscle covered in a rain-soaked T-shirt and worn camos. His hair was shorn to highlight sharp features, an angular jaw, and a mean slash of black brow.

But it was his hands that stole her breath. Hands the size of a small country, with long fingers and wide palms. Hands designed to do two things: make a woman scream in pleasure or squeeze the life out of another human.

Billie had no doubt which one this beast had come to do.

Nutmeg’s growl grew louder and Billie shook her head furiously. “Hush, Nutsie, please!”

As if she understood her owner’s fear, Nutmeg obliged, sinking back into the pillow. But it wouldn’t last; the second Conan the Barbarian reached the door – the only door in or out of this damn place – nothing could keep that dog quiet.

Think, Billie Jo, think. Just as she turned to grab the dog, the man pounded on the metal door, the sound reverberating back to the bedroom where Billie stayed.

“Anybody home?”

As expected, Nutmeg vaulted from the bed, staccato barks echoing as she ran into the trailer’s only other room.

A hit man who knocked?

Visit the author: Roxanne St. Claire

Roxanne St. Claire is a New York Times bestselling author of twenty-seven novels of suspense and romance. The author of the popular Bullet Catchers and Guardian Angelino series featuring many military heroes, she will also be launching a contemporary romance series, called “Barefoot Bay” and a her first young adult novel, Don’t You Wish, in 2012.

In addition to being a five-time RITA nominee and one-time RITA winner, her books have won numerous awards and have been translated into dozens of languages. She resides in Satellite Beach, Florida, near Patrick Air Force Base and the Kennedy Space Center.

Marcus Stone had been the love of her life from the time they were in seventh grade until the day she finally broke it off five years before, when they were twenty-two. She had, finally, started dating other men. Once in a while.

If he had called for any other reason, she would not have agreed to see him. But as he came forward, that reason came into view.

Staff Sergeant Thor.

Thor had been a combat dog, attached to a SEAL unit engaged in a top secret mission in Afghanistan that had gone wrong. Three SEALs had been killed, five more badly injured. Thor was one of them.

So was Marcus. Jessie put a careful box around that knowledge, set it aside. She would not be drawn in.

Instead she focused on the dog. He was brown and gold German shepherd, with long fur, the kind of dog people always wanted to approach, to pat on the head, his long dark nose and soft-looking fur drawing on some ancient need in the human spirit.

Sgt. Thor was in no mood for the hungry pats of children. He wore a harness attached to a leash gripped tightly in Marcus’s powerful hand. The dog’s shoulders were hunched warily as they began to cross the parking lot. Thor, too, limped visibly. When coaxed, he moved forward a few steps, then halted again. Marcus didn’t yank on him or otherwise try to make him move, just waited patiently, standing alongside, then tried to urge the canine along a little more. Thor moved, but it was a creeping move of apprehension, belly close to the ground, head low.

“Poor baby.” She grabbed a bag of chicken breast tidbits off the counter, and headed outside to meet the pair. “It’s all right,” Jessie called, coming outside. “He doesn’t have to come inside yet. I’ll come to him.”

Thor’s handler nodded, raising a hand in acknowledgment. “Come easy. He can get pretty aggressive if you approach too fast.”

Visit the author: Barbara Samuel

Barbara Samuel (also known as Barbara O’Neal) is the bestselling author of more than 40 books, and has won Romance Writers of America’s RITA award an astounding six times. Her books have been published around the world, including France, Germany, Italy, and Australia/New Zealand, among others. One of her recent women’s fiction titles, The Lost Recipe for Happiness (written as Barbara O’Neal) went back to print eight times, and her book How to Bake a Perfect Life was a Target Club pick in 2011.

Whether set in the turbulent past or the even more challenging present, Barbara’s books feature strong women, families, dogs, food, and adventure—whether on the road or toward the heart.

A native of Colorado Springs, Barbara lives there with her partner, Christopher Robin, an endurance athlete, along with her dog and cats. She is an avid gardner, hiker, photographer, and traveler who loves to take off at dawn to hike a 14er or head to a faraway land, or curl up with the animals in the garden and read. Her daughter-in-law is in the Air Force and has served in Afghanistan. Barbara loves to connect with readers and is very involved with them on the Internet.

BOOM!

Throwing her arms over her head, she released a full-throated scream as the whole house was rocked on its foundation by a blast more powerful than any before. Chunks of plaster fell, more boxes toppled, she bit her tongue and tasted blood. From the murky shadows, a dark shape leaped forward. Before she could scream again, Mandy’s balled figure was caged by a hard, lean, male body.

BOOM!

The stranger’s large hand pushed her head low and his cheek pressed against the side of her hair. The building shifted again, a box toppled from a shelf above, and the man surrounding her made an almost inaudible grunt as it glanced off his shoulder.

The world stopped moving. Silence descended. Even the gunfire seemed farther off.

Or maybe that was because Mandy could barely hear over her own harsh breaths, a counterpoint to the more measured ones of the man shielding her. Trying to calm herself, she inhaled deeper, taking in a combination of plaster dust and clean man-scent. The quiet voice spoke in her ear. “Are you hurt?”

She shook her head, trying to assess her new circumstances. The man’s accent was American, his actions protective. After four frightened hours, was she finally rescued? “Who—” she had to break off to work some saliva over her dry tongue, “—are you?”

He sat back on his haunches, his arms still curled around her shoulders. It allowed Mandy room to lift her head. “I’m Josh,” he said. “Your uncle sent me to find you.”

Visit the author: Christie Ridgway

Christie Ridgway is a five-time RITA finalist and the USA Today bestselling author of over thirty-five contemporary romances. She lives in San Diego, California, where Navy SEAL teams are based and can be seen training on local beaches. If that isn’t inspiration enough, she is the daughter-in-law of a former fighter pilot and now-retired Navy captain.

“True.” She conceded with surprising grace and a delicate shrug of her shoulders. “But I offer the world something other than physical protection.” Her liquid amber gaze seemed to see deep down inside him.

“What else is there?” He was afraid to ask.

“Spiritual protection,” she informed him solemnly. “Hope. Companionship. Compassion.”

Her words had a strange effect on him. He felt his chest tighten, his throat constrict. At the same time, he realized that arguing with her was clearly a lesson in frustration. “Now I see how you drive your father crazy.”

Her coral-colored lips quirked into a sad smile. She looked away from him, subdued but not defeated.

He stood there a moment longer, considering her fearlessness, her insanity. “Something tells me you’re not going to stay away out of hotspots from now on,” he guessed, his anger returning, simmering low deep down in his gut.

She looked up slowly. “Would you quit?” she asked him. “Just because someone worried about you?”

“It’s not the same.”

“Yes it is.”

Fueled by frustration, Sam stalked toward the bed. Madison stiffened but she didn’t shrink away from him when he caught her face lightly between his thumb and fingers. “You better hope I’m never taken off an assignment to rescue your sweet ass again,” he warned her, altogether distracted by the way her lips parted and the tongue darted out to wet them. “Stay the hell out of the hot spots from now on,” he added.

“Can’t,” she replied with an apologetic shrug.

That single syllable scarcely qualified as a smart-assed reply but, for some reason, it incensed Sam. Oh, what the hell. He’d been dying to kiss her since she’d lain across his lap like a damp angel. An angel with a temptress’s body.

Visit the author: Marliss Melton

Marliss Melton is the author of the bestselling Team Twelve Navy SEALs series. Wife of a retired Navy veteran, she relies on her experience as a military spouse and on her many contacts in the Spec Ops and Intelligence communities to pen realistic and heartfelt stories about America’s most elite warrior, the U.S. Navy SEAL. As the daughter of a foreign services officer, Melton grew up in various countries overseas before settling permanently in Williamsburg, Virginia. She has taught Spanish, ESL, and Linguistics at the College of William and Mary, her alma mater. In addition to her writing, Melton busies herself raising a young daughter, keeping tabs on three college students, and walking her miniature Australian Sheepdog.

Rebecca Powers, aid to her ambassador father, was on board a food aid ship to promote the new international treaty when pirates struck. Under attack, she and her father are separated, hiding from the pirates.

“Zone” Zdenko’s navy SEAL team is tasked to board the ship, take out the pirates, and get to the ambassador and his daughter before they are taken hostage. Zone had previously gone out with Rebecca before and is determined to be one of the SEAL squad going on board for the extraction.

Visit the author: Gennita Low

Gennita Low writes sexy military and techno spy-fi romance. She’s also a roofer and knows 600 ways to kill with roofing tools. A three-time Golden Heart finalist, her first book, Into Danger, about a SEAL out-of-water, won the Romantic Times Reviewers Choice Award for Best Romantic Intrigue. Besides her love for SEALs, she works with an Airborne Ranger who taught her all about mental toughness and physical endurance. Gennita lives in Florida with her mutant poms and one chubby squirrel.

Dan Hogan was on leave, away from the burning sands of Afghanistan or the warm Pacific of Coronado Beach. He hadn’t been in the mountains in a long time. Three years, he figured, although he didn’t measure time in years but in missions.

Parking the rental Jeep next to Renee’s old Outback, he figured she knew he was there, would have heard the car amongst all this silence. As he stepped out of the vehicle, he registered the speed of the wind on his face, the height of the sun by the length of the shadows, the underscore of quaking Aspens and somewhere close, a creek. When he finally looked at the cabin he was there to fix up, Renee Crocker opened the door and stepped out on the front porch.

Seeing her again made his chest tight and his cock pay attention. They weren’t even lovers, but try telling his johnson that when she was so damn beautiful. He’d thought about it, so had she. Talked about it. But the timing had never worked out in college, then he was in training, and once he made it as a SEAL he’d decided it would be better not go there. Ever.

“You waiting for applause or something?” she asked, folding her arms across her chest. Her dark hair was windblown and wavy, cut blunt above her shoulders. Last time he’d seen her it had been red, a deep red that matched her temper, but this looked good, too. Not as dramatic, but then she was stuck way the hell up on a mountaintop in Utah for a year, so who did she need to be dramatic for? He was pretty sure he recognized her worn-in jeans, but he hadn’t seen her in a flannel shirt before. He preferred her in softer clothes, dresses that showed off her legs, although he’d never tell her that.

“Getting my bearings,” he said. “It smells like Christmas.”

“Pine trees will do that,” she said. Then she smiled at him and the pressure in his chest relaxed. “I was about to have some lunch. Get your gear. You can scope out the cabin after.”

Visit the author: Jo Leigh

Jo Leigh has written over 50 books for Harlequin Inc, is a triple RITA finalist, and teaches writing whenever she can. She lives in a tiny Utah town with her many rescue pets, and sends care packages regularly to her nephew who is currently serving in Kabul, Afghanistan.

He entered the building, his steps silent, his breathing soundless and measured. Even had he been a bull and the barn a china shop, he doubted anyone inside would’ve heard his approach. Overhead, the water showered down like rubble, and in the near distance, diesel engines shook the ground with the roar of heavy artillery.

In contrast to the controlled chaos outside, the barn’s interior was as still as a holding pattern. He cocked his head, his eyes adjusting to the shadows. A soft grunt followed by banging drew him toward the structure’s northeast corner, and as he passed a head-high stack of storage crates, she came into view. He slowed, stopped, stared.

Her back was to him, her hair—still blonde and crazy with waves—caught in a careless knot. She wore jeans and a white top that was already smudged with cobwebs and dirt, and as she bent to reach for a moving pad, the fabric rode up her back.

He stared harder, remembering the feel of her skin beneath her clothing, her warmth when the air outside had been so cold, the light in her eyes in a night so dark…just not dark enough to keep them from being seen.

She straightened then, turned and noticed him there. Her intake of breath shook him, but he didn’t move, just gave her a moment to acclimate while their gazes held, while the past flashed like a stun grenade between them.

Then he nodded and simply said, “Teri.”

“Shane.” She stood still, her hands hidden in the folds of the pad, her pulse visible at the base of her neck. “How have you been?”

“Good.” He shrugged, cleared his throat and added, “Relatively speaking.”

She pulled one hand from the pad and tucked the hair that had escaped her band behind her ears. “I’m so sorry about your parents. Mom just told me. I didn’t know or I would’ve…”

She let the sentence trail, and he wondered what she would’ve said, what she would’ve done. If with all the things hanging between them, she wouldn’t have stayed away and let the gulf of silence between them widen further.

He wouldn’t have blamed her. She owed him nothing.

Visit the author: Alison Kent

The daughter of an Air Force veteran and daughter-in-law of an Army veteran, both who served during the Korean Conflict, Alison Kent currently writes about the cowboys of the Great State of Texas. She lives near Houston with her petroleum geologist husband and three rescue dogs, one a Hurricane Katrina survivor. Look for her December 2012 release from Carina Press, THIS TIME NEXT YEAR, in which a doctor who has served on the front lines in Afghanistan learns the healing power of love.

Drawing in a breath, he eased on the gas pedal and did his best not to focus on the scenery or the curious eyes that landed on his shiny cobalt-blue pickup truck as it ventured through town. Folks around here didn’t like flashy cars. Not that his pickup was flashy by any means, but it was clearly brand-new, an impulse buy he hadn’t been able to resist. No point in letting his recent inheritance sit in the bank collecting dust and interest.

As he drove down Main Street, he almost expected tomatoes to be thrown at his windshield. Either that, or a parade to welcome him. He suspected the people of Skylark Springs were torn between being proud to have a real-life hometown hero, or furious that said hero hadn’t bothered attending the funeral of their other hero. He supposed it depended on which Anders they deemed more heroic—Jason or his late father.

But alas, no tomatoes or parade. Apparently the townsfolk didn’t care about him one way or the other, and that was fine by him. There was only one person whose opinion he was interested in—and if any produce was going to be hurled, he knew it would be by the hand of Callie Carraway.

Unless she’d purchased a gun in these last four years.

Which was kind of a frightening thought.

Visit the author: Elle Kennedy

A RITA-award nominated author, Elle Kennedy began pursuing writing at a young age and holds a bachelor’s degree in English. She currently resides in Toronto, where she writes full time.