And yet, Jack could still see the young Caroline, the heart of her—the lovely, gentle girl who’d befriended an outcast inside the beautiful woman who’d known heartache and grief.

The young girl had haunted his days and nights. The woman in front of him nearly brought him to his knees.

Christ, he was staring again, lost. She’d said something—something about books. He didn’t want books.

“The sign,” he said.

“I beg your pardon?” She swirled a lock of shiny red-gold hair behind a small ear. He’d seen her do it a hundred times.

“You’ve got a sign at the front of the shop. ROOMS TO LET. Do you still have a room available?”

It had been the motor-mouth taxi driver who’d told him that Caroline rented rooms to boarders to boost her income from the bookshop.

Caroline looked at him for a long moment, clearly sizing him up. He couldn’t shrink and he couldn’t take a shower and shave and he couldn’t change his clothes right then. All he could do was remain motionless and keep his expression neutral. There was nothing he could say or do to convince her if she didn’t trust him enough to want him in her home. The only thing he could do was wait.

And hope.

Finally, Caroline sighed. “Yes, as it happens, my boarders just left, so I do have a room. But let’s discuss it sitting down, why don’t we? You can leave those behind my desk if you’d like.” “Those” were his ancient duffel bag with the brand-new luggage lock and a suitcase.

No way was he leaving them out of his sight. “Thanks, I’ll just put them down next to me so no one will trip over them,” he said casually, hefting the duffel bag over his shoulder and picking up the suitcase.

She nodded and turned to walk between the rows of books to the back corner of the shop, where a small sitting area had been set up.

Though she was more slender than when she was a girl, she was also curvier. She had a tiny waist that begged for his hands to span, rounding out to a perfect ass. He had to work hard to keep his eyes off it, in case she turned around and found him ogling her. That would have got him tossed out on his ass, PDQ.

Jack recognized a couch and two small armchairs that had once been in her father’s study. They were old and worn but still looked comfortable. Jack put his duffel bag behind one of the small armchairs and sat down in it, hoping it would take his weight. He wasn’t built for old, delicate furniture, but he needn’t have worried. The armchair might be shabby, but it was of good quality.

“Would you like me to take your jacket, Mr. — ?” Caroline held out a hand.

“Prescott. Jack Prescott. And no, thanks. I’m still a little chilled from the weather outside.”

“I can imagine,” she murmured, withdrawing her hand.

Jesus, he couldn’t take his jacket off. Out of reflex, and because he hated being unarmed, he’d grabbed his bag off the carousel and ducked into the nearest men’s room to slip his Glock into his shoulder rig. And then he’d completely forgotten about it. He’d had no idea whatsoever that an hour after landing, he’d actually be sitting down, with Caroline, who wanted him to take his jacket off.

Jack was very very good at strategic planning. He’d been born with it. Then Colonel Prescott and the Army had taken that and refined it. Jack had been an outstanding operative, always able to think several moves ahead.

The fact that he hadn’t thought to hide his weapon before entering the bookshop, where he might be expected to take his jacket off, was off his own personal radar. That was exactly the kind of mistake that could have gotten him killed on the job.

But even without the weapon, he couldn’t take his jacket off. No way. Besides his weapon, he had a hard-on. A huge blue-steeler that felt like a club between his legs, and his pants were just loose enough to show it.

Walking behind Caroline, watching the sway of her hips and the way her hair bounced on her shoulders, sniffing the air in her wake—every hormone in his body woke up and smelled her roses. All the blood in his body had streamed straight to his cock.

Well, that was guaranteed to keep him off her list of possible boarders. No woman in the world would agree to have a man in the house who swelled erect just by looking at her.

This was insane.

Jack’s body was his to command. It did his bidding, always. If he needed to go without food or water or sleep, his body obeyed. Extremes of heat and cold didn’t bother him. Sex was never a problem. When he wanted to fuck, he got a hard-on and when he didn’t, his dick stayed right down between his legs.

But watching Caroline’s graceful walk to the back of the shop, hips gently swaying, he got massively aroused with each step she took.

All he’d wanted was a glimpse of her. Getting to live with her in Greenbriars within an hour of landing at the airport was something he hadn’t even thought to hope for. And yet here he was, maybe five or ten minutes away from actually living with Caroline, in Greenbriars, and he was about to blow it. He couldn’t think of anything more likely to disqualify himself as a potential boarder than his dick flying in her face.

She was the only person on the face of the earth who could mess with his mind and his dick that way. Nothing ever got in the way of what he wanted. Certainly not sex. Sex was fun and sometimes necessary to blow off steam, but it wasn’t something he allowed to interfere with his life, ever.

Jack was intensely mission-oriented. He focused narrowly on the mission, whatever it was, to the exclusion of everything else. The mission now was to move into Caroline’s house, and he shouldn’t have allowed anything to cloud his mind, let alone stiffen his cock.

His boner shocked the shit out of him. That wasn’t how he worked. He was in control, always.

Not now, though. All thoughts fled from his mind as he walked behind Caroline. She was wearing pretty pointy-toed shoes with high heels, impossible shoes for the sleety afternoon but perfect to showcase long, slender calves and delicate ankles. There was a slight, rhythmic hiss of stocking as she walked, and he had felt the pulses of it through his skin. The rhythm of her heels tapping on the wood matched his heartbeat exactly, the little flutter of a silk blouse as she walked echoing the flutter of blood rippling through his veins.

“Here,” she said and, looking around, he thought, yes, here. Great.

On the couch, on the rug, on the hardwood floor. Against the wall, bent over the counter. Anywhere, just as long as he could get in her and stay there for hours.

It was only when she cocked her head to one side, a slight frown between auburn eyebrows, and said, “Mr. Prescott?” in a light, inquisitive tone, that Jack realized with a jolt to his system what he was doing.

Fucking it up, that’s what he was doing.

He never fucked up.

So he gritted his teeth, managed a quiet “Thank you” through clenched jaws and sat, forcing himself to think of Sierra Leone, Obuja and Vince Deaver. Of blood and betrayal, torture and the screaming of women. So much blood the ground was soaked with it, running in red rivulets. Women bayoneted to death. Highly trained soldiers using children as target practice. The sniper’s red mist around kids’ heads as the shot went home…

That did it. The images cooled his blood and sickened his heart. His cock went straight back down.

His teeth were clenching so tightly it was a miracle he didn’t have shards of enamel coming out his ears.

Caroline must have felt something wrong in the air, because she sat gingerly on the edge of the armchair, knees and calves and feet aligned, arms crossed tightly across her midriff, body language tight. Unconsciously ready to stand up or even leap up if he made her any more uncomfortable than he already had.

He was a man who kept his cool in armed combat, but seeing her change her body language scared the shit out of him. He’d done that. He’d made her feel edgy and wary, when he should have done everything in his power to reassure her.