Jump Start

They hadn’t been in love.

They’d been in lust, and she was all about lust in that moment. All about pleasure. For two weeks, he was here, the man who’d been the best sex of her life. She’d be a fool to run. She would enjoy him, and then she would say goodbye.

Starting with this kiss. The instant Jennifer’s mouth touched Bobby’s, he pulled her closer, taking her mouth, as if he feared she might change her mind. His mouth parted hers, intimately, full of demand. One of his hands tangled in her hair, the other slid up her back, pressing her close, molding her to all that delicious hard muscle. Her hands slid over his back as he pressed her against the car. Long, strong thighs entwined with hers.

Their kiss was…arousing. It made her thoughts spin and her heart race. Yet, still, he seemed unaffected, cool, confident, in control, with an edge that had always been Bobby and had only grown more frustratingly sexy with time and maturity.

“Peace offering,” he said, obviously offering so much more….

Dear Reader,

Welcome to the Hotzone—The Texas Hotzone—where three ex-members of the Crazy Aces Special Forces team have opened a skydiving operation right outside of my hometown of Austin, Texas.

Jump Start is book one in the trilogy, and it is a story about finding what you’ve lost. And no, I’m not talking about your car keys, but rather the key to your heart. Which consequently, in Jump Zone, is going to require a whole lot of seduction by the hero, Bobby Evans, because this key is buried deep. Of course, he gets help in the form of a combination bachelor/bachelorette party and a game of truth-or-dare. Read onward to find out if his heroine, Jennifer Jones, chooses the truth or the dare, and just how hot things have to get to find that key.

I hope you enjoy Jump Start, and look for book two, High Octane, in March. Please visit me at www.lisareneejones.com.

Enjoy!

Lisa Renee Jones

Jump Start

Lisa Renee Jones

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Lisa spends her days writing the dreams playing in her head. Before becoming a writer, Lisa lived the life of a corporate executive, often taking the red-eye flight out of town and flying home for the excitement of a Little League baseball game. Visit Lisa at www.lisareneejones.com.

Special thanks to Casey and Ethan Maxwell for helping with my military research. Janice, once again, for proofing and proofing and proofing again while living the deadlines with me. And Diego—for driving the U-Haul from NY to Colorado so I could write this trilogy.

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

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Epilogue

Prologue

QUICKSAND. That was what you called a mission that went from bad to worse with every maneuver you made.

Sergeant Bobby Evans sat inside a C-130 Hercules awaiting takeoff from the U.S. aircraft carrier Vincent with four of the twelve soldiers in his Special Ops team, “Crazy Aces.” It was a name they’d come by honestly, doing crazy things like today’s HALO, a high-altitude low-opening jump from thirty thousand feet. The mission was to extract the ten-year-old son of the newly elected American ally, Iraqi president Aban Kaleb Sadr, from Al Qaeda hostiles.

Free-falling at high altitudes came with risks, from unconsciousness to frostbite, but was necessary to stay off enemy radar. A HALO was a death-defying act that could give even veterans like the Aces a sense of quicksand, he supposed. But in seven years of Special Ops duty, and more than his share of HALOs, Bobby had seen quicksand only three times while a mission played out—and every one of those three times had been a bloodbath he’d have nightmares about the rest of his life.

Sitting next to Bobby, Mike Reynolds, the youngest of the Aces at twenty-eight, pulled out a picture of his fiancée, Jennifer, from beneath his jump jacket. “This is it, the last time I’m going to watch out for your sorry Texan asses,” he scoffed, referring to the roots that Bobby shared with Caleb Martin and “Cowboy” Ryan Walker, the two other Aces along for this ride with them. “I’m going home to damn good New York pizza and a hot woman. Adios muchachos.”

Both Bobby and Mike were up for reenlistment, and Bobby had no idea why he hadn’t signed, sealed and delivered his new contract. But Mike, lovesick puppy that he was, had already opted out. He was gone in two weeks and none of the Aces were complaining, but not because they didn’t love the guy like a blood brother—because they did. The Aces were tight. Family without the ancestry. But ever since Mike had met Jennifer six months ago on leave, he’d been operating with the wrong head in control.

And Bobby understood. He used to have his own Jennifer back home twisting his gut in knots. The irony of the shared name didn’t sit well with Bobby one bit. Not when his Jennifer had been, and always would be, the love of his life. The woman he would never forget, could never completely let go. The fact that a mutual, close friend’s upcoming wedding was stirring old feelings only brought that fact closer to light. He’d never stopped checking on his old flame, keeping up with her from a distance, but seeing her up-close and personal, facing what he’d left behind, wasn’t going to be easy.

“Put the flipping picture away and focus,” Bobby said sourly, that quicksand feeling sliding from his feet to his knees and threatening to climb. “I don’t want to ship you back to your woman in a body bag.”

Caleb sat beside Ryan, directly across from Bobby and Mike, his head against the wall, eyes shut. “I’d rather jump without a chute than be led around by my dick like you are,” he mumbled, lifting his head and casting Mike a damning, icy-blue look.

“You’re a dick,” Mike grumbled roughly, stuffing the picture back in his jacket.

“A happy-to-reenlist-and-be-single dick, at that,” Caleb agreed.

The engine roared to life, and Bobby flipped his headset on. The heavy thrum of engines filled the next twenty minutes until a buzzer sounded the ten-minute warning. Instantly all the men were on their feet, adjusting their equipment and preparing the oxygen masks they’d wear for their jump.

Ryan, Bobby’s closest friend, made his customary announcement in his headset. “Let’s go get ‘crazy,’ Aces.” His gaze shifted to Mike, as he added, “Soon you can be pussy-whipped all day and all night, and nobody but your woman is going to give you a hard time.”

Laughter erupted in Bobby’s ears, but there was a subtle tension lacing the air, and Bobby and Ryan shared a look. He felt the quicksand, too.

At the five-minute buzzer, all masks were in place and the doors slid open. Headsets were turned off. This would be a silent jump. They were ghosts, off radar, nonexistent to even their own government. All hands latched on to the rail on the ceiling as a wicked wind screamed a warning and then pounded against them with the force of being hit with a concrete slab.

The jump conditions were far from favorable, but neither were the Iraqi boy’s chances of making it through the night. At the one-minute buzzer, there was a final check of oxygen tanks and chutes in preparation for a jump that would end in a low chute pull that left no time for a backup if anything went wrong.

At exactly 0100, with the night as their cover, and a few mountainsides in view, Caleb saluted and exited the plane in a headfirst free fall. Ryan followed. As Mike started forward, Bobby shackled the younger Ace’s arm, for reasons he couldn’t explain. Instinct. Warning. He didn’t know. Bobby checked his chute. Then pointed to Mike’s chest and then his own before twisting two fingers together, telling him silently he would have his back.

Mike gave a nod, all jesting gone at this point. They did their jobs. They knew the risks and they took them seriously. The first few seconds of the jump were critical. The jumper had to claim control from the wind and find body position.

Mike jumped, and never got the chance at control. The wind gusted, smashing him against the plane. Suddenly, Mike was spiraling downward, his body out of position. Mike made no attempt at correction. He was either unconscious or paralyzed with panic. Either way, if Mike didn’t or couldn’t pull his chute, he’d be dead. There was no auto-pull for a HALO.

Bobby jumped after him, adrenaline rocketing through him, as he forced himself into the cool-under-fire mentality that would be a necessity if both he and Mike were going to survive this.

The wind beat at Bobby, but he worked through it, forced his position, and sent himself into a purposeful spiral. In twenty seconds, he came level with Mike and wrapped himself around him with a jolting collision of bodies. Mike didn’t react. He was out and Bobby didn’t have time to check for a pulse. They were thirty seconds from pull, which was only twelve hundred feet before the ground, and Bobby’s heart was thundering like that plane engine. One chute wouldn’t hold them both. He had to pull Mike’s and get away fast enough to pull his own. A near impossibility.

Struggling, Bobby tried to right their body positions, but Mike was dead weight. Somehow, he found a feet-first position, when Mike suddenly jerked and came awake, his eyes meeting Bobby’s. Bobby breathed a sigh of relief, as he shoved away from Mike. He had pulled his chute and was under canopy in seconds and so was Mike. But that quicksand kept coming.

Gunfire splattered across the terrain as Bobby’s feet hit the ground, and he instantly separated himself from his chute, dumped his oxygen tank and mask, dropping low to the ground. Mike was facedown and unmoving a foot away, and Bobby silently cursed. More gunfire chattered a deadly song nearby. Blessed returning fire followed. Ryan and Caleb were ground level, and they had his back.

Their landing zone positioned the Aces three kilometers from the enemy’s camp, which sat nestled inside a mountain range, and that enemy now knew they were here. So much for a surprise attack, but they would improvise. The Aces always did. If Sadr’s son was alive, they’d get him out of here.

Surrounded by mountains that could easily conceal shooters, Bobby felt like a sitting duck. He scrambled toward Mike. That twist of dread he’d felt in the plane returned, now more like a sharp slice of a knife.

Quickly, Bobby detached Mike’s equipment, going cold in the hot night as stickiness brushed his fingers. He kept moving. Mike would survive. He’d make him survive.

His best option was dragging Mike, staying low, though carrying him would be faster. It would also make them one big bull’s-eye target. Bobby started moving and gained assistance from Ryan. Caleb took up a position above them, holding off the enemy the best he could.

They were under heavy fire by the time Bobby and Ryan had Mike hidden behind the steep rock of the towering mountainside they’d landed nearby. Flipping him over, Ryan shined a light on Mike. Blood seeped from a cut in his head and a bullet wound in his upper chest. That quicksand that had been waiting for Bobby swallowed them up right then and there. He held his breath and felt for a pulse. Relief washed over him as he found a weak one. Mike wasn’t dead…yet. There was no help until extraction. Bobby made fast work of tying off the wound the best he could, with the limited medic supplies in his vest. When he was done, Bobby’s and Ryan’s eyes collided through the shadowy night as they united in the only emotion they could afford in the middle of enemy territory. Anger over Mike’s injuries. That he might die when he was about to go home for good. He couldn’t die. And both of them wanted some Al Qaeda ass and they wanted it now.

Suddenly Caleb appeared, sliding down the mountainside, machine gun in hand, gunfire echoing in the funnel of sweltering August heat. “We have to move! Now!” He looked at Mike and cursed.

“Go!” Bobby ordered Ryan. “Get out of here!”

Ryan hesitated only a split second before he was in action, already firing his weapon. Bobby dragged Mike to a dark corner, under a ledge where he’d leave him until backup arrived, though it was killing him to think about walking away, if only for a brief time.

Task completed, Bobby reached inside Mike’s flight suit and grabbed the picture of Jennifer, shoving it into his pocket. “I’ll tell her what a lovesick pup you were, Mike,” he vowed, just in case the unthinkable happened, and Mike didn’t make it, an idea that instantly soured his stomach, delivering a hard revelation. Bobby knew why he hadn’t signed those reenlistment papers. This wasn’t the life you asked any woman to endure, not fairly. And Mike wasn’t the only one with someone back home.

Bobby pushed to his feet and drew his weapons, resolve forming. The sooner he completed this mission, the more chance Mike had of survival. Mike wouldn’t die and this mission wouldn’t be for nothing. The Aces were going to rescue that captive little boy and return him home safely, Mike along with him. And then Bobby had a Jennifer of his own to go see.

1

“BOBBY’S COMING into town for the wedding.”

Jennifer Jones’s frothy, ruby-red daiquiri froze an inch from her lips, as she blinked at the bartender, her best friend, Marcie Allen, the red-haired, feisty bride-to-be herself. An onslaught of nerves assaulted her stomach as that name “Bobby” sliced through the air of the Tavern—the Austin, Texas, bar Marcie’s fiancé owned. The painful taunt had her heart drumming like a rock concert in her ears and a lock of blond hair floated across her face, appropriately mimicking the disarray that Bobby had left her heart in seven years ago.

He’d enlisted in the Army and shipped off without so much as a word of real explanation. Left her with nothing but a Dr. Jen letter. Oh, good grief. Dear Jen. “Joining Army. Better this way. Be happy.” Nothing else. Not even an “I love you.” Just thinking about the man scrambled her brain cells. Even her parents had been devastated over the loss of Bobby. They’d loved him like a son. Jennifer had loved him. Had, she reminded herself.

Jennifer set the drink down on the marble-slabbed bar that separated her from Marcie, but not without a loud clunk that slopped the icy concoction over the sides. “What did you say?” she managed in a froglike croak, sickly and pathetic.

Marcie simply stood there, looking pale and kind of pathetically like Jennifer’s croak moments before. Willie Nelson filled in for her, singing some sad Texas song that added insult to injury after the bad joke. Right. Bad joke! Nervous laughter bubbled from Jennifer’s throat, and she picked up her drink again.

Marcie was a great many things. A true friend, proven from the day they’d met at age eleven, twenty years ago on the school bus. Jennifer had tripped and busted her lip in front of the hottest guy at Burnet Junior High. The hottie had bubbled over with loud laughter, and the crowd had joined in. Marcie to the rescue, she’d smack-talked the jerk into shame, and turned the joke on him. Yes. Marcie was a friend. What Marcie was not…was funny. She’d never had that comedic timing thing so many people had.

“Bad joke, Marcie,” she said, so relieved she couldn’t even be angry. She’d kill Marcie after she finished her rare, but much-needed, alcoholic beverage. She sipped delicately before adding, “And this is not the way to get me into that lime-green dress you want me to wear.”

Marcie’s hazel eyes glistened with trepidation. Recognizing the source of that trepidation as having nothing to do with her comment about the dress, and everything to do with Bobby, dread twisted in Jennifer’s stomach.

“Please,” Jennifer said, her hand shaking as she set the drink down again. “Tell me you’re joking. Tell me Bobby is not coming to the wedding.” Just his name seemed to vibrate through every one of her five foot five inches.

“I wouldn’t joke about Bobby,” Marcie said, suddenly not only finding her voice, but her feisty redheaded attitude. “And the dress isn’t lime. It’s yellow-green, the color of communicative healing in meditation, which is how I want my relationship to be and why I’m happy Bobby is coming. You need to heal. To deal with Bobby once and for all.”

Emotions assailed Jennifer, a whirlwind of memories wrapped in prickly thorn-covered roses. “I do not need to heal!” She’d moved on seven years ago when Bobby had. She’d followed her dream, gone to vet school, and opened a small Hill Country office, albeit settling for a condo, not the cottage by Lake Travis she and Bobby had wanted. Instead her parents had sold their pet shop franchise and bought a lake house. Which she visited. Which was enough. She liked her condo. She liked her life.

“You don’t even date,” Marcie said.

“I date!” Okay. Not recently. But a girl could only take so many Nightmare on Elm Street, bad nights out. She pursed her lips, allowing anger and indignation to wipe away the Bobby memories blasting through her brain. “I can’t believe he has the nerve to show up here after being gone for all this time.” She paused for a heartbeat, and made an irritated sound. “Like he gives a damn or something.”

“He does care,” Marcie said. “I need you to know I’ve been communicating with him.”

Marcie might as well have dropped a sledgehammer on the bar because that admission shook Jennifer so deeply it darn near rattled her teeth. “You’ve been communicating with Bobby and didn’t tell me.” It wasn’t even a question. It was stunned disbelief.

The “feist” in Marcie’s feisty faded. “Yes,” she said softly.

“How long?”

“Several years now,” Marcie said, dropping her bombshell.

Had her heart stopped beating? Had the room gone utterly silent? “For several years?”

“He does care,” Marcie repeated. And then, softening her voice, she added, “He worries about you.”

Jennifer stared at her. Then she looked away, arms folding in front of her, memories refusing to be shoved away. Even after all these years, she could remember their first kiss as if it was yesterday. Bobby had moved from San Antonio, and like herself, was attending the University of Texas in Austin, or they might never have met. They’d met on the university campus—Jennifer walking her golden retriever, Bobby walking his German shepherd. The dogs had become fast friends; she and Bobby had become fast lovers. Her fingers raised to her mouth, remembering their first kiss, then dropped with that bittersweet memory.

The sound of snapping pulled her out of her reverie. “Hello?” Marcie said, fingers in front of her face.

Shaking herself mentally, Jennifer refocused on Marcie. Bobby had become like a big brother to Marcie; they were close. Of course they talked. Jennifer didn’t want to be selfish—that Marcie felt she had to hide her relationship with Bobby said she had been.

“I’m sorry,” Jennifer said, meaning it. “This is your wedding and if you want him here, you deserve to have him here. And I’ll wear the yellow-green dress with a smile.” Just don’t press me to deal with Bobby, she pleaded silently.

Marcie seemed to read between the lines, a look of understanding sliding across her face. “Thank you, Jen,” she murmured.

Reaching across the bar, Jen squeezed Marcie’s arm and plastered on a bright smile that didn’t quite make it to her eyes. “Two short weeks and you’ll be a married woman.”

Marcie all but glowed as she glanced across the crowded room to where Mark Snyder, her fiancé, chatted with a table of customers. Mark and Marcie, the two M’s, often joked about. The two lovers. “Yeah,” Marcie said in the midst of a dreamy sigh.

Mark looked up as if he felt Marcie’s eyes on him and then motioned for her to join him. Obediently, Marcie darted from behind the bar. Jennifer sighed in relief, happy to have a few minutes alone.

Grabbing her purse, she decided she’d go freshen up. A little mascara, a dab of powder, and she would have a new mind-set. Her plan intact, she swiveled around on the bar stool and started to slide off.

The minute her feet hit the wood floor, she was stopped dead in her tracks as she crashed into a rock-hard chest. She stood stunned for a long moment as strong hands, familiar and warm, settled on her arms and sent an electric charge pinging around inside her, awareness instant, hot. Her body knew what her mind desperately burned to reject. Bobby Evans was standing in front of her. Touching her. The scent of him, rawly male, intensely masculine, and so damn arousing, insinuated into her senses. Seeped through to her bones.

Slowly, her eyes traveled upward, taking in his towering six-foot-three frame—first sliding over denim-clad hips, then a soft black tee, a broad defined chest and finally his longish, fair hair that framed intense blue eyes. Those eyes now connected with hers. The impact was nothing shy of a head-on, steam-engine collision. Hot and hard. Just like his body and their sex life.

He was older now, a man fully developed and now thirty. Time had served him well; he was bigger, broader and even more appealing than before—tanned with fine lines around his eyes that spoke of experience, depth. And a life she hadn’t been a part of.

“Hey, Jen.” His voice was a deep baritone; his tone, intimate. Familiar. The same tone he’d used when he’d whispered naughty things in her ear during lovemaking.

She swallowed a sudden tickle in her throat. The things she had done with Bobby were, well…beyond pleasure. They were downright delicious. The man had a way of stripping away inhibitions and leaving nothing but the two of them, alone in the world. But that was then, and this was now.

“Bobby?” she asked, as if she were surprised. Well, she was, actually—surprised, that was. Which was something she’d be taking up with Marcie, wedding or not.

“You look good, Jen,” he said, in an embarrassing reminder that she had on her softest, most worn Levi’s and a pink T-shirt that said I love my cat, and that was about it. No jewelry. Not even fancy shoes.

It was that kind of day. A Thursday she wouldn’t soon forget. She’d put down a dog that morning, one she’d treated for years, and watched the owner bawl like a baby. Exactly why she’d been anticipating this daiquiri and some laughs. But she’d made it through that, and she would make it through seeing Bobby again.

Marcie was right. She needed to heal. She needed to put Bobby behind her, once and for all. New beginnings were upon them. Jennifer straightened.

“You do, too,” she said, managing a cool edge to her tone despite the tiny quaver, not quite suppressed. His hands still rested on her arms, making her skin tingle. She would have stepped away from him, but the bar stool was behind her and, besides, she wasn’t going to run. Or hide. Or let him believe she couldn’t deal with him being around her. She was an adult. She could deal. Casually, she added, “I’m surprised you’re here so soon. I thought you would arrive closer to the wedding.” The big day was a full two weeks away.

“Better early than late,” he said, his hands dropping from her arms, leaving goose bumps in their wake. He offered nothing more in his answer, and she asked nothing more in return. They just stood there. Staring at one another. Close. Too close.

What did he see when he stared at her? Was she what he remembered? More? Less? She told herself that what he saw mattered about as much as the peanuts on the counter. A lie she swore to make truth. But his gaze slipped to her lips, and she knew he was thinking about kissing her. She was thinking about kissing him, too, and hated herself for that weakness. It would be so easy to lean in close to him, to lift to her toes, to see if their kiss still tasted of wildfire and passion. The temptation rippled through her with such demand, she wanted to scream. And yes—run.