THIRTY

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Early the next morning, the major general welcomed Bruce into his office with a smile and a handshake. The guy even had a cup of coffee waiting. According to the conversations Bruce had been having in the chow hall and PX, this was Morris's methodology: approachable, patient, and supportive. To the average rank and filer, he didn't act like a man with something to hide.

But Bruce wasn't average.

"Commander Wilson's supply order," Bruce said, handing over the paperwork that required Morris's approval.

"Thank you." He nodded, giving it a quick perusal before lifting his gaze back to Bruce. "Tell me, Major, how do you like working with Commander Wilson?"

"It's . . . interesting."

Morris chuckled. "Yes, I've heard she's a little uptight. But she's a beautiful woman. At least the view is nice."

"Very beautiful." Bruce needed some connection to this man if he was going to develop any kind of relationship and earn his trust. He just hated like hell using Claire as that bond.

Morris gave him a slow once over. "How about you, Major? Got a girl back home?"

He was sizing up his competition. Bruce needed to be out of contention. "Sure do."

"What does she look like?"

He tried to block the image, pick another from his memories, like that cute little redhead he'd met at— Shit, there she was, his made-up girl back home: A dark-haired, green-eyed beauty. He gave into it, knowing she would understand. "Long dark hair, green eyes . . . stubborn as hell."

"Ah, yes. The stubborn ones always get the juices flowing. What about her breasts? Big?"

What the fuck?! The thought of Morris trying to picture Virginia's breasts, even an imagined version, had Bruce itching to do to the father what he had done to the son. But he managed to play it cool and let the asshole keep breathing. "I'm more of a leg man myself."

"Yes, legs are important too," Morris said wistfully. "That Commander Wilson though, she's got it all."

Bruce frowned. How the hell would he know what Claire—?

Morris straightened, as if catching himself. "From what I can see anyway. These uniforms do nothing to enhance the feminine figure."

"True," Bruce muttered. He needed to get them off of the subject of Claire before he clocked the guy.

"Have a seat, Major." Morris offered him his desk and carried his paperwork over to a small conference table at the other end of the office, sharing the space with an antique ivory chess set that dominated most of the table's surface.

"Do you play?" Bruce asked, pointing to the expensive centerpiece.

Morris fingered one of the pieces. "Yes. Not much, though. Haven't found a worthy opponent, I'm afraid." With an optimistic glance he added, "Do you play?"

"High school chess club president." Those words rarely came out of Bruce's mouth. Who would have thought all those teenage years of nerdiness would come in handy some day. Maybe he wouldn't have to use Claire after all. "I'm pretty damn good if I do say so myself." Hopefully, good enough.

"Shall we put that opinion to the test? How about tonight after mess hall?"

"You're on."

With a nod, Morris turned back to the papers in front of him. Bruce focused his attention on the computer.

"You have limited space left on your hard drive," Bruce said.

Morris stood and came up behind him to peer over his shoulder at the screen. "Is that why it's been slow lately?"

"Probably." With a few more clicks, he was examining the files. "You have a lot of pictures on here."

"Yes. It's one of my hobbies."

"I can move those to an external drive. It would free up quite a bit of space."

"All right. If you think that would help."

This is going to be easier than I thought. "You're already set up on the network, but some of these programs are obsolete. I would like to go through and uninstall them."

"Sounds like a lot of work."

"Should take a couple of hours."

"Well, that's not too painful." Morris smiled and patted Bruce on the back before returning to the table at the far side of the room.

Bruce waited until the man seemed immersed in his work before shifting files around.

Three hours later, the computer was cleaned up and all the pictures were loaded on an external drive as promised.

Bruce left, walking down the hall with a smile . . . and a complete copy of everything on Morris's computer.

)l(

Given a break between meetings, Claire headed to the clinic to pick up the notes she had made about the troop reductions being implemented over the next six months. Rushing in, she went straight to her room and . . . Where the heck are they? I had them in here last night. After doing a complete three-sixty, she threw her hands up and stalked back out to the lab. Spotting the yellow pad sitting on the counter by the sink, she heaved a sigh and marched over to grab it.

Running water drew her attention to the curtained bathroom between the two exam rooms. Just then, the water turned off, the shower door clicked open, and a man's deep hum filled the room.

Bruce!

The curtain wasn't closed all the way, a six-inch gap at the edge giving a direct line of sight to the small mirror above the sink. Actually, calling it small was being generous—the stupid thing was so tiny she had to shift around in front of it in order to check her face in the mornings. Even as she stared at it now, all she could see was a section of towel being tossed over hair. Then he moved, bringing into view the bulging bicep that was doing most of the tossing. She leaned to the left, hoping to see more. He turned and she caught a glimpse of shoulder, the base of his neck, then—

Oh, for the love of . . . Where was a full-length mirror when you needed one?

She leaned a little farther . . . A little farther. . .

Her chest hit into a glass beaker, and in her haste to right the thing, she ended up knocking it into the sink where it shattered. "Shoot," she muttered, grabbing at the fragments.

The humming stopped. "Hello?" The curtain was yanked open.

Don't look, don't look, she said to herself.

She looked.

He was standing with one hand on the curtain, the other gripping the towel closed at his hip. Just a towel. Nothing else. Well, he had on dog tags too, but they didn't provide much cover.

Thankfully.

Her eyes dropped down to his chest and all the hard lines and ridges that shifted as he worked on tucking the edges of the towel together.

Stop gawking. She was a doctor after all. She'd seen all kinds of naked chests. But . . . never . . . one . . . quite . . . so—

Too late she felt the stabbing pinch of glass on the side of her hand.

Bruce thrust a thumb over his shoulder. "Sorry, I thought you were in a meeting. I took advantage of the shower to avoid the long line up at— Jesus, you're bleeding!"

She lifted her arm to examine the damage. Blood rolled out of a puncture wound just below her little finger and travelled past her wrist, leaving a red trail along her forearm.

Quick strides had him beside her in an instant. He grabbed her hand, and she ended up hunched over him when he bent low to the sink, turned on the water, and shoved the bleeder into the cold stream.

"I'm fine," she mumbled, thrown off kilter by his proximity. His size. The feel of his hands on hers. The clean smell of soap that drifted off of him.

He ignored her protest, bringing her hand out of the water to examine the injury. Cords of muscle tightened and released as he moved. She let her eyes roam over the expansive shoulders and down the taut back, fascinated by how the movements were interconnected. Anyone who claimed graceful was not an appropriate word to describe a man had never studied the human muscular system—and then watched as the muscles and joints worked together.

Of course it helped when the model in question had such well-defined examples to inspect. Her eyes took one more go round . . . Make that very well-defined.

"It doesn't look deep, but it needs some attention," he said.

She opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again. "It's . . . I'm . . ."

He glanced up at her face, probably wondering why she couldn't string two words together. Then he straightened, knowing exactly where her focus was, his gaze turning heavy, sultry. Dark eyes slid down to her lips as he lifted her hand to his mouth. The kiss was featherlight, soft and gentle on the wound. Her body roared its jealousy of its own extremity with a heated flash. She pulled her hand away with a gasp, shocked by the sensation, too frazzled to launch into a lecture about the danger of putting another person's blood in one's mouth.

"I'm the doctor here!" she spewed, hoping the outrage might hide her embarrassment.

No such luck.

His deep laugh filled the room, and she spun on her heels, making a grab for the pad of paper before stomping toward the door with her injured hand held up in front of her.

"Well, well, well, Doc," she heard him say as she tucked the pad under her arm and reached for the doorknob. "You are human after all."

It wasn't until the door had closed behind her that she stopped and allowed herself to breathe. The cut was still bleeding. She fished around in her pocket for one of the packages of gauze pads she always carried with her. Using her teeth, she ripped it open, slapped it on her hand, and mentally thanked herself for being so anal. She'd rather bleed to death than go back inside the clinic for a bandage just to hear him laughing.

Wearing nothing but a towel.

Why was she still standing there?

"Go," she muttered. Keeping a firm grip on the gauze, she headed to her next meeting.

END OF CHAPTER THIRTY

Poor Claire. I think she does need a bigger mirror. Much bigger :)

What did you think of Morris?

Dedicated to @RoyalJJ12 for sticking with me for so long, patiently awaiting updates and leaving comments that have me in stitches. You're the best!

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