Page 2 of Winter’s Fire

With a final burst of vitriolic thought, Lucy turned away from the door, finding some small comfort in dreaming up a suitable revenge for the notions he inspired that had nothing whatsoever to do with work.

“Oh, yes, Mr. Simmonds.” The words came out as a low mutter. In the darkest recesses of her lurid imagination, ideas were forming that would terrify the average male. “If I had my way, I’d take your balls and slice them off with a blunt knife—a very blunt knife, the bluntest one I could find.”

“Hey, Luce, how’s it going?”

Lucy threw a look over her shoulder. She hadn’t heard the door open again. The voice that startled her belonged to the unit’s only female field officer—Sir Guy’s niece, and Lucy’s professional role model.

“It’s going very well, Miss Edwards, thank you for asking. I can’t believe I’ve been here four months already. Sir Guy said you were to go right in.”

“Thanks—and it’s Ros, Lucy. Remember? ‘Miss Edwards’ would be my spinster aunt… if I had one.”

Lucy watched Ros knock on the door to her uncle’s inner sanctum and disappear inside. Whatever he’d wanted to see her for, it must have been connected with Dr. Simon Northwood, who’d arrived a few minutes ago, escorted by Simmonds.

That was one bonus about this job, Lucy reflected—the serious amount of male eye candy that surrounded her every day. Dr. Northwood was only a visitor, of course, but leaving him aside, most of the men under Sir Guy Somerton’s command were abominably good-looking.

Even Logan Simmonds, in an utterly hot, Hades-god-of-the-underworld sort of way.

What was it about the ebony-black hair, and the blue eyes framed with dark lashes that no amount of mascara could emulate? The strong jawline, and the five o’clock shadow it sported no matter what time of day she had the misfortune to see him, only served to heighten the impact of the man.

Lucy gave a small sigh of defeat. He was undoubtedly sex on a stick. With her siblings all serving in the British armed forces, Lucy was well acquainted with the specification for a physically fit man. Without a doubt, Logan Simmonds not only met that specification, but surpassed it. Then again, he was a former Royal Marines Commando, and with two of her brothers being members of the same branch, she was keenly aware of their almost institutional dedication to maintaining peak fitness.

Come to think of it, the only material difference between the three men was in the length of their hair. Ben and James followed regulations, but Logan’s hair tended to scuff the collar of his shirt. Still short by civilian standards, it was thick and glossy, and Lucy could understand how some women might lust after running their fingers through it.

She squared her shoulders. Some women did not include her—unless some stabbing of fingers were involved. In Logan’s case, she could do stabbing. Her ex, as well. Thanks to that repulsive specimen, Lucy was off men for the foreseeable future, no matter how attractive they might be, hence the neglected lady parts. Without the distraction of a man under her feet, when she’d heard about the imminent retirement of Sir Guy Somerton’s PA, she’d been able to focus her full attention on securing the role for herself.

Her brothers had planted that particular seed, with their talk about the elite squad and their aspirations to join it once their military service was complete. The stories they’d told had fired her imagination, to the point where she’d finally recognised what she wanted for a career.

And if she was going to succeed, she’d realised she’d have to be creative about it. Military service was the normal method of entry—since she hadn’t followed her siblings into the forces, she’d approached the matter from a different angle. Armed with a raft of killer admin skills gained from a variety of jobs, she’d jumped at the chance to apply for the position of Sir Guy’s assistant. A few days after the interview, she’d been thrilled to receive the job offer.

Now all she had to do was watch out for an opportunity to prove her potential as a field officer to her boss. There had to be some way to convince him that what she had to offer could mitigate her lack of military experience.

It wasn’t as if she didn’t have the skills—some of them, at any rate.

James had taught her everything he knew about firearms, which, given his role as a sniper with the Royal Marines, was not inconsiderable. Not only had he taught her how and when to shoot, but all aspects of gun care, too.

Sam’s contribution, as a fully-fledged emergency medical technician with the Royal Navy, had been a comprehensive knowledge of front-line first aid.

Although she’d learned martial arts from a qualified instructor from an early age, Ben, her second oldest brother, had taught her how to fight for real. “In a life-or-death situation, you don’t give a flying fuck about observing the niceties” was his blunt way of putting it.

That left Adam, the oldest, biggest and baddest of her siblings, and a warrant officer in the Army. He’d taken the physical fitness she’d acquired from her dance classes and honed it to military standards, by way of excruciating torture. After all, why confine exercise to a warm, dry gym, when the alternative was long-distance, cross-country runs in all weathers, and using logs and old tyres to build strength and muscle tone?

Lucy wasn’t about to let a lack of military service get in the way of achieving her ambition. She was a fast learner, and she had faith in her ability, and her arse in the seat as Sir Guy’s assistant.

Surely fate wouldn’t be so perverse as to let her get this close, only to deny her at the last hurdle?

Chapter 2

Logan signed the Bentley’s keys back in at the departmental garage and heaved a sigh of relief. He’d just returned from driving Dr. Northwood back to his mausoleum of a house. With the hours he spent at the office, the genius was a goddamn workaholic. And at eight in the morning, Logan would be there, ready to do it all again.

Back in his leathers and carrying his helmet, Logan headed for his motorcycle. The hog was his pride and joy—one of them, at any rate. At this time of night, and on two wheels instead of four, he’d be home within twenty minutes, and relaxing with a beer and food inside forty. He was in the mood for a Chinese, or maybe something with a bit more of a kick to it, like a vindaloo or a madras.

Thinking of curry reminded him of his lucky escape. By the narrowest of margins, but one he’d take in any life-or-death situation, he’d avoided having his arse dragged into tomorrow night’s team-building shit.

Karaoke—what the fuck was that about?

A loner by need and nature, all that soft-skills crap left Logan cold. Colder than cold. Freeze-your-bollocks-off-on-Arctic-manoeuvres fucking cold. What he needed was a session at Aegis, but that wasn’t about to happen. Until he ditched the walking brain, recreational activities like that were off the agenda.

He needed something to burn up the restlessness caused by a day of doing what felt like fuck-all. Shit thing was, thanks to the unit medic, he couldn’t even work it off with weights in the gym. Not until he’d been signed fit for full, normal duty.