Hell, she would turn over a whole flipping tree. She was done feeling sorry for herself just because Carson "Ultimate Loser" Hunt had drop-kicked her heart in one unforgettable night. She would take control of her life and her emotions.
Pressing the heel of her hand to her melon-heavy head, she swung her feet to the floor. Thud. Her toes struck something solid rather than carpet. She toppled forward, her heart double-timing to marathon pace.
Arms flailing she grabbed for the end table, slammed to her knees, her teeth jarring together. Pain sliced through her head. She squinted in the faint light....
And stared straight into the unblinking eyes of the dead man on the floor.
* * *
Major Carson "Scorch" Hunt was dead tired and he hadn't even eaten breakfast yet.
Of course he hadn't fallen into bed until two in the morning due to an emergency on the flight line and he was back at his desk by dawn, hoping for a more peaceful day. No such luck.
Now thanks to a phone call from the security police, peace was on hold for far longer than the sausage-and-egg croissant he'd picked up at a fast-food joint. On his way out the office door again, he jammed his arms back into his leather flight jacket that had never made it onto the brass anchor peg before his phone rang.
A lieutenant from his squadron was dead.
Damn it. His fisted hand snagged inside the sleeve. He punched it through.
He'd braced himself for the possibility of losing someone in battle, but not at home. Worse yet, the young pilot was Carson's responsibility as second in charge, since the commander was deployed to the Middle East with the other half of the squadron.
Shrugging the jacket over his shoulders, he bolted down the hall, through the glass door and out into the parking lot. Early morning traffic clogged the base streets, adhering to the so-damn-slow speed limits. Screw it. The VOQ—visiting officer's quarters—was only about a mile away. On foot would be faster, taking him there in under five minutes. He sprinted through the web of parked cars, tucked through the creeping traffic, ignored the honks.
The phone call from base security police hadn't said more than Lieutenant Gary Owens was found dead in the VOQ with a woman.
Owens had an apartment downtown, but sometimes guys checked into one of the rooms for the night if they were partying nearby and too drunk to drive home—or if they lucked into unexpected plans for the night. With a woman.
Boots pounding pavement, Carson tried to block thoughts of exactly which woman Owens had been dating for the past month. Of course stemming thoughts of Nikki Price had been damn near impossible for a long time. For over two years, actually, since a pool party at a squadron member's apartment when he'd realized his crew member's daughter had grown up. Really grown up. Smart, sexy, twelve years his junior and the daughter of a man he respected and admired. Not to mention Carson wasn't in a place to offer any woman a secure, stable happily-ever-after.
And still he had weakened and betrayed his friend by sleeping with Nikki. Once. A mistake he couldn't repeat even though his pulse rate jack-hammered through him at the mere possibility Nikki could be in trouble.
Carson left the road for a shortcut across the lawn, past pine trees and bare-limbed oaks. He had no claim to Nikki, and yet here he was, running like hell for her as much as the dead lieutenant. Her boyfriend.
He couldn't stomach thinking about her with Owens. But who else could be in that room? And if the guy had been cheating on Nikki with another woman then somebody deserved an ass kicking.
Except damn, damn, damn it all, Owens was already dead, a screwed-up kid who'd just gotten his life back on track. Carson had been so sure he'd helped the baby pilot, but had he intervened soon enough?
Think. Focus. If Nikki was inside that brick building, then she needed him, even if he was the last person she would want to see.
Each huffing bootstep drawing him closer, Carson trained his eyes on the security cop cars—at least a dozen—encircling the three-story building along with an ambulance. Looked like everyone who wasn't guarding the gates had been called. Police in camo and blue berets secured the scene. An SP—security police officer—guarding the front entry held up a hand.
Before the military cop could speak, Carson nodded. "I'm Lieutenant Owens's commander."
The SP nodded and saluted. "I'll radio ahead and let them know you're on your way, sir. Down that hall and around the corner."
"Thank you, Sergeant." Carson slowed his feet, if not his pulse that still slugged from dread more than the mile sprint.
He cleared the front desk and strode down the narrow carpeted hallway, taking the corner on a sharp pivot. The corridor hummed with organized pandemonium, more cops and base medical personnel, a couple of agents from the Air Force OSI—Office of Special Investigation.
His eyes scanned past to home in on one person.
A woman sat huddled in a chair outside a VOQ room, blanket wrapped around her while her teeth chattered, security cops on either side. He didn't need to see a face to recognize her. Nikki Price.
Hell.
She looked up, the motion jerky from shock most likely. Her eyes locked on his down the length of the passageway, dark circles underneath. Hair even darker, tangled around her head in a silky mess that begged his fingers to comb through, to rest on her shoulders and pull her to his chest for the comfort she no doubt needed.
Her fingers went slack around the deep red blanket until the edge slid open to reveal her clothes. Jeans and a silky pink shirt, mis-buttoned as if hastily snatched up and on—the same clothes she'd been wearing when he ran into her the night before. He stuffed back the kick of jealousy and moved closer. Still she didn't speak, a slight tightening of her full lips the only indication she registered his approach.