Sure, the younger men could go for days on end without sleep and never have it catch up with them, and at some point during the last year or so he had lost that ability. And yes, this last assignment inSouth Americahad been a bitch. But, hell, it had been a hundred and ten fucking degrees with humidity to match. Even the daycare kids, as he sometimes thought of them, had gotten their asses kicked.

So, screw it. He could keep up with them any day of the week. Maybe lately he hadn't liked being in the field as much as he used to, but that was surely temporary. He was just a little discouraged over the way the last assignment had shaken out.

All he needed was a little R&R and he'd be back in fighting trim. He'd always seen himself in a recon unit right up until the day he mustered out of the service for good, and that's exactly what he planned to do until he had his twenty years in and was eligible for retirement.

How to get the brass off his back in the meantime was the question.

He realized, though, that there was no use worrying about it tonight. Flipping onto his side, he pounded the pillow into submission, and stuffed it under his head, only to have another subtle waft of fragrance rise to tease his nose. An image of Lily immediately popped to mind and this time refused to be dislodged.

She was such a little thing—he'd be surprised if she topped out at five-two. But inch for inch, pound for pound, she was pure sex on the hoof. It was more than the sum total of that froth of blonde hair, those blue eyes, and that golden skin. It was the way she moved and the sheer femaleness of her. It was the pheromones she exuded. And it was those curves.

Man, oh, man. Those curves .

She had what used to be referred to as an hourglass figure: round breasts, tiny waist, and full, lush hips. Like a top-of-the-line Cadillac, hers was a chassis designed for a smooth ride—a guy only had to take one look at it to get all sorts of ideas.

The wrong kind of ideas. Zach whipped the pillow out from under his head and hurled it across the room. He rolled onto his other side and pillowed his head on his biceps, swearing another blue streak beneath his breath when the scent he'd thought to rid himself of merely drifted up from the sheets instead. It had been a long couple of days, and he was beat—no doubt that was why he was feeling so susceptible.

But he didn't try to fool himself. Lily Morrisette was the type of woman who could tie a man's thoughts in knots without lifting so much as one single, dainty, rose-tipped finger. And that made her more dangerous than a field full of land mines.

So first thing in the morning, after he'd had a decent night's sleep and his brain was once again working at its usual brisk pace, he'd find a way to send her packing.

Chapter 2

LILY STOOD IN FRONT OF THE MIRRORED CLOSET door the next morning and studied her naked body. The longer she looked, the closer together her eyebrows inched. Who invented the full-length mirror, anyway? She'd lay odds on a man with a sadistic streak.

Okay, maybe that wasn't fair. Perhaps he was a perfectly nice fellow—one so moon-faced in love with his sylphlike wife that he'd invented the thing so she could admire her svelte and no doubt hipless body from head to toe whenever her little heart desired. Besides, it wasn't as if the reflection looking back at her was that bad. If she were seeing it strictly through her own eyes, in fact, she'd probably think, Not fabulous. Could definitely stand improvement. But, all in all, not bad for a thirty-five-year-old who's fond of food .

Unfortunately, her observation was tainted by the remembrance of Zach Taylor's cool gray eyes tracking over her, as well as the knowledge that he had clearly never had to sweat cellulite. Sucking in her stomach, standing as tall as she possibly could, she turned side to side, scowling at the not-much-improved-upon reflection. She was simply so darn… round .

Blowing out a breath, she studied the various components that comprised the whole. It wasn't all bad news. She liked her shoulders, and her arms had nice definition. She had good skin, and her breasts were fairly decent. They were a bit larger than she would've chosen had it been left up to her, but they weren't show-stopper huge, thank goodness. And they were still right up where they were supposed to be—there was something to be said for that.

That was the plus side of the ledger; then things got a little dicey. She was short-waisted and her hips and bottom were the bane of her existence, both being several inches fuller than she cared to contemplate, never mind acknowledge. And being only five feet, three inches tall (well, darn near—five-two and three-quarters, anyhow) her legs obviously weren't the kind that reached to heaven. Thank God for nicely squared shoulders or she'd look like one of those roly-poly punching-bag dolls that always popped right back up no matter how often one pushed the thing down.

And God bless, too, the benefit of cosmetics and all the other accoutrements of being a woman. Heck , she thought, as she reached for one of her favorite lingerie sets, everyone looks better in clothing, anyway . She stepped into the tiny electric-blue panties and pulled them into place, then shimmied her breasts into the lace demi-cups of its matching bra. She adjusted the straps and swept up a pair of freshly ironed designer jeans. Donning them, she then stepped into a pair of strappy, red spiked heels that added three and a half inches to her stature, and pulled a color-coordinated sleeveless V-necked tunic on over her head. She added a narrow gold chain belt over the slinky jersey material, made a few adjustments until she was satisfied with its loose drape between hip and waist, then stood back and nodded. The glitter of gold was always a welcome addition to any outfit, and the belt helped hint at her contours while maintaining the always stylish, straighter silhouette.

She sashayed into the bathroom and plugged in her hot rollers. While waiting for them to heat, she applied liquid foundation with a light hand, powdered her T zone, added a hint of blush to the apples of her cheeks, then carefully made up her eyes with neutral colors, all to achieve a luminous no-makeup look.

The light that indicated the rollers were ready blinked off a few minutes later, just as she was tossing her eyelash curler and mascara back into the vanity drawer. She threw a few rollers into her hair, brushed her teeth, applied a nice cheery, rosy lipstick, and took the rollers out. After waiting a sec to let her hair cool, she pulled a brush through it, then tossed the brush in the drawer, bent from the waist, and mussed her hair vigorously with both hands. Straightening, she tweaked the 'do here and there, then walked back into the bedroom. She stopped in front of the minor once again to give herself another appraisal.

"Much better," she murmured. "I swear, only the air-brushed look truly good stark naked."

Still, she mused as she made her way to the kitchen, it certainly wouldn't hurt to get back on the diet wagon. Perhaps she'd cut up a little fruit and limit herself to that for breakfast.

It was a worthy goal—and one that lasted until she opened the refrigerator a moment later and spied the full carton of eggs. She did get out an orange, but along with it retrieved two eggs, a large crimini mushroom, a green onion, and half a small tomato. She set them all on the counter next to the stove. Remembering there was a nice smokedGoudain the dairy drawer, she grabbed that, too, and cut off a small hunk. She drizzled olive oil into a frying pan, set the pan on the burner, and turned the gas on beneath it. As blue flames licked the rim of the pan's bottom, she broke the eggs into a bowl she'd grabbed out of the cupboard. Adding a splash of half-and-half and a dash of salt and pepper, she whipped them to a froth with a wire whisk, then set them aside to quickly chop the rest of the ingredients.

She adored good food. She loved everything about it: its scents, its tastes, its textures. Reverence for the world of edibles and everything that could be done with them had sent her first to a culinary academy straight out of high school, then through advanced training and a series of apprenticeships with some ofCalifornia's most prestigious chefs.

She hummed as she poured the egg mixture into the hot pan and evenly distributed the vegetables, tomato, and finely cubed cheese on top of it. While waiting for it to set up enough to fold, she set the table with a pretty plate, a linen napkin, and silverware. Then she made herself a cup of tea, cut two thin slices from the middle of the orange, and arranged them in decorative twists on either side of her plate. She ate the remainder leaning over the sink.

A few minutes later she slid the omelet onto her plate and sat down to her meal. For a moment she simply breathed in the aroma and appreciated the omelet's aesthetic appeal against the blue plate and orange garnish. Then she picked up her fork, sliced off a bite, and slipped it into her mouth. Her eyes slid closed. Oh, my. She did so love good food. There was never a time she didn't enjoy eating. Well, her appetite did disappear on those rare occasions when she was upset, but fortunately for her—or perhaps unfortunately, given the way everything that passed her lips seemed to settle directly on her hips—she was a natural-born optimist.

A condition that threatened to die a natural death when halfway through her omelet her neck began to tingle, and she looked up to see Zach lounging in the archway.

He stood with one big shoulder propped negligently against the stucco jamb, watching her with the oddest look on his face. Then in the blink of an eye, the indecipherable look disappeared, and he pushed away from the arch and sauntered into the kitchen. Stopping next to the table, he regarded her without favor. "You still here?"