Full Disclosure (Homefront: The Sheridans Book 2) (26 page)

Before I write another word, I want to
give you some important contact information for the Rape, Abuse, and Incest
National Network (RAINN):

National Sexual Assault Hotline (800)
656-HOPE (4673)

www.rainn.org

It took years for my fictional character,
Kim, to get the help that she needed. It shouldn’t be that way. No one should
struggle with the repercussions of sexual assault on their own.
If you are a
survivor who needs help, or know someone who needs help, please contact RAINN.

With that critical business behind me, I’d
be remiss if I didn’t immediately thank the many readers of
More, Please
who encouraged me to write a sequel, and to turn the Sheridan brothers into a
series. This one’s for you!

If you enjoyed this book, please consider
writing a review on Amazon.
As an independent author, your reviews literally help me sell books, so I can’t
thank you enough for taking a moment to write one. Your kind and generous words
have built my career! And even though it’s a “second” career, I still have my
dreams of dropping my dull day job and doing this full-time in the future.

You keep that dream alive, so I thank
you!

As always, I want to thank Danielle and
Chuck for their sharp eyes and outstanding input. And of course, my profuse
thanks and constant love to my husband and family. I couldn’t do this if I
didn’t have such a great team backing me up.

More than anything, my thanks go to
you
.
We are all so busy in this world,
wearing so many hats and getting pulled in different directions. I’m humbled by
the fact that you let my characters into your life in your free time, and
always hope that they have somehow brought a smile to your face. I’m grateful
that you give an independent author like me the chance to tell you a story.

I love to hear from readers! If you would
like to know when my next book is available, please contact me at my website at
www.KateAster.com
.

Dylan’s book is almost ready… and I can’t
wait to share his story with you!

Thank you again for your constant
inspiration and support.

Coming SOON!

Faking It

Homefront: The Sheridans (Book Three)

Please contact me at
www.KateAster.com
so that I can let you know release dates
as they become available!

Also
written by Kate Aster

available
on Amazon by clicking here

SEAL the Deal

Special Ops: Homefront (Book One)

The SEAL’s Best Man

Special Ops: Homefront (Book Two)

Contract with a SEAL

Special Ops: Homefront (Book Three)

Make Mine a Ranger

Special Ops: Homefront (Book Four)

www.KateAster.com

Please enjoy the prologue and first
chapter of Kate’s Book One in the Special Ops: Homefront Series,
SEAL the
Deal
.

PART
ONE

Suburban Chicago

Eighteen years ago

She really
had
thought they were fixed.

Lacey stared down at Taffy and Buster’s progeny, seven
adorable bundles of fur, as they explored the inside of a crate beneath her
homemade “Rabbits For Sale” sign.

Clearly she had been wrong.

With a defeated sigh, she watched people bustle in and out
of booths at the weekly Farmers’ Market. They held in their hands a tomato
here, a head of lettuce there, as though each locally grown fruit or vegetable
was a treasured prize. At just twelve, Lacey couldn’t quite appreciate the
difference between the produce here and the massive shipments trucked into the
grocery store every day. But it was a fun atmosphere, with the regulars
chatting among themselves and crowds of preschoolers eagerly awaiting
one-dollar pony rides.

The Farmers’ Market was only a short walk from home, but her
parents had never taken her or her sister here. Lacey couldn’t imagine them
waiting till a particular day of the week to buy fresh produce. They would
certainly never spare the extra hour or two to wander aimlessly from booth to
booth, squeezing peaches and tapping melons. Time was money, after all, Lacey
reminded herself as she glanced at her watch.

The morning was passing without a single sale. Lacey had
started the day with confidence, ambitiously writing “$10 each” in thick marker
on her poster. By mid-morning, she had replaced it with a more modest “$5.” Now
she resorted to flipping the poster over and starting fresh:

“FREE to Good Home.”

As the minutes ticked away, she began imagining the looks of
reproach in her parents’ eyes if she returned home unsuccessful, recalling her
recent Girl Scout Cookie sales effort that hadn’t met the Owens’ high standard
for success.

Even worse, what would become of the bunnies?

Lacey shielded her eyes from the sun to see if there were
any interested prospects in her midst. A familiar shape was approaching, dark
against the glare of the sun. But her sister’s stride was easy to recognize.
Also just twelve, Vi walked as though she should be pounding the pavement of
Wall Street rather than marching through a suburban Farmers’ Market carrying a
bright pink piece of poster board.

Standing above her now, Vi glanced down at the crate,
quickly counting heads. “No luck yet.”

It was more of a statement than a question, but Lacey
answered anyway. “No.”

Vi looked sharply at Lacey, as though she was staring down
an unruly bunch of stockholders at an annual meeting. “Okay. Here’s the deal.
If I sell every one of these rabbits by the end of the day, I get a 50% cut.”

“50%? But I feed them out of my own money.”

“You’re not going to get anything if you keep doing things
your way. Besides, you might be surprised what I can sell them for.”

Lacey eyed the pink poster board that Vi held protectively
to her chest. “Okay. Deal.”

With great resolve, Vi ripped Lacey’s poster off the stake
and taped up her own.

Lacey’s jaw dropped when she read it:

“Rabbits for Sale: $20 each. Perfect for Sunday Dinner!”

“That’s horrible, Vi! I don’t want people to EAT them,”
Lacey gasped.

“These are the suburbs, Lacey. No one’s going to skin a
rabbit out here.” Vi then leaned over, lowering her voice. “But every little
kid who reads this sign isn’t going to let Mommy or Daddy let these cute
animals be stewed up. Parents will have to buy them just to stop the crying.”

“That’s wrong, Vi. We can’t do that.”

“Who says? It’s not a lie. People do eat rabbit, you know.”

As always, Vi’s logic sent Lacey’s head spinning. Or maybe
it was the heat. “Well…”

“Besides, Mom will make you get rid of these little guys one
way or another.” Vi did a slashing movement with her finger at her throat for
added emphasis.

Lacey’s eyes widened.

Vi knew she had won. She turned triumphantly toward the
crowd. “Rabbits for sale! Rabbits for sale! The sweetest meat you’ll ever eat!”

Heads whipped around.

“Rabbits for sale! The sweetest meat you’ll ever eat!” Vi’s
chant was as effective as the best advertising jingle that ever came off
Madison Avenue.

A stampede of children dragging their parents was followed
by high-pitched squeals.

“You’re not really going to eat them, are you?” one whined.

“But they’re so cute,” another chimed in.

Tears rained a downpour.

“I don’t want anyone to eat this one. I would name him
Charley.”

Helpless parents reluctantly pulled out their wallets.

Less than an hour later, Lacey handed over the last rabbit
to a freckle-cheeked boy, while Vi smoothly accepted a stack of bills from the
father, swift to point out that he was one dollar short.

When the boy and his father were out of earshot, Vi yanked
the sign out of the ground, saying under her breath, “Let’s split up the money
at home. We don’t want to look too mercenary.”

As Lacey watched her adopted sister load their belongings
into their red wagon, she was reminded yet again of the undeniable difference
between the two of them. Lacey, the only biological daughter of the successful
Gerald and Hilary Owens, did not have nearly the business sense or ambition of
either of her parents.

Yet with irony, her adopted sister resembled them in every
way possible.

Despite the day’s windfall of cash, Lacey felt strangely
inadequate as she lifted the empty crate into the wagon. She was uncomfortable
with this new feeling she had as she looked at Vi.

She felt envy.

CHAPTER ONE

Today

Annapolis, Maryland

Not another open casket.

Stepping through an arched doorway and into a sea of gray
hair and solemn faces, Lacey quietly groaned at the sight of Dr. Donald Baker
at the other end of the room. Through the hushed crowd, she waded toward the
casket that rested in front of a stunning wall of floor-to-ceiling windows
overlooking the Chesapeake Bay. The well-appointed funeral home was easily the
most expensive place to mourn on the Eastern Seaboard.

Death, Lacey had discovered recently, came with a hefty
price tag.

Holding her breath apprehensively, she gazed down at Dr.
Baker as he lay in an impressive mahogany casket. He looked just like the photo
that had caught her eye in the obituary section of the newspaper three days
ago. Even stone cold, his face had a kindness that brought tears to her eyes.
Absurd, of course, since she didn’t even know the man.

After so many funerals, she should be callous to this part
of her job.

With a little digging online, Lacey had learned that the
late Dr. Baker owned a chunk of waterfront property crowned with a stately
Colonial. For a real estate agent just starting out, selling a listing like
that would upgrade her life from ramen noodles to Chinese take-out for at least
a year.

She bolstered her determination, recalling the image of Vi
gracing the cover of
BusinessWeek
. Lacey doubted she’d ever climb to
such lofty heights of success as her adopted sister, but it would be nice to
have something to boast about.

Besides, she had rent to pay. So she dabbed her
tear-moistened eyes and scanned the room.

Lacey had memorized the face of Dr. Baker’s widow from a
photograph online. Spotting her immediately, she felt a small surge of
excitement.
Too easy.
She might even get out in time for the next
funeral on her schedule.

Taking no more than three brisk strides toward the widow,
she slammed into something as unyielding as a six-foot-three slab of concrete.
Two jarring steps backward and she slipped, suddenly seeing nothing but a blur
of vertical motion.

It was an out-of-body experience, as though she could
actually see her own mortified expression as her head made its rapid descent
toward the floor. She vaguely heard a few foul words strung together, which was
likely her own voice cursing her friend Maeve for convincing her to wear
stiletto heels to a funeral.

Completely inappropriate—both the stilettos and the
curse.

In a flash, she saw her life rush past her, an unimpressive
sequence of failed careers and failed relationships. She could see her parents
and sister standing over her casket, shaking their heads and muttering, “You
just couldn’t get it together, could you, Lacey?” Then her head smacked against
the marble slab floor, the impact thankfully softened by the updo in her hair.

Opening her eyes, she thought she must be looking at the
face of God, or maybe St. Peter ready to usher her through the pearly gates.
Whoever he was, the man hovering over her was sex in a suit.

“Are you all right?” the Vision said.

Lacey just stared. His image was decadent—piercing
blue eyes, classically chiseled features, and skin that begged to be touched.
His short, military-style haircut seemed to accentuate his broad shoulders
subtly bulging with muscles beneath his tailored suit.

Mercy.

Definitely not God, or she wouldn’t feel this surge of
desire burning just below her stomach. At least she hoped not.

“Wow,” she said in quiet admiration.

“You fell and hit your head. Do you remember where you are?”

A flurry of other heads, mostly topped with silver hair or
half bald, invaded her vision.

“Yes, I’m at the funeral of…” Donald, was it? Or was that
last week’s corpse?

“Donald Baker.” The man kneeling beside her said and called
out over his shoulder with fierce authority, “I need some ice right now. And
this woman needs an ambulance. Call 911.”

“No, no. I’m really fine. I just bumped my head.” Despite
the dull ache at her temple, Lacey struggled to get up and the room swayed in
response. His firm yet gentle grip held her still. Another fluttering below her
stomach, and she wondered if it was sheer lust or nausea from a mild
concussion.

Or maybe both.

“It would be better if you didn’t move.”

“I’m really fine.” She pressed her palm against his chest to
nudge him aside and felt a hint of the rock-hard pecs beneath his neatly
pressed shirt. Involuntarily, her hand strayed an inch or two to savor the feel
of a tempting ripple. She couldn’t resist; men who looked like this didn’t grow
on trees. If they did, women would never get any work done.

Feeling his chest rise as he took in a breath, the alluring
warmth of his skin seeped through the smooth cotton to her hand. She could
swear she heard her body sizzle in response, and pulled away as though she had
touched the burner on Maeve’s new industrial gas range. “I’ll just sit down
somewhere and catch my breath.”

“I really don’t recommend…”

Strangely feverish, she shrugged herself free from his
too-titillating grip and began to stand.

“Okay, if you’re going to be stubborn.” With a slight shake
of his head, he lifted her into his arms so easily that her breath caught.
Unconsciously, she let out a whimper. Every muscle in her body savored the feel
of his thick, corded arms enveloping her and she fought the urge to nestle into
his broad chest. She silently prayed he would carry her out the door and to the
nearest secluded area without delay, but he carried her to a nearby couch
instead.

His fingers probed gently around her head as he searched for
swelling. With one careless touch of his hand against the side of her face,
Lacey’s body melted into the sofa cushions like a pool of hot wax. She briefly
fantasized about pulling his face toward her so she could feel the sweet
pressure of his perfectly formed lips.

It really had been too long, she realized. Immersing herself
in her work had definitely made her sex life come screeching to a halt. But
hanging out in funeral parlors was generally not the best way to meet men…until
today.

His hand became entangled in her updo as he continued to
feel for inflammation. He must be a doctor, Lacey decided. He couldn’t be an
E.M.T. or every unattached woman in Annapolis would be dialing 911 more
frequently than Papa John’s.

“Do you mind?” he asked.

“Not at all,” Lacey responded breathlessly before realizing
she had no idea what she had just agreed to.

He pulled out her hair clip and let her brown locks tumble
around her. The tiniest hint of arousal sparked in his eyes, but it disappeared
quickly replaced by a stoic countenance.

Damn
.

“Can you tell me your name?” he asked, slipping her hair
clip into his pocket.

Lacey’s heart soared a moment with the hope he might be
interested in her. She hadn’t attracted a man this hot since…well,
never
.

“Lacey Owens.”

“Who is the President of the United States?”

Crash and burn. He was only concerned about whether she had
a head injury. “No one I voted for,” she muttered, her ego deflating. “Really,
thanks for your concern, but I’m perfectly fine.” She felt the sting of
disappointment as he let her stand up on her own, secretly hoping he’d throw
her back on the couch and ravish her. Except for the fifty or so people crowded
around them, it would have been the perfect opportunity.

An elderly woman approached, extending her hand. “My dear,
that was quite a fall. Are you all right?”

It was Edith Baker, the woman she had been trying to talk to
when she crashed into…

Him!
Lacey suddenly realized that her
knight-in-wool-blend-Brooks-Brothers was the reason for her fall. No wonder he
was so interested in whether she was all right. He probably thought she was
planning on suing him.

Figures.

“Are you all right?” the woman repeated. “I really think you
should sit down again.”

“No—I mean—I really am fine.” Brushing herself
off, she struggled to regain some shred of dignity. “You’re Mrs. Baker. I
wanted to extend to you my sympathy. I’m Lacey Owens.”

“Thank you. I’m so glad you’re all right. How did you know
Don?”

That question used to stump Lacey. But after a year of
honing her funeral crashing skills, she could smoothly answer, “I only knew of
him. But he’s done so much incredible research for the hospital, I felt
compelled to pay my respects.”

“So you are a doctor, too?”

“No,” Lacey laughed. “Actually, I’m a real estate agent. But
I read all the hospital newsletters, so became familiar with his work.” She
felt a wave of skepticism coming from the muscle-bound specimen who stood
protectively at Mrs. Baker’s side. “What your husband achieved in his cancer
research has saved so many lives.” She sinuously shifted the focus off of
herself like a pro.

“He was a dedicated man,” Mrs. Baker agreed, “and a
wonderful husband.”

“He obviously loved you a great deal.”

“Owens,” the elderly woman suddenly repeated thoughtfully. “You
sent that lovely flower arrangement with stargazer lilies, didn’t you?”

“I had read once that your husband said it was your favorite
flower. As a surprise for you, he filled the room with them for the hospital
fundraiser you chaired last spring. I can’t imagine having a husband who
cherished me like that.”

The once-grieving face of the widow instantly transformed
with a smile from the memory. Lacey saw the man standing next to her soften,
and he touched the older woman’s arm tenderly as though he might be her son.

Odd, though. Lacey hadn’t discovered a son in her research.

Mrs. Baker patted Lacey on the arm. “You’ll have that one
day, too, my dear. Thank you for reminding me of such a wonderful memory.”

“It was my pleasure. I’ve taken more of your time than I
intended, though. I’m sorry I caused such a disruption.”

“I’m just glad the color has returned to your cheeks, my
dear.”

Lacey smiled, moving in for the kill. “And please, if you
ever need a volunteer for your charity work at the hospital, I’d love to help
in any way I can.” She adeptly reached into her purse and passed the woman a
business card.

“Thank you. I will. Are you sure you are all right?”

Lacey was taken aback, so engrossed in her smooth business
transaction that she had nearly forgotten her head-on collision with the floor.
“I’m fine. I think I will slip out now though, rather than staying for the
service. You don’t mind?” Lacey directed the question to the woman, but could
not help glancing at the hulking man next to her. She wondered if he had to
turn sideways to fit through doorways with shoulders like that.

“Of course not. You’re all right to drive?”

“Absolutely. Thank you for your concern,” Lacey said, and
quickly turned to walk out the door.

A voice behind her sent a tingling up her spine. “I’ll walk
you to your car.”

She felt a warm hand touching the lower part of her back and
another gently gripping her elbow.

Her heart fluttered a moment until panic set in. She
had
detected some skepticism from him as she was talking to Mrs. Baker. Was he onto
her real estate scheme? “You really don’t have to follow me to my car.”

“I want to make sure you’re all right. I’d feel better if I
could put you in a cab.”

“I’m fine, really. Please don’t make such a big deal of
this. I’m embarrassed enough.”

With a slight grin, he held up his hands. “Okay. I’ll stop.”

Lacey couldn’t resist glancing down at his left hand. No
ring. And such nice strong hands.

She gave herself a light shake to snap out of it. Strong
hands or not, he was not worth the risk of losing a possible listing. With her
husband now deceased, Edith Baker was the sole owner of a waterfront home too
large for one woman to live in alone. There was a good chance Mrs. Baker would
consider selling her home soon, and every real estate agent within a fifty-mile
radius would be flooding the old woman’s mailbox with slick brochures,
full-color calendars, and handy refrigerator magnets—agents with bigger
advertising budgets than Lacey’s.

But Lacey’s business card was already snug in Mrs. Baker’s
pocket, and the fondly-remembered scent of stargazer lilies was wafting past
her nose. Lacey’s foot was in the door. She had no intention of messing up now
by getting too friendly with this mystery-in-a-suit, no matter how nicely he
filled it out.

“So are you a family member?” she asked lightly.

“Not by blood. But I love them like my parents. I’d do
anything for them.” He said it with such conviction that he might as well have
said, “I’d kill for them.”