Blazing Bedtime Stories, Volume VII: The Steadfast Hot SoldierWild Thing Read online

  It’s bedtime—and bestselling authors Rhonda Nelson and Tawny Weber have two deliciously wicked tales to tell you...

  The Steadfast Hot Soldier by Rhonda Nelson

  Army ranger Tucker “Bear” Midwinter has two rules when it comes to the ladies—no tiny women, and no dancers. So why does petite ballet teacher Veda Hayes turn his blood into liquid fire? Still, the heat between them won’t be denied. Will this soldier melt...or burn up?

  Wild Thing by Tawny Weber

  Compared to her beautiful siblings, groomer Andrea Tanner always felt like an ugly stepsister. But when she’s left tied up and fuming, her prize pooch, Medusa, stolen, Andrea can’t help hoping her prince will come. And he does. Hunky P.I. Percy Graham arrives in time to save the day—and to remind her that he hasn’t forgotten the naughty night they once shared....

  Look what people are saying about these talented authors…

  Rhonda Nelson

  “A home-run read. No filler here, just straight charm, chemistry and sex, all wrapped up and delivered with a bow.”

  —RT Book Reviews on Merry Christmas, Baby

  “Well plotted and wickedly sexy, this one’s got it all—including a completely scrumptious hero. A keeper.”

  —RT Book Reviews on The Ranger

  “Totally entertaining, emotionally satisfying and very sexy, this is a super-strong book!”

  —RT Book Reviews on Blazing Bedtime Stories

  Tawny Weber

  “Forget the hot chocolate, the wool socks and the space heater—Tawny Weber’s Sex, Lies and Mistletoe will keep you plenty warm this season!”

  —USA TODAY

  “A sexy, sizzling, oh my God!, laugh out loud read. A must add to your Christmas romance book reading list.”

  —Romancing the Rakes about Sex, Lies and Mistletoe

  “This is definitely not a story for the prim and proper.”

  —Top Romance Novels regarding Breaking the Rules

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  A Waldenbooks bestselling author, two-time RITA® Award nominee, RT Book Reviews Reviewers’ Choice nominee and National Readers’ Choice Award winner, Rhonda Nelson has more than thirty-five published books to her credit and many more coming down the pike. Rhonda 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.

  Avid reader, neurotic writer and die-hard shoe fanatic, Tawny Weber has been writing sassy, sexy stories for Harlequin Blaze since her first book hit the shelves in 2007. When not obsessing over deadlines, she’s watching Johnny Depp movies, scrapbooking or hanging out on Facebook and Twitter. Come by and visit her on the web at www.tawnyweber.com.

  Rhonda Nelson

  Tawny Weber

  BLAZING BEDTIME STORIES,

  VOLUME VII

  RHONDA NELSON

  The Steadfast Hot Soldier

  For Brenda, rock star editor extraordinaire, who always knows how to get the best out of me, and for Tawny, my incredibly talented and cool book-mate. Y’all are awesome.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  1

  MAJOR JOHN “BEAR” MIDWINTER saw the Hydrangea, Mississippi, city limits sign swiftly approaching and thought the Seventh Circle of Hell might be a better name. His lips twitched with a pale effort at humor.

  He supposed it didn’t have the same cachet.

  Hydrangea sounded picturesque, quaint and homey, and he supposed, to most of the residents who lived here—or ever had, for that matter—that’s exactly the kind of town it was. He grimaced.

  His fondest memory of Hydrangea, however, was leaving it.

  True to its flowery namesake, dozens of multicolored blooms spilled off the bushes along either side of the road and, though he hadn’t been near the town square in years, he knew the snowball-size flowers would be planted all around the white gazebo in its center. They’d be hanging from the lampposts in fancy planters, coaxed up trellises and displayed in wreaths on storefront doors. As a boy he’d ridden his bike on the sidewalks, stopped for strawberry milk shakes at Malone’s Diner and sweet-talked chocolate stars from Ella Johnston, who ran the candy counter at the dry goods store.

  It wasn’t that he didn’t have any good memories of Hydrangea—he did. But they had been few and far between.

  As a U.S. Army Ranger and part of a Special Forces unit that specialized in hand-to-hand combat, Bear knew a thousand different ways to incapacitate, wound or kill an opponent. He could size up an adversary in the blink of an eye then isolate a weakness and use it to his advantage in another blink. He was supremely confident in his abilities. Some men, he’d been taught, were natural warriors and between his size—which was notable—and inherent skill, he knew he fell into that category. He was good at his job, confident in his ability to carry out his duties for Uncle Sam. He frowned.

  But the duty he was facing here was another matter altogether.

  Could he competently ready his mother’s dance studio and apartment for the impending sale? Certainly. He wasn’t a carpenter, but knew his way around a hammer well enough to handle the repairs. The better question—the one that had been circling the brain drain for weeks now—was why in the hell had he agreed to do them? What on earth had possessed him to agree to help her? Despite the fact that she was his mother, he certainly didn’t owe her anything.

  Duty, Bear thought. It was a bitch to shake, deserved or not.

  Celeste Midwinter’s parenting style had been more Mommy Dearest than June Cleaver. The day he’d walked out her door to go to college had been one of the happiest in his life. Until he’d moved out, there hadn’t been a single day in his memory that she hadn’t reminded him of how he’d ruined her life, ruined her body, ruined her career. A gifted ballet dancer, his mother had been living in New York, on the verge of stardom when she’d gotten pregnant with him. Her strict Catholic upbringing hadn’t prevented her from having premarital sex, but it had kept her from aborting him.

  He knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she regretted it. He’d heard it from her own lips.

  So why was he here? Why wasn’t he using his leave to go on a real much-deserved vacation? Why hadn’t he booked a trip to the beach? Taken a short cruise? Gone to Jamaica with his friends?

  Other than some misguided sense of misplaced duty—there it was again, his downfall—and an odd, unexplainable expectation, he didn’t have any idea.

  He supposed, to some degree, he felt sorry for her. When her dancing career had ended and no help from his father had been forthcoming—Bear didn’t even know the man’s name and had certainly never met him—Celeste had literally thrown a dart at the map and relocated. Her family had disowned her as a result of the pregnancy, so she’d had no one to turn to, in what he knew had to be a very difficult time. She’d survived. She’d worked hard, built the studio up and into a business that had supported them and for that reason alone, if for no other, he hadn’t been able to say no. His mother was hard, and whatever negligible maternal instincts she might have possessed had been poisoned by bitterness. But at the end of the day…she was the only family he had.

  Who knew? Bear thought. Perhaps they’d be abl
e to repair some of the damage over the next few days. He’d seen her less than half a dozen times over the last dozen years. He was certainly a different person. It was possible that she could be, too. That maybe, with age, had come a heavy dose of wisdom and a little bit of regret.

  Bear made the turn onto Main Street, noting the signs for the Fried Festival—which elicited a snort and a smile—and followed the street to the town square. The place was exactly as he’d remembered it, as though it would forever be locked in a Norman Rockwell time warp. Other than new paint and a couple of new businesses he didn’t recognize, the hub of Hydrangea was recognizably the same. He nodded to a couple of men who were busy setting up tables—in preparation for the festival, he imagined—and continued on. He made the circle, slowing as he passed the dance studio, before exiting via Daffodil Street to the back entrance.

  Though savvy Realtors had come in and developed trendy studio apartments above many of the businesses around the square, his mother had done it out of necessity. She hadn’t been able to afford both the business and a house, so she’d outfitted the studio first, then renovated the upstairs living quarters as money had permitted. The result had been an artist’s den of sorts, with walls that didn’t go all the way to the ceiling and lots of vintage treasures mined from yard sales and the Salvation Army. It had suited her, though, Bear thought now, but the place had always made him feel like a mismatched accessory.

  He pulled up next to his mother’s car and noted the open trunk with a sense of dread, then slid out from behind the wheel. Seconds later his mother dragged an enormous suitcase onto the balcony and waved impatiently at him.

  “Finally,” she said with a heavy dose of exasperation. “I was afraid I was going to miss you altogether.”

  Miss him? The dread bloomed into disbelief.

  She started down the steps, awkwardly hauling the suitcase behind her. Impeccably dressed as always, she wore a blue linen pantsuit, ballet flats and a jaunty little beret. Pearl studs glowed from her ears and a small gold crucifix, the one she always wore, was nestled against her chest. “My flight leaves in three hours. It’s international, which means I have to be there two hours early and it’s a forty-five-minute drive. You know how I detest being late,” she said, finally arriving at the bottom of the stairs. She stopped and looked up at him, then gestured to the bag. “Can you be a darling and pop this in the trunk for me?”

  An international flight? She was leaving? Now?

  He felt a disbelieving smile slide over his lips and gave himself a mental shake. This was his mother. Of course, she was leaving. So much for a new start, Bear thought as he stowed her bag and closed the lid.

  “Where are you going?” he asked, his tone as conversational as if he was merely inquiring about the weather.

  “To Paris,” she said. “It’s a retirement gift to myself.” She glanced back at the house and studio. “I can’t bear the idea of being around while you finish everything up. I’ve spent thirty-one years of my life here,” she said. “I know this chapter is closing, but it’s still tough, still going to take some getting used to.”

  And what better way to get used to it than by going to Paris? Bear thought. Especially when he’d be there to make sure that the repairs the new owner requested were done.

  The brief brush with nostalgia complete, his mother released a resolute sigh. “The Salvation Army is coming to pick up the rest of the stuff left inside on Saturday afternoon,” she said, “but if you find anything you think I might have put in by mistake, you can send it to my new address.”

  “You bought the house on Lilac Street?” She’d emailed a picture to him last month to see what he thought. The caption had read A Real Front Porch!

  His mother pulled a piece of paper from her purse and handed it to him. “No,” she said. “I bought a place in Charleston. A quaint little craftsman near the water.”

  He wouldn’t give her the benefit of his surprise. “Charleston?”

  She smiled at him as though she were merely sharing news with a passing acquaintance and not her son. “I’m going to sip mint juleps and join hoity-toity book clubs, go to estate sales and try my hand at painting. It’s my turn,” she said, as though her entire life hadn’t been her turn. He could feel the old familiar irritation taking hold and redoubled his efforts to keep it in check. “I’ve left a list of the contracted repairs upstairs,” she told him. “Please confer with Veda as you do them and make sure that everything is to her liking.” She grimaced. “Naturally, I can’t afford for the sale to fall through now.”

  And with the money she was saving on hiring a contractor, she could no doubt afford her trip to Paris. Sheesh. He was such a fool.

  Veda? Why did that name sound familiar? He had a sudden memory of long golden hair and determined green eyes, skinned knees and a tattered tutu. Something in his chest gave a little squeeze and his heart inexplicably skipped a beat. Tiny Dancer? Tiny Dancer was the former student who had bought the studio? How old had she been when he left? Bear wondered. Twelve? Thirteen? She’d been young, he knew that. And so, so small. His nickname for her hadn’t been the least bit original, but she’d gotten a kick out of it. He remembered his mother being exceptionally hard on Veda and when he’d asked her about it, she’d said she was only hard on the ones who had promise.

  So what had happened to the promising young ballerina? Bear wondered. A husband and family most likely and, for whatever reason, the thought depressed him.

  His mother glanced at her watch, then winced dramatically. “Goodness, I’d better get going. You have my cell phone number if you need me.” She offered her cheek for a kiss, then smiled up at him. “We’ll have a proper visit next time, yes? You would have been much too busy to be good company this time.”

  Yes, busy helping her. He gritted his teeth at his own stupidity. If there was a moron award, he would no doubt get it.

  Rather than wait for his reply, she slid into her car and backed into the street, waving breezily as she pulled away. A bark of dry laughter erupted from his throat before he could stop it.

  And that, ladies and gentleman, was his mother.

  2

  VEDA HAYES HAD TOLD HERSELF that her recollections of Bear Midwinter’s size were skewed from childhood memories, that he couldn’t possibly be as large and intimidating as she remembered.

  She’d been wrong.

  From her vantage point in what would be her new home as soon as Bear finished the renovations, she could tell that he was not only bigger than she’d remembered, but he was also better-looking, as well.

  Mercy.

  There was simply…so much of him.

  Bear was the wrong nickname, Veda thought as she watched him pick up his mother’s giant suitcase and heave it into the trunk with utter ease. He was Atlas, she decided, imagining he was more than capable of holding up the earth. Those shoulders were a work of art within themselves. Combined with the imposing height, the perfectly proportioned, expertly muscled limbs and the sheer magnificence of his body, he was a walking, living, breathing Greek statue. From a strictly aesthetical viewpoint, she knew that he’d be beautiful naked.

  Regrettably, that knowledge elicited a purely visceral reaction.

  Cut high and tight in the traditional military manner, his hair was a burnished tawny gold and, were it not so short, she knew it would curl around his ears. High cheekbones carved intriguing hollows above the line of his angular jaw, creating the perfect palette for the dimples that appeared on each side of his mouth when he smiled.

  He was smiling now, but even from this distance, she could see that he wasn’t amused. It was an I-should-have-known grin, but had the same effect nonetheless. That smile did something funny to her insides, made them simultaneously tingle and melt. It was a familiar sensation where he was concerned.

  There was something so innately thrilling about a man that large—that masculine—and it spoke to her on a purely base, physical level. It was a cavewoman gene she hadn’t realized she’d pos
sessed until she’d seen him again. She watched him scan the area around him, the careful way he held himself—not still, but steady—and, instinctively knew he’d cataloged every car in the lot, every entrance and exit on the back of the building, and had better familiarized himself with his immediate surroundings than she’d done after weeks of being back home. He was every inch the soldier, and that knowledge sent a little thrill through her.

  As a young girl at On Your Toes dance studio, she’d been in utter awe of the teenaged son of her dance instructor. Bear had been smart and handsome and cool and most of the students had had a severe crush on him. Had you asked her twelve-year-old self, Veda would have found the word crush to be completely inadequate when it came to describing her feelings for Bear. She smiled, remembering. She would have insisted that she loved him, that they were soul mates, that he’d held her tender heart in the palm of his giant hand and that someday he was going to long for her as much as she’d pined for him.

  Then he’d left for college and she’d been devastated.

  Funny how one never fully got over a first heartbreak. The fissure might heal, but the pain of nostalgia was always waiting in the wings, ready to throb anew when the least little bit of memory was prodded. Just looking at him now, all these years and countless breakups later, she could feel the tightness in her chest, a flutter of nervous anticipation in her belly, the hot zing of attraction pumping through her veins.

  From the moment her father had told her that Bear would be coming back to town to help his mother ready the place for sale, Veda had been locked in a state of nervous anticipation, a litany of what-might-have-beens playing in continuous circle through her head. It was ridiculous, really. She was an adult, ostensibly one who had a grasp on her emotions and yet that same familiar feeling of longing had risen up like Lazarus from the dead the instant she’d known she was going to see him again.