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He stepped under the steaming shower spray and groaned a little as the heat penetrated. It’d been three months since he and the rest of his unit had woken up to grenades exploding right outside their quarters. Three months since his life had been thrown into chaos.
Three months since his closest friend had died in the attack. Three others had been badly injured. Men, good men, who reported to Quinn. Their lives had, fortunately, moved on. Two were already headed back to the Middle East. The third was due to head out to Japan in a few weeks.
Quinn’s status, however, was less certain.
Technically, his injuries were supposed to be healed. But that didn’t mean he didn’t still feel a gnawing ache every time he lifted his arm, courtesy of the shrapnel he’d taken during the attack. He’d spent an entire month in the hospital while the surgeons put together his shredded insides. Another month in physical therapy while the powers-that-be decided whether or not to give him the leave he’d requested.
Ultimately, he’d gotten the leave, as well as orders for ongoing therapy. The leave was supposed to last another month, if he wasn’t called back up—even for light duty—because of some new disaster.
And whether his leave lasted or not, a huge question remained. What role would he be called back to?
Which was another reason to have a throbbing pain inside his skull.
Quinn was a PJ. A Pararescueman. It was what he loved. It was where he excelled. “These things we do, that others may live,” was the PJ motto, but it was more than that for Quinn. It was a way of life. If a service member was in need of rescue on sea or on land, Quinn and others like him recovered and returned them to safety. They were commandos and they were paramedics. And they were equipped to handle anything and everything they encountered in order to complete their mission whether it was military or humanitarian in nature.
But if Quinn couldn’t stand up to the physical rigors of the job, he wasn’t going to be cleared for flight status. Which meant he wouldn’t be going back as a PJ.
And if he couldn’t go as a PJ, he wasn’t sure he could stand to go back at all.
Which left him with what?
There were too many questions circling his head, not the least of which was the matter of Penny Garner.
He ducked his head beneath the shower spray, feeling the hot water sluice down his shoulders. Even after a month Stateside, he hadn’t tired of the luxury of taking a shower that lasted as long as he wanted it to last.
Finally, though, aware of his grandmother’s expectation, he shut off the water. He pulled on clean jeans and shirt and left his room to join his grandmother and the others for lunch.
Even before he reached the double doors of Vivian’s suite, he could hear peals of laughter coming from inside.
One thing Quinn could say about the women in his family—they did know how to laugh.
He knocked on the door and a moment later, it was pulled open.
Only instead of facing his sister, Delia, or one of his cousins, it was Penny.
Like him, she’d obviously showered. Her wet hair was pulled to the back of her head into a ponytail. She’d also changed into a gray skirt that skimmed her ankles and a scoop-necked white T-shirt that lured his attention toward her lush curves.
Her eyes shied away from his as she backed out of the doorway so he could enter. “Everyone’s in the dining room.”
“I didn’t think you were going to be here.”
“Neither did I.” She toyed with one of her tiny gold stud earrings. “But when Mrs. Templeton says jump, it’s my job to ask how high.”
“Quinn, darling.” Vivian appeared in the archway leading to the dining room. She’d been widowed four times, and all of her husbands except the last had had money. Not as much as her, though, because her first husband—Quinn’s grandfather—had been a steel magnate. As a result, not even a regular hotel suite was good enough for her. Nope. For his granny, it was the presidential suite. Complete with two stories, four bedrooms—three of which were going empty—a full kitchen and butler’s pantry, and a formal dining room, all surrounded by an encompassing terrace if one was inclined to bake themselves in the hot Nevada sun.
“I was just getting ready to send Penny after you,” Vivian said. She was petite, white-haired and typically dressed in a pale pink Chanel suit. “Come.” She held out a beringed hand. “We’ve just been waiting for you.”
He allowed her to pull him into the dining room where places had been set at one end of the long, mahogany table. His cousins were already there. But not his baby sister. “Where’s Delia?”
“Still sleeping,” Greer drawled, with a roll of her eyes.
“Give her a break,” Maddie said calmly. “She was out all night.”
“We were all out all night,” Ali commented. She was spreading something green and obnoxious-looking across a tiny triangle of toast, and she pointed the tip of her knife at Quinn. “Except you.” She waved the knife a little, taking in Penny, who’d silently come up beside Quinn. “And you, Penny. The both of you disappeared around midnight shortly after we ran into that friend of yours.” She was a cop in Braden and she gave him what she obviously figured was her cop stare. But then she ruined it with a grin. “If I didn’t know you better, I’d be a little suspicious what you’d gotten up to with our dear Penny.”
He pulled out a chair across from Ali while Penny hurried over to the buffet that was laid out with silver serving dishes. “And what do you figure I was up to?” He poured himself a cup of coffee from the silver urn sitting in the center of the table.
“He was probably down in the fitness center working out like usual,” Greer answered before her sister could. “As if he’s not already in great shape.”
“Yeah, well, great shape’s not all it’ll take to get me cleared for parachuting again.” For that he might need a miracle. He managed a smile as he looked at their grandmother. On the bright side, at least he now knew for certain that none of his cousins had been participants in his and Penny’s marital antics the night before. “Viv, how’d you sleep after all that champagne last night?”
“Like a baby. Champagne is practically mother’s milk to me.” She waved an indolent hand. Her attention was on Penny as she fussed with the buffet. “Penny, dear. We have you to thank for this resplendent display. Sit down and enjoy it.”
Quinn wondered if he was the only one aware of the tight set to Penny’s shoulders as she finally carried a minimally filled plate over to the table. She sat two chairs away from Quinn.
“For Delia,” she murmured when he raised his eyebrows questioningly. “When she gets here.”
Knowing his little sister, she’d sleep until it was time to get up and party at the next nightclub. He grabbed the handle of the fancy coffeepot and leaned across the empty chair to fill Penny’s cup.
She flicked him a quick look. Murmured a thank-you.
It was obvious as hell that she wanted to be anywhere other than there.
“So how did you know Mike Lansing?” Maddie asked him. “It was so loud in the club last night, I never got that quite clear.”
Quinn didn’t plan to let them all know how little he remembered of the previous night and he let the name sift through his mind. He was thinking up a plausible answer when Greer took up the reins.
“They served together back in Africa,” she said as she got up to refill her plate. “He was a PJ, too. Though, frankly, the guy