The dog outside barked. He was a German Shepherd named Rex who had arrived courtesy of his owner, Richard. Virginia had complained when they tied the poor thing up to the front porch, but Rex had taken on his new assignment with tail wagging, seeming quite happy to lie down at the foot of the steps to watch the road. During the night he had barked a couple of times—nothing aggressive—likely just some territorial warnings to wandering wildlife.

"Virginia," Bill called from the living room.

She put down the coffeepot she had been about to fill. "Coming," she said, moving slower than usual. She'd had a restless night. The men had all stayed, spread out on the main floor with mats and sleeping bags, but still, every little creak in the house had woken her up. She needed caffeine—an indulgence she didn't partake in too often these days.

Rex's bark grew more urgent.

She rushed out to the living room.

Bill and Richard were up at the curtained windows, peeking out to the front lawn. "Someone's coming up the path," Bill said.

Virginia moved in behind him and peered over his shoulder. Bill's two other friends, Andrew and John, joined in on the lookout.

"Is that him?" Bill whispered.

The man approaching Rex was tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a dark suit and matching fedora. His hair and face were well hidden in the shadow of the hat, and for a moment her anger spiked, thinking it was Mark going against her wishes. "It's not Gus," she muttered.

Anger turned to alarm when the man stopped twenty feet from Rex's snapping jaws and brought a cigarette to his lips. With the flick of a lighter, his face was revealed in a soft glow, along with the large scar that ran from above his eyebrow to his cheekbone, narrowly missing his right eye.

Virginia gasped. "I don't know who that is."

As they watched, the man said something to Rex. Then, much to everyone's shock, he walked right up to the dog and patted him. Rex shushed and sat down, clearly enjoying the attention.

Bill muttered a curse. "So much for your guard dog, Richard."

"What," Richard said with a shrug. "He's a pet, not a killer."

Andrew and John both grabbed the rifles they had brought with them and fast tracked it to the front hallway.

"Wait," Virginia called, hurrying after them, Bill and Richard following close behind.

Andrew leaned against the door frame with his rifle pointed up to the ceiling and watched the man's approach through the stained glass insert. "He's coming up to the door," he said in a hushed tone.

"Let's calm down and see what he has to say," she directed.

The doorbell rang. She stared wide-eyed at the dark silhouette cast on colored glass, wondering who the hell was waiting for her on the other side. "Just keep your guard up," she added.

Andrew and John backed up and aimed their rifles at the doorway. Reaching behind her, Virginia wrapped her fingers around the handgun tucked into her waistband at the small of her back. Giving each of the four men a perfunctory nod, she took a deep breath, walked up to the door, cranked the deadbolt, and grabbed for the knob.

)l(

Bruce noticed the thin line of light shining beneath the door of the clinic while on his way to Morris's secret stash. Thinking Claire had left the lights on by mistake, he pulled out his keys and unlocked it, planning to just reach in and hit the switch.

Only half the lights were on, the far side of the room in partial darkness. He leaned in and froze when he saw who was lurking in the shadows beyond the center workstation.

Claire had her back to him, standing at the window to look out at the dark night. Her hair was braided into a long golden rope that tapered down to a red bow. She was wearing a nightgown—a white, satiny slip of a thing that curved in at the waist only to flare out and drape over the roundness of her buttocks. Thin straps held the garment up. Thin straps. So delicate. So easy to slide off of shoulders, allowing the whole thing to fall to the floor.

Knock it off, asshole, he thought to himself.

Bruce exhaled when his body demanded it, making him aware that he had been holding his breath with the discovery of this treasure—she was a sparkling diamond unearthed in a land of dirt.

He was about to pull out of the room, not wanting her to spot him ogling her from behind, when she turned a little, giving him a glimpse of her profile. Her hand went up and she wiped at her cheek with the back of it.

She was crying.

Concern overrode the need to give her privacy. He pushed the door open further and slipped inside, closing it behind him. "Claire?" he said softly, not wanting to scare her.

No response. There was more wiping, and now he could hear her sniffling.

After placing the bag containing his portable scanner on the workstation's countertop, he walked the rest of the way around it and touched her on the shoulder.

She jumped. "Jesus," she yelped, slapping her hand to her chest. "Are you trying to kill me?" Ear buds were yanked out of ears as she glared up at him.

"Sorry—I saw you crying—just wanted to make sure you were okay. Are you okay?" His gaze moved over her body, intending it to be a clinical evaluation, but his eyes and his cock seemed to have a direct line of communication. The v-neckline of the nightgown provided a reasonable degree of modesty, but the satin material did little to hide the fact that it was chilly in the clinic. And it was shorter than he expected, giving way to bare legs that were smooth, long, and graceful. The kind of legs that lingered in a man's mind. For eternity.

He felt himself hardening with the view.

Seeming not to notice his assessment, she shifted her eyes back to the window. "I like to come in here at night to look at the stars. This is one of the few windows in this godforsaken place. I was listening to my audio book. It's about this woman who cares deeply for someone but keeps pushing him away, afraid to get close to anyone. He just died in a car accident without knowing how she felt. I guess it kind of got to me."

Relief washed over him with the realization that it wasn't something more serious. Knowing he should go before she clued in to the fact that she was standing in front of him with nothing on but a flimsy layer of material, he lifted his hand and gestured toward the door. "I'll just get back to my—"

"I don't do that, do I?" Big brown eyes, the lashes still damp from her tears, captured his and tugged at his heart.

"Do what?"

"Push people away. Do I push you away?" She took a step toward him.

"Ahh . . ." Bruce took a step back, not sure what to say. He reached out and poked her in the shoulder with his index finger.

She looked to where he had touched her, raising her brows when finding nothing out of the ordinary on her skin.

He shrugged with a contrite grin. "I just wanted to make sure you were real, that this is not just another dream."

"You dream about me?"

Shit . . . No way was he answering that question.

She took another step toward him. He backed up, hitting the wall panel behind him with enough force to cause the framed picture of the President hanging nearby to bounce out at the bottom. He reached over and clamped a hand on the thing. Once convinced the President was in no danger, he let it go.

"I should leave," he muttered.

"Why?"

Because you're practically naked, I've got a hard-on, and I'm going to be all over you in about ten seconds. "You're upset, and I don't think you are thinking clearly." He pushed off the wall, intent on leaving.

Her arms snaked up and around his neck as she leaned into him.

"Okay, now I know I'm dreaming," he whispered.

"What do we do in your dreams?" she breathed, her eyes traveling down his chest, her hands following the trail, stopping just above the waistband of his pants. "Do we make love?"

Bruce cleared his throat, his arousal throbbing as he stared down at her. "Have you been drinking?"

"Nope." Her hand slid down to grip his erection through his pants.

His body jerked and slammed back into the wall. The picture did another round of rat-a-tat-tat, but it was getting no help from him this time. He groaned as she moved her palm against him, the friction her hand delivered stealing his breath. He closed his eyes and flexed his hips.

"Do you like that?" she asked.

Hell yes.

Wait . . . Her voice had sounded distant, detached. Not throaty or breathless or in the least bit affected by what was happening between them.

He opened his eyes. She was watching his face, gauging his reaction. It all seemed so scientific, as if she had something to prove, some hypothesis to test and conclude on. He got the impression that she was going to jerk him off and then write up a report on it.

This was not what he wanted. Oh, he wanted her, no doubt about that, but not like this. When their time came, it was going to be intense, moving, and erotic.

And it was damn well going to be mutual.

With agonizing self-control, he grabbed her wrist to still her movements and set her away from him.

"Why did you stop me? You want this." She frowned up at him.

It took a few seconds for Bruce to find his voice and even then it was thick and gravelly. "I think that's pretty obvious. The real question is, 'Do you want this?' "

There was a span of a few seconds—felt like a decade—while uncertainty played out across her features. Bruce waited for her move, his body fired up with the knowledge that they were one word away from ending up in that tiny room of hers, testing the strength of military-issued cots. Say yes, he willed.

Suddenly, Claire looked like she'd seen a ghost, her eyes stretching wide as her mouth dropped open. "Oh, God," she cried out. Backing away, she reached for the MP3 player she'd placed on the window ledge.

"Claire . . . wait."

She turned and ran to her room, a fairylike flight of white satin, bare feet soundless on the linoleum. The door slammed shut.

Bruce put his head in his hands as he slid down the wall, coming to rest on his ass with knees bent up in front of him. "Why did you have to choose now to get a fucking conscience," he muttered.

After some silent deliberation, he decided to wait until morning to talk it out with her. Slowly, he got up, retrieved his bag, and headed to Morris's office.

END OF CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Woo hoo hoo, it looks like the women are taking charge! Poor Bruce. He certainly wasn't expecting that. 

Coming up: We get Claire's reaction to what just happened, and Virginia finds out exactly who is on the other side of that door 😳

Dedicated to @FarnajBrishty , my friend, for being such an amazing fan of my work ❤️🤗