LITMIR.BIZ

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declared, then stopped abruptly, shocked at what she’d just said. Where had that come from? Feeling heat crawl into her face, she stammered, “I—I believe in you. You’re a Marine Corps officer and we get the best training in the world, especially for difficult and changing situational operations.” She saw his eyes glimmer at her praise, and it made her feel good.

      They continued toward the hotel, and silence fell between them as they surveyed the devastation. Dozens of palm trees lay scattered all around them. The once beautiful Spanish-tile entrance to the Hoyt was gone; there was nothing more than concrete, shattered glass and twisted steel visible now. Though neither of them said it, Callie knew many lives had been lost here. Because the Hoyt was a landmark building, once a gathering place for Hollywood stars, it was always filled to capacity, especially on New Year’s Eve. The Hoyt threw one of the grandest, most publicized New Year’s parties in California. Anyone who was famous was here for it. Callie stopped herself from thinking any further than that.

      When Wes reached the blue, dusty SUV, he used the arm of his coat to wipe off the hood. Dust and rubble flew in all directions. He laid the maps down and unrolled them. Dawn was upon them and the growing light made it easier to read the blueprints.

      Looking around him, Wes picked up small pieces of asphalt and placed them on the corners of his maps to keep them flat on the hood of the vehicle. Only then did he notice that Callie was too short to read them.

      “Hop up on the bumper here,” he said to her, half in jest, “so you can draw your grid. This is the blueprint of the hotel. It doesn’t look like it used to, but you can still work out the parameters so you can begin your search.” He handed her a black felt-tip pen.

      “Okay, hold on. Let me get my safety gear on.” She gave Dusty a hand gesture and the dog sat down. Then she placed a bright-red vest that said RESCUE in bold yellow letters on the front and back. It was actually a flak jacket. If she fell on sharpened objects in the rubble, the jacket would protect her from being pierced and possibly killed. The familiar chafing and weight actually felt good to her as she used the Velcro tabs to close it snugly around her torso.

      The bright-orange helmet that hung from a hook on her olive-green web belt was next. She settled it over her camouflage-colored utility cover, which was shaped like a baseball cap, and strapped it into place beneath her chin. Last came the hard leather knee protectors in case she fell in the rubble or had to get down and crawl into tight places. Her knees would take a beating, and the leather absorbed the shock that would be guaranteed if she started poking around between slabs of concrete.

      She’d already placed a bright-red cotton garment over Dusty. It held four large pockets, two on each side, holding small bottles of water, as well as human and dog food. Dusty carried roughly ten pounds in the specially made Marine Corps vest. His uniform was edged in bright yellow, with RESCUE DOG printed in large letters on each side. A leather harness was then fitted over it. Callie had also placed thick, soft leather “booties” on his feet held on by Velcro. Dusty was just as susceptible to cuts, gouges and scratches on the sensitive pads of his feet as she was.

      Taking off her thick leather gloves, Callie took the pen Wes held out to her. When their fingers met, she felt a brief flash of warmth. Wes was amazingly calm and matter-of-fact, despite all the carnage around them.

      Looking up, she saw a group of civilians, some with children in their arms, straggling toward the hotel rubble where Corporal Orlando and Private Bertram were waiting. Wes saw them, too. He knew they would be asking for help. The other part to his mission was to bring order to this chaos. He had a lot of responsibilities to carry out. Engaging the help of the survivors, all of whom were dazed looking, their faces drawn with shock and strain, would be his next order of business. By using the construction equipment, Wes could help locate other victims. But there were many things he couldn’t supply the survivors with yet, such as medical help, water and food. All he could do at this point was murmur empty platitudes.

      His stomach tightened at that realization. He was an engineer, used to ordering people and equipment around to get things done. But in this situation, everything was difficult. He had neither the people nor the supplies to help survivors as he wanted to. Would they understand that? The expressions on some of their faces were heartbreaking. Some people were bloody, others simply disheveled and dirty. Two children had dust-covered faces, and even from this distance, Wes could see the tracks of their tears through the filth.

      Right now, everyone in this neighborhood would be drawn to Wes’s camp, for he and his teams were the only authority around. Feeling helplessly overwhelmed with the magnitude of his mission, he looked down at Callie. Wes needed her serenity, gazed almost desperately at those guileless blue eyes that held the hope of the world in them. She was so strong right now; he felt it and sensed it in how she held herself.

      As Callie hoisted herself up on the bumper so she could study the map and draw a quick sketch of the Hoyt’s rubble, Wes stood back, studying the group approaching. He counted at least ten people, very dirty and dusty, heading slowly toward Orlando and Bertram. The silver-haired man leading them, picked up his pace as Corporal Orlando waved him closer. Wes saw the man’s face light up with hope. Standing there, Wes didn’t feel the least bit hopeful. The pressure of people’s expectations weighed heavily upon him.

      He lowered his eyes and watched Callie, hungrily absorbing her profile as she worked over the blueprint. She was like a breath of fresh air compared to the hell surrounding them. A wisp of her sandy hair had slipped free and was lying across her rosy cheek. Although she was no raving beauty, Wes found her face intriguing, especially her wide, soft mouth and those very deep, dark-blue eyes that he didn’t think missed a thing.

      He found his heart opening, and that shocked him. Every time Callie was near him, or he thought of her or pictured her face, the same feeling overcame him. That scared Wes. The only other time he’d felt like this was when Allison, his fiancée, had been with him. Sadness overwhelmed him momentarily at the thought. She had been a firefighter. She’d died in a ten-story building fire, and his love for her had gone up in those flames, in that black smoke.

      Wes had sworn he’d never again be drawn to a woman who did dangerous work for a living…yet here he was once more, with the same kind of tantalizing joy creeping through his heart. It told him he was powerfully drawn to Callie. But she had a dangerous job, dammit, and he simply couldn’t love her as he’d loved Allison. No, his heart couldn’t stand such a risk again.

      Wes found himself wrestling with the past. Looking at Callie, he wanted to forget the stern promise he’d made to find a woman in a safe job. Callie was so beautiful in his eyes. That outgoing warmth she’d automatically established with him seemed to ease all his burdens, made him want to reach out, pull her into his arms and hold her tight until the air rushed from her lungs. That was the effect she had on him.

      Trying to shake off the desire and need he felt for her, Wes tried to focus on what she was doing. She’d quickly drawn her grid with expert strokes and was now numbering each area.

      “Okay, Lieutenant…” She laughed apologetically. “I mean, Wes…”

      “I’d like to use first names when we’re alone,” he told her in a gritty, intimate voice, stepping close to her. “We’re both the same rank. I don’t have a problem with it—unless you do?” Sexual harassment was something today’s military was working hard to eradicate. The U.S. Navy had a color-coded warning system in place, and since the Marines Corps was technically a part of this service, they employed the same criteria.

      “Green” meant that the person receiving the comment felt it was appropriate. “Yellow” meant that the comment or choice of words made the recipient uneasy and unsure of the sender’s intentions. “Red” meant that the sender had crossed over the line and the receiver considered the comment or gesture sexual harassment. Ever since the Tailhook 2 scandal in the early nineties, the navy used this three-color system to help everyone understand what was and was not sexual harassment.

      Callie glanced over at Wes. She wanted to simply stare at him. His face was strong, and she liked the life that glimmered in his forest-green eyes. “Sure. Callie is fine. It’s a green, Wes.” Pleasantly surprised

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