The Rule-Breaker Read online

  Subject: Ranger Eli Weston

  Current Status: On leave

  Mission: To honor his fallen friend—and protect his secret

  Obstacle: His fallen friend’s ex, who’s off-limits...and off-the-charts sexy!

  Ranger Eli Weston always does the right thing—even when it means defying orders. Now he’s back in town to help with a memorial in honor of his fallen military buddy. This time it’s not just about what’s right. It’s about ensuring that a secret never comes to light. A secret that only he and his friend’s ex-girlfriend know…

  Clothing designer Shelby Monroe has always felt an illicit something for Eli. But when the two find themselves working together to ensure the media never discover the truth about the town’s fallen hero, temptation unfurls…hot, wicked and irresistible.

  How far can they bend the rules before they break?

  Twelve military heroes.

  Twelve indomitable heroines.

  One Uniformly Hot! miniseries.

  Harlequin Blaze’s bestselling miniseries

  continues with another year of irresistible soldiers

  from all branches of the armed forces.

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  A SEAL’S SURRENDER

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  March 2013

  THE RULE-BREAKER

  by Rhonda Nelson

  April 2013

  Uniformly Hot!

  The Few. The Proud. The Sexy as Hell.

  Available wherever Harlequin books are sold.

  Dear Reader,

  Spring is officially in the air, new leaves are on the trees and I’m already planning my garden. I cannot wait. Something about watching things grow from seed to fruit makes my heart sing…much like the promise of romance, because it seems to take the same path. A spark of something special, a hefty dose of sexual attraction to fertilize, then a little patience as love and affection take root. And voilà! Happily ever after!

  Active Ranger Eli Weston used to be a stickler for the rules, but of late he’s thinking of them more as suggestions and suddenly isn’t opposed to bending them when the occasion arises. Such is the case when a dear friend commits suicide and, despite insistent pressure from the military to admit that Micah’s gun didn’t misfire as he was cleaning it, Eli holds firm. He’s protecting a friend’s memory and family. When Eli is asked to help build a memorial to his friend, things get even more complicated because it puts him in close proximity to Shelby Monroe, Micah’s former fiancée. She’s mouthy and opinionated, the town darling and Eli’s worst nightmare. He’s never wanted a woman more...and she’s the one woman he desperately needs to resist.

  I love to hear from my readers, so please be sure to check out my website, www.readrhondanelson.com, like me on Facebook or follow me on Twitter @RhondaRNelson.

  Happy reading!

  Rhonda

  The Rule-Breaker

  Rhonda Nelson

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  A Waldenbooks bestselling author, two-time RITA® Award nominee, RT Book Reviews Reviewers’ Choice nominee and National Readers’ Choice Award winner, Rhonda Nelson writes hot romantic comedy for the Harlequin Blaze line and other Harlequin Books imprints. With more than thirty-five published books to her credit, she’s thrilled with her career and enjoys dreaming up her characters and manipulating the worlds they live in. She and her family make their chaotic but happy home in a small town in northern Alabama. She loves to hear from her readers, so be sure to check her out at www.readrhondanelson.com, follow her on Twitter@RhondaRNelson and like her on Facebook.

  Books by Rhonda Nelson

  HARLEQUIN BLAZE

  255—THE PLAYER

  277—THE SPECIALIST

  283—THE MAVERICK

  322—THE EX-GIRLFRIENDS’ CLUB

  361—FEELING THE HEAT

  400—THE LONER

  412—THE HELL-RAISER

  475—LETTERS FROM HOME

  481—THE SOLDIER

  545—THE RANGER

  549—BORN ON THE 4TH OF JULY

  “The Prodigal”

  557—THE RENEGADE

  579—IT MUST HAVE BEEN THE MISTLETOE…

  “Cole for Christmas”

  586—THE REBEL

  594—THE WILD CARD

  615—REAL MEN WEAR PLAID!

  645—THE SURVIVOR

  657—THE PHOENIX

  664—THE KEEPER

  688—BLAZING BEDTIME STORIES, VOLUME VII

  “The Steadfast Hot Soldier”

  711—BLAZING BEDTIME STORIES, VOLUME IX

  “The Equalizer”

  717—THE PROFESSIONAL

  724—HIS FIRST NOELLE

  For Ollie, my sweet, neurotic little fur baby,

  who sits at my feet from the first word on the page until the last. That, dear readers, is dedication.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Epilogue

  Excerpt

  Prologue

  Mosul

  ELI WESTON NOTED THE Bible, the rosary and the bottle of Jack Daniel’s on his friend’s bedside table with a burgeoning sense of disquiet. Not that all three items didn’t make regular appearances on Micah Holland’s table—they did—but usually it was only one or two, not all three together.

  That knowledge, combined with the increasingly blank expression on his friend’s face, made the hairs on the back of his neck rise.

  Eli emptied his pockets and dropped heavily onto his bunk. “Another day in paradise,” he muttered, shooting Micah a smile. “You been back long?”

  Micah shook his head. “Nah.”

  A beat slid to three. “You look tired.”

  He knew his friend hadn’t been getting much sleep, especially over the past two weeks. It was understandable, given what had happened. War was hell, and this war, in particular, had been fought in ways that boggled the mind. They’d been trained to fight other soldiers, to honor the rules of war, but this enemy didn’t play by those rules and thought nothing of strapping explosive devices onto pregnant women and then sending them into a hospital.

  That’s what Micah had witnessed two weeks ago—what he’d tried to prevent—and he hadn’t been the same since. Not that Eli blamed him, but...

  He hesitated, not wanting to cross a line, but not wanting to see Micah deteriorate any further. They’d met in basic training, had been friends since Jump School. There were a lot of blood and bullets under the bridge. And if the situation were reversed, he knew Micah would try to counsel him, as well.

  “Listen, man. There’s no shame in talking to someone. I know you—”

  Micah whirled on him, like a reanimated corpse, his eyes blazing. “You know nothing,” he spat. “Nothing. So don’t insult me by giving me the standard line. I’ve got to sort this out my own way and the only person I have to talk to about it or square it with is the man upstairs.” He jerked his head heavenward, gave an ironic little laugh, one that, for reasons which escaped him, made Eli nervous. Micah released a heavy breath. “Just leave it, Eli. I know you mean well...but I’m handling it.”

  Rather than irritate his friend further, Eli merely nodded. But whether Micah wanted to admit it or not, he needed help. And if he wouldn’t
get it on his own, then Eli had every intention of making him by other means. One word to the right person would set the ball in motion.

  Finally, he nodded. “Yeah. Fine.” He arched a brow, pretending as if the exchange never happened. “You want to go get something to eat? I’m about to head over to the mess hall.”

  Micah shook his head. “No, thanks. I’m not hungry.”

  Eli heaved a silent sigh, then stood. He’d reached the door when Micah’s voice stopped him.

  “Eli?”

  He turned expectantly.

  Micah opened his mouth, then closed it. He seemed to be struggling with what he wanted to say, a myriad of expressions flashing rapid-fire over his tortured face. Finally, he muttered, “You’re a good friend.”

  Eli swallowed, gave him an up nod. “So are you, man.” Then he slowly walked away.

  He’d made it to the front of the barracks before he heard the gunshot. And he knew before he’d frantically retraced his steps back to the room what he’d find.

  Oh, Jesus. He dropped to his knees and gathered up his friend. Sightless eyes, so much blood, rosary still in his hand. “Micah! Dammit to hell,” Eli sobbed, rocking him back and forth, his voice broken. “Oh, Micah, what have you done? What have you done?”

  1

  Eight months later...

  CAPTAIN ELI WESTON glanced at the invitation again, grimaced then tossed it back into the passenger seat of his rented truck as the city limits sign loomed into view. His belly clenched with dread, and tension inexplicably tightened his fingers on the steering wheel.

  He so didn’t want to do this.

  In fact, Eli could confidently say that if he could choose any place on earth he wanted to be right now, Willow Haven, Kentucky, would undoubtedly occupy the dead-last position on his list.

  Not because it wasn’t a perfectly lovely little town, the quintessential Southern burg with lots of antebellum homes, majestic oak trees and a festival for every food group. Not because he could think of a million other things he’d rather do on his much-needed, too-short leave. He’d seen enough war—enough of the ravages of it, more specifically. Not even because he’d be working on the memorial for his late, beloved friend, Micah Holland.

  It was the damned lying he most dreaded.

  He’d been doing it for the past eight months, insisting to every superior officer who’d interrogated him about Micah’s death that his friend had been cleaning his weapon when it misfired, that he’d actually witnessed the accident.

  Accident, of course, being the key word.

  Lies, all lies. And they knew it, too. But they couldn’t prove it, so his “eye-witness” account stood.

  And it was because of that account that his friend’s parents had been able to confidently bury their beloved oldest son in hallowed ground, believing his death was an unhappy circumstance, not a deliberate act by his own hand. Having lost his own father to suicide, Eli was well-acquainted with that particular brand of grief and had decided within seconds of Micah’s death to spare the Hollands that aspect of the misery, to do everything he possibly could to preserve his friend’s memory and military legacy. Micah had been one of his best friends and a damned fine soldier. He’d been like a brother. Eli swallowed, his throat suddenly tight, an inexplicable anger welling inside of him.

  It was the least he could do, really.

  Well, that and sling a hammer, he thought, glancing once more at the invitation in the passenger seat. Honestly, had Sally, Micah’s mother, not called and pressed him into coming to help build the Micah Holland Memorial in the heart of the town square, Eli wouldn’t have come. He’d have simply begged out of the event or made up an excuse as to why he wouldn’t be available—being deployed, in that sense, had its advantages.

  But when Sally had told him that they’d simply plan the event around his leave, his schedule, he knew he wasn’t going to be able to get out of it. And considering how good the Hollands had been to him—they’d practically taken him in as one of their own as soon as he’d graduated—he could hardly refuse. Eli’s own family tree had withered and died with the death of his father, so being brought into the Holland fold had filled a void he’d scarcely realized was there.

  Sally was the quintessential Southern mom. Her love language was food and nothing made her happier than a full table and full bellies. There was always a cake on the covered stand, cookies of some sort in the jar and cold iced tea in the pitcher. His lips quirked. And the emergency casserole in the freezer, of course, should she need to quickly provide a meal, either for her family or for someone else’s.

  Carl Holland was a farmer with a degree in Agriculture from Auburn University—and had two Toomer’s Oaks grown from seedlings standing in the front yard. He had a deep affection for things grown in the soil. He was wise and patient, slow to anger and quick to laugh. Big and burly, with skin darkened from years spent in the sun and hands that were callused and scarred, Sally called him her Gentle Giant, GG for short, a sweet term of endearment that never failed to make Eli smile. He did now, remembering, and the action felt strange, almost foreign.

  Probably because there hadn’t been much to smile about in recent months.

  Truthfully, though he’d never considered a career outside the military, he had to admit he’d been growing increasingly dissatisfied since Micah’s death. He couldn’t seem to shake the sense that his feet weren’t so much on the right path as stuck to one instead. Bound by the very rules and regulations he used to appreciate, relish even. Micah had often joked that while he’d never met a rule he didn’t break, Eli had never met one he didn’t like.

  Too true, he knew.

  But rules established order and the absence of order was chaos. And Eli hated chaos. That word virtually described every foster home he’d lived in after the death of his father and the mental decline of his mother. The sweet, smiling woman he remembered from his early childhood had disintegrated into a vacant-eyed stranger who had to be reminded to eat, to bathe, and had to be told that she even had a son who needed to do those things, as well.

  “Fragile,” they’d called her, when she’d been taken to the psych ward at their local hospital in Twisted Pines, Georgia.

  “Irrevocably broken,” he’d later realize.

  He drummed his thumb against the steering wheel, biting the inside of his cheek as the familiar sense of regret trickled through him. He’d need to go and see her before he reported back to base, Eli thought with a stoic twinge of dread. Not that she’d know him, not that she’d care. But he would do it, anyway, because it was the right thing to do, because she was the only family he had.

  Furthermore, though he often spoke to her doctors and care team at the assisted living facility she called home—the one he paid for—a personal visit would remind them all that he was more than just the person writing the check. He was her son and, though he barely knew her, he loved her all the same.

  Not that he was suspicious of any kind of abuse. He wasn’t. Having heard horror stories about mental hospitals and nursing homes, he’d researched dozens of potential facilities before settling on Marigold Manor. It offered the best in security and care, and smelled more like flowers than antiseptic. Which was a plus if you asked him. To this day the faintest whiff of bleach conjured up images of slumped over bodies too medicated to move, most particularly his mother’s. It had been a nightmare. He’d been twelve at the time. Old enough to know that her treatment was horribly wrong, but not old enough to do anything about it. Powerless.

  Awful.

  That was no small part of the reason he’d entered the ROTC program. With both sets of grandparents dead before his own birth and no close family, he’d known that he’d need the funds and the security to take care of his mother.

  And he had, since he was eighteen years old. Two jobs, sometimes three, during college, then beyond graduation active duty had done the rest.

  Duty, Eli thought. Would he ever escape it? And if he could, would he really want to? He released
a long breath and slowly entered the town square. Those were questions for another day. A humorless laugh bubbled up his throat.

  Or never.

  As expected, the little hub of Willow Haven was abuzz with activity. Shoppers strolled along the freshly swept sidewalks, peering into windows as the regular walkers smoothly weaved in and out around them. Lots of flowers he couldn’t name bloomed from overstuffed planters and hanging baskets, and red, white and blue banners hung from various eaves, proclaiming the Micah Holland Memorial Dedication for the coming weekend. Another knot of dread landed in his belly and a pinch of pain constricted his chest as the image of his bloodied friend rose instantly in his mind.

  It haunted him, that image.

  And the slightest thing could bring it back. The sound of a gunshot, a whiff of Jack Daniel’s, even a laugh similar to his friend’s. It would catch him unaware, yank him unwillingly back into that wretched moment when he knew his friend was gone. At some point he was going to have to tell Gage the truth, Eli thought, wincing from the reminder. The third member of their “three amigos” crew, Gage Harper had been running a covert mission when Micah had died. Knowing that Micah had been struggling, Eli imagined Gage already suspected the truth but, out of respect or fearful of the answer, hadn’t asked.

  He’d tell him, of course. At some point. In the near future, in all probability. And, God, how he dreaded it.

  He’d become too damned acquainted with dread, Eli thought. In fact, he was so accustomed to it at this point, he was beginning to wonder if he’d know how to function without it, without the disquieting tightening of his gut or the ever-present whisper of uneasiness along his spine.

  A group of men, Carl among them, of course, were busy driving stakes into the ground and pulling string, marking off the dimensions for the gazebo. Eli had yet to see the plans, but had been told the design had been rendered by Micah’s ex-fiancée, Shelby Monroe. He hadn’t quite worked out how he felt about that—had never been able to work out how he felt about her, for that matter. Not that anything beyond passing friendliness was in order—he’d be damned before he’d poach on a friend’s territory—but somehow the prickling of his skin, the inexplicable jump in his heart rate and the unwelcome stirring in his loins didn’t strike the strictly platonic note.