She was looking good, she knew that. She’d showered and taken special care with her makeup and put her hair up, with a few tendrils left down to caress her shoulders.

She had on one of her mother’s Armanis. There was no way on this earth she could afford a cocktail gown like the one she had on, never in a million years. But she still had her mother’s wardrobe, and a rich and varied one it was, too. Monica Lake had had excellent taste, with a wealthy and indulgent husband who loved to shower her with gifts and show her off.

In an effort to raise her spirits, Caroline had decided to dress up for the evening. Damn it, it was Christmas Eve, and instead of spending it alone in a cold house, she was spending it with a very attractive man and—wonder of wonders—the boiler hadn’t broken down yet so she could wear the black off-the-shoulder cocktail gown without feeling like an idiot.

It almost felt like a date.

When was the last time she had been on a date? Long before Toby’s last collapse. September, maybe?

She’d gone to Jenna’s bank to pick her up for lunch and Jenna had introduced her to the new vice president, George Bowen. He was blond, handsome, thirtysomething, and he was immediately smitten. He got her number from Jenna and called that very evening for a date.

George took her to an upscale Japanese restaurant, cool and elegant. It was a wonderful September evening, warm and ripe with promise. George was smart, funny, romantic. Charming company. Sexy in a low-key way. Caroline was seriously thinking of sleeping with him after a couple of dates, wondering how it would be, when her cell phone rang. Toby’s nurse. Toby was having an attack.

George insisted on accompanying her home and watched, horrified, as she dealt with Toby.

She never heard from George again. She never even saw him again. It was embarrassing the way he avoided her.

He managed never to be around when she picked Jenna up for lunch, and he never responded to the one message she left on his answering machine. Caroline didn’t need to be hit over the head to understand that he didn’t want to be part of her life in any way. Her life was way too harsh for him.

After that, she and Jenna had lunch at her bookstore, First Page, taking turns paying for the Chinese takeout. It was easier on everyone that way.

Jack put down his fork and took a sip of wine. “Wow. I can’t remember a better meal. Actually I can’t remember my last good meal at all. It was definitely before Afghanistan.”

Caroline watched Jack eating. He had excellent table manners, though she quavered every time he picked up his wineglass. His hands were large and rough-looking. They were capable of delicacy, though. His movements were precise and controlled. Maybe her wineglass was safe, after all.

George had had small, soft, white hands. She tried to imagine him as a soldier in Afghanistan and failed miserably.

“What exactly were you doing in Afghanistan?” she asked, piling more food on Jack’s plate and smiling inwardly at his grateful nod.

“I went twice, once for the government, once for the company. The first time was a six-month rotation right after I got my Ranger Tab. We were on winter patrol in the Hindu Kush. The second time was after I resigned my commission to help my dad run his company. We landed the contract to protect Habib Munib. I just got back a couple of weeks ago.”

Caroline blinked, fork halfway to her mouth. “Habib Munib? Isn’t he—heavens, isn’t he the president of Afghanistan?”

“Yeah. Sort of. That’s the theory, anyway.” Jack’s hard mouth lifted in a half smile. It didn’t soften his features but it softened her a little. “Truth is, Habib isn’t president of much these days beyond the Presidential Palace in Kabul and about a ten-block radius around it. Any warlord up in the mountains has more real power—and certainly more firepower—than Habib does. And every warlord in the country—and believe me there are a lot of them—is gunning for him. Keeping him alive is…a challenge. We managed mainly by creating the sandbag capital of the world around him.”

She’d seen photographs of Jack! She must have. Habib Munib was often in the news and the pictures showed him surrounded by his American bodyguards. Big beefy guys, mostly, with beards and sunglasses, cradling alarmingly large black guns. She’d imagined them to be U.S. officers, but apparently they weren’t.

“Did you enjoy the challenge?”

He paused to think. “Yeah, I did. A lot. We had to outthink some pretty inventive and seriously nasty bad guys. It helped that Habib’s one of the good guys. Studied at CalTech, got himself an engineering degree that he doesn’t use and solid poker skills, which he does. The man’s got a good head on his shoulders. He’s his country’s best hope for a future that isn’t grinding poverty and crazed fanatics out on the streets killing people to keep the country safe from women who wear lipstick and nail polish. We worked really hard to keep him alive.”

Caroline watched his face as he talked. She’d forgotten to turn the overhead chandelier on, so most of the light came from candlelight. It turned his darkly tanned skin a deep bronze, the flickering flames alive in his dark eyes.

The house was lukewarm at best, but Caroline wasn’t cold. He was sitting at right angles to her, their elbows almost touching, and he seemed to be radiating heat. She felt enveloped by it, the very molecules of air between them speeded up and hot.

“If you liked the work so much, why did you leave?”

“I got word that my dad was sick. He didn’t tell me he was feeling bad—didn’t want to worry me. It was his secretary who told me. She called and said that Dad was vomiting blood. I flew straight back. I bullied him until he went to the doctor.” A faint smile creased his face—a second and it was gone, like a shadow of a smile instead of the real thing. “He was stubborn, my dad. Hated doctors. It took some doing to get him to one. And when I finally dragged him in for tests, we found out he had stomach cancer. I couldn’t leave him while he was sick. The cancer was very advanced. He only lasted a few weeks. After he died, I decided to do something else.”

Caroline rested her chin on her fist as she looked at him. “Why?”

He put his fork down, thoughtful. He took his time answering. That was something Caroline liked. She disliked glib quips, ready-made answers. He was clearly struggling to find the right words. It was entirely possible that words weren’t his medium. He was a soldier, after all.

Finally, he spoke, his deep voice quiet. “My father was a soldier all his life. When he retired, he founded a company where he could use his special skills. I loved my time in the Army, but I know now that, in a way, I enlisted in the Army to please him. When he needed me for the company, I resigned my commission to help him. I was happy to do it. If he were alive, I’d still be in Afghanistan, still with the company. But after he died, I realized”—he stopped and struggled for words—“I–I realized that the company was his dream. Not mine. I have another dream, another plan for my life. And much as I miss him, my father’s death set me free to pursue it.”

There was silence in the big room. Through an archway was the living room where she’d lit the fire. It crackled and popped.

He was comfortable with silence. Caroline liked that. “So tell me, what is this dream?”

He hesitated. “I have—some special skills. Some the Army gave me, some I was born with. They were useful to my father, and I was happy to place them at his service and at the service of the company’s clients. But he’s gone now. I think I want to use my skills for other kinds of people. The kinds of people who can’t go to a security company and have their problems solved by buying what they need.” His teeth clenched, the strong jaw muscles flexing under the dark skin. “Security companies protect the kind of people who already have the means to protect themselves. They’re usually rich or at least have enough money to buy themselves the protection of a whole company. A lot of them have companies of their own, with employees to stand between them and danger. Hiring extra security is sometimes just icing on the cake, and sometimes, frankly, a status symbol. I think what I’d really like to do is teach people who need it self-defense skills. People who need to know how to defend themselves but can’t afford professional security staff.”