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keep her that way was the only man who had ever awakened a rage so primal that she'd resorted to physical violence to release it.
    The adrenaline rush that had been insulating her pain let go like a long sigh. She started shaking. Uncontrollably. Suddenly her hand throbbed. She cupped it to her breast and, beaten, gave up the fight. Hating herself— really hating herself—for giving in to them, she let the tears fall.
    When she'd cried it out, she rose on rubbery legs. After filling the bathroom sink with cold water, she pressed a cold cloth to her eyes with her left hand and soaked the sore knuckles of her right. Only after she'd slipped on a sleep shirt and eased under the covers did she let herself relish the satisfying memory of Nolan Garrett's head snapping back and his eyes momentarily losing focus.
    And only after she'd drained the rest of her wine with one long, deep swallow did she let down her guard enough to grudgingly admit that maybe she felt safer with him under her roof.
    But he was still a sonofabitch. And she still didn't like this—or him. She turned out her light and settled in on her side to try to get some sleep. Right. Like that was going to happen with him in the room down thehall.
     
    4
     
    "That went well," Nolan muttered as he lay on his back on Jillian Kincaid's fussy white bedspread in her frou-frou white-on-white guest bedroom. White except for the splashy artwork hung on the walls. Abstract. Vibrant. Pricey. Like the lady.
    He worked his jaw, touched it gingerly before crossing his hands behind his head on a pillow that smelled of class and wealth and a luxury he'd never in his life experienced. That she was high-strung and high gloss hadn't surprised him. But who'd have figured she'd have the balls to slug him?
    He frowned at the slow-moving blades of the fan hanging from a ceiling that pushed fifteen feet. Hell. Who'd have thought there was more to her than television's plastic princess persona?
    And the real kicker, who'd of thought he'd end up paid to protect her—or anyone else, for that matter? It sure as hell hadn't been part of his plan.
    After eight years as a Hooah, he'd left his men, left his pride, and DX'd out of his Ranger battalion. That had been three months ago. He missed it... missed his men like hell. But for the past ninety days he'd been telling himself he was as happy as a damn clam. Living on the boat, nursing a record string of booze-soaked days and mercifully dreamless nights, searching for a comfort zone at the bottom of the barrel.
    And he'd been on one helluva roll.
    Until yesterday.
    Just when rock bottom had been within his reach, life had taken a turn for the worse and dumped him back into the thick of things.
    He'd had the bum part down pat. He sure as hell hadn't wanted a job, but he'd found one anyway. Or rather the job hadfound him—compliments of the three people who should have known better than to try to resurrect the man he no longer had the stomach to be.
    Lying in a room that smelled of an incongruous mix of flowers and wealth and the oil he'd used to clean his gun, he thought of his older brothers, Ethan and Dallas, and his twin sister, Eve. For whatever reasons, they still believed in him. So did his mom and dad. Evidently, so did Darin Kincaid.
    Per Ethan, who called most of the shots at E.D.E.N. Security, Inc., the security firm he had taken over from their dad when he'd retired a few years ago, Kincaid had asked for Nolan's services specifically after he'd read that fricking newspaper feature and found out about his recent separation from the Rangers. Or so Ethan had said yesterday when he'd stormed onto the EDEN where she was moored at a slip on the Intracoastal Waterway a little north of West Palm.
    He'd thought everyone would leave him alone there. So much for what he'd thought.
    He scrubbed a hand over his jaw. Christ, was it just yesterday?
    He'd been waking by slow, painful degrees, nursing a hangover the size of a Black Hawk, when Ethan