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  Beauty and the Brigadier

  Copyright © 2014 by D.L. Jackson

  ISBN: 978-1-61333-645-8

  Cover art by Tibbs Designs

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work, in whole or in part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Decadent Publishing Company, LLC

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  Beauty and the Brigadier

  A 1Night Stand Story

  By

  D.L. Jackson

  Chapter One

  Brigadier General Eli Wells tapped his pencil against his desk and stared at the inaugural invitation for his godson, Stephen Hanson. Soon to be The Honorable Steven Hanson, Governor of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, if he won the election as projected by the press. He would win. Stevie always did. To him, he’d always be Stevie, the three-year-old kid who stuffed baby toads in his overalls and released them in his uncle’s office, where the first sergeant spent weeks finding them in various states, from living to mummified.

  He snorted. Normally he couldn’t care less about parties and didn’t enjoy them much, well, not anymore, but he would go. This celebration couldn’t be missed, and he certainly wouldn’t have an issue with attending, if a small note included with his invitation, written by Stevie, didn’t insist he bring a date.

  Where did a fifty-eight-year-old military dog find a woman willing to walk into a room with him? A woman with the elegance his Peggy had possessed, who knew just the right things to say, and when? Hell, he’d always put his boot in his mouth at those fancy shindigs, but Peggy could spin anything around, casting whatever snafu he’d caused in a positive light. If he called someone an asshole, she could convince the insulted party they’d received a grand compliment. He always swore she held a little bit of magic inside her, a special ability to extract said foot, no matter how deep he’d shoved it, while still making him look like he hadn’t screwed up.

  God, he missed the woman. He’d learned the hard way he wasn’t as invincible as he liked to think, and death could be just around the corner. Didn’t matter if you were ten or one hundred and ten, eventually the Grim Reaper paid you a visit, some folks sooner than others. But why did he have to take the good ones first?

  Eli tossed the pencil down and picked up the card. A date? He blew out a breath and dropped the invitation. Okay, you can do this. You’re the Deputy Commander of the 10th Mountain Division, highly decorated, and a survivor of more battles than you can count on your fingers and toes. So why the hell did he feel so out of control? He spun his chair around to look out the window. Brigadier General Eli Wells defined the term a master of control. Except when it came to women.

  Well, you got a month to figure it out. Hell, why should you figure it out? You’re the one in charge. Eli turned back around and picked up the phone, punching a button to his aide-de-camp, Lieutenant Elizabeth Winters.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “I need a date.”

  “What date are you looking for, sir? The beginning of the month, the middle, I don’t see any appointments for the upcoming week....”

  “No!”

  “No, what, sir?”

  “Not on the calendar. A date—date,” he growled under his breath, not wanting Major General Tom Gilbert, whose office adjoined his, to overhear. With how loudly the lieutenant spoke, he certainly would. The last thing he needed his best friend to know was he couldn’t get a date on his own, or he suffered from loneliness. It was hard enough to think about it, let alone talk about it, and if Tom overheard, he would need to explain. “With a woman.”

  “A woman? You’re asking me to get you a woman, sir?”

  “A little quieter, Lieutenant. No, not get me a woman, get me a date with a woman. Do I have to spell it out, Lieutenant? Yes, a woman, for a party—I have to attend—and don’t tell anyone.”

  “No commander has asked me to do this, sir. You don’t have any idea as to who, do you? Any special woman...?”

  “No,” he barked. “Why do you think I’m asking you to figure it out?”

  “Blonde...?”

  “I don’t give a shit what her hair color is. She could be bald for all I care. Get me a date with someone with class—not too young, forty or fifty, pretty. I like them tall. I like someone who is—”

  “That doesn’t sound like you don’t care who, sir.”

  “Make sure she has a pulse and is...capable of handling a date with a military man.”

  “Like your late wife, sir?”

  Eli opened his mouth and couldn’t speak for several seconds. Yes. No. Not like Peggy, nobody could replace her. “Did I say like Peggy? Just get me a date!” He hung up, scrubbed his hand over his flattop, and turned to stare at the closed door between the post commander’s office and his. There were no footsteps, so chances were Tom hadn’t heard his questionable request. “How freaking hard is it to find me a date?” In the picture on his desk, he stood behind his wife, his arms wrapped around her and his chin resting on her shoulder. She left behind a void no woman could possibly fill. No, nobody could take her place—or even come close to it. He flipped the photograph face down, feeling guilty he considered taking another woman to a party, even though Peggy’d died two years before.

  “I’m sorry, honey. So, sorry, but I gotta do this. I need to be there.”

  ***

  “What do you mean they are dropping me?” Anya Volkov swallowed hard as her agent slid a
letter across his desk to her. “I am the face of Natur-El Beauty Cosmetics.” She slammed her fist down on the solid surface, as though her tantrum would help the situation. “I defined them! I am them!”

  “You were, in the eighties.” He turned away and braced for the explosion, but not before she caught a flash of fear in his eyes.

  She’d become a bit too predictable. Even her agent, whom she’d known for twenty years, expected her to go off the deep end and throw something. Anya eyed him. He knew her too well, and screaming at him would get her nowhere. Instead, she chose a more diplomatic approach—and decided to fire him later. “Da. Perhaps this is all a misunderstanding. Get Maxwell on the phone this instant. We will work something out.”

  “Nyet, the letter is pretty clear.”

  She leaned in and stared him down. “Nyet? Are you mocking me?”

  “No. This is the last job. I’m done. I haven’t gotten any bites in months now and, with your attitude, it’s highly unlikely I will. They say you are too hard to work with, and you refuse to take the jobs I send you for the—more mature models, so I think it’s time we go our separate ways.”

  “I am not a more mature model. They have children at these shoots. They obviously don’t know a real woman when they see her!”

  “You’re fifty years old, Anya. The models the agencies are looking for are a quarter your age, and they are selling clothing for people a quarter your age. Your look doesn’t work anymore for the kind of products you want to represent.”

  “I am not doing ads for adult diapers. I refuse!” She crossed her arms over her chest, and then, as she mentally reviewed their conversation.... “You’re quitting as my agent?”

  “Anya, it’s for the best. I’d rather part as friends. You’re in your golden years now, get out and enjoy the benefits of all your hard work. You have millions to blow.”

  “I’m too young to retire.” She snorted.

  “You’re too old to model.”

  Anya’s eyes filled with tears. “Fine.” She sniffed. “I’ll get another agent—one who knows how to do his job.”

  “Anya, I didn’t mean to hurt you, and you are still a beautiful woman. Hell, you put some thirty-year-olds to shame. But....” Frank frowned. “I just need you to understand your modeling days are behind you. You have to start enjoying life before it completely passes you by. When is the last time you went out on a date or had fun, real fun, not something you put on for the public eye?”

  “I don’t know.” Her throat constricted. If she didn’t get out of there, she’d cry. Damn female hormones. Weepiness had never been a problem before. Now she wanted to cry at everything—and if she did, she would just prove Frank right. Too old to model anymore. Emotional. Premenopausal. One foot in the grave. She swiped her portfolio off Frank’s desk and stood.

  “I think you should find out. There is so much you still have to give, but not as a model.” Frank held a card out. “This next bit of advice is coming from your friend and not your agent. I’ve known you a long time, Anya, and you can’t fool me. I know you’re lonely. Despite our differences through the years, I want you to be happy. Find a nice guy to spend your downtime with. Go out and have some fun. Be happy. Check out this site.”

  Anya eyed the cream-colored business card. “1Night Stand?” She sniffed.

  “It’s an exclusive dating service—very discreet. I hear they are the best. I have several clients who swear by them.”

  She snatched it from him and crammed it in her bag. “I don’t need anyone to set me up. I’m capable of finding a man on my own.”

  “Think about it.”

  She rolled her eyes and walked out of the office, down three flights of stairs, and to her BMW. With a glance back, she threw the door open, climbed in, and began to cry.

  Frank was right, and how she hated it. But worse, he’d seen through the walls she’d thrown up and knew the truth. She did need to move on, find someone to love, and enjoy her life.

  ***

  Two hours later, wearing worn jeans with holes in the knees and an old red sweater more than twenty years old, two sizes too big, she stared at her computer. They were comfort clothes, since she refused to indulge in comfort food when stressed and pack on the pounds.

  Old habits died hard.

  Which brought her back to square one. What could she do now she’d outgrown modeling? Television? Maybe, but for some reason, after what Frank said, she’d no desire to take the same path as her predecessors—do the expected and become a host on a talk show, talking about up-and-coming models and actresses, while clinging to the scraps of her glory days. No, she’d not go with the grain, but against it, as always. She’d do something big—maybe start a charity. Find a man—make a difference in the world again.

  She had the platform and the money to do it. But what charity—what project was another matter altogether.

  Naysayers be damned. The term stupid model didn’t apply to her. Oh, no. She spoke seven languages and possessed a degree from MIT. A certified genius behind a pretty face. People only assumed her IQ low. Equipped with the smarts to do whatever she wanted, she only needed someone by her side when she did it. A cheering section never hurt. But who?

  She’d dated a lot of men, some famous, some not so much, but she’d never chosen to marry. She never regretted not finding a husband, or bearing a couple of kids and living in the prerequisite white Victorian house with the proverbial picket fence, accessorized with a dog or cat in a manicured yard. Not until now.

  How long since she’d focused on a personal relationship? Frank’s cold assessment of her life had made her really angry. But, after a few hours of reflection, she knew he’d spoken the truth. Time to stop running from what she couldn’t change, and embrace it.

  She couldn’t fill the empty hole in her life with work anymore. She needed to let go of the past she’d become preoccupied with. It lacked what she really needed—love, a sense of belonging to someone. Maybe this Madame Eve could find her dream man—or at least her dream man for now—until she figured out her next career path and set her feet firmly on it.

  So.... My ideal man? No brainer. She smiled and typed. Sam Elliott.

  Tall, with a sexy voice and white hair. He commanded the attention of a crowd, much like her. With a rugged, bad-boy look that made her heart go pitter-patter. But taken. She sighed and backspaced, retyping, like Sam Elliott. She stared at it for a minute and then added. Older than me—wears a uniform. Because, no matter how old he got, a man in a uniform was hot. Maybe a police captain or fire chief—someone heroic.

  No lads for her—she preferred a mature man, one who could relate to her on more levels than just the sex. And if he looked like the famous actor, the sex would be something she could definitely relate to.

  She went through the rest of the form rather quickly, answering as shortly and sweetly as possible. She never could be bothered with wasting time and held patience as no virtue. Should she mention her Russian birthplace? Nah, no reason to, not when the United States considered her a citizen from birth, with her American mother. Her father, from the former Soviet Union, had become a naturalized citizen of the United States when he married her mother and joined the CIA.

  There were some things about her background she couldn’t disclose anyway. She’d kept her modeling persona as a facade, like a spook would keep a false identity. Except, in the long run, she’d ended up modeling and retired from the flip side of her life. Very few knew about her past.

  The Cold War ended in the eighties. It shouldn’t matter.

  Her finger hovered over the enter button before she hit send. Too late to change my mind. Not that she wanted to anyway. Let’s see what this Madame Eve can dig up.

  Chapter Two

  “I left your mail on your desk, sir,” Lieutenant Winters said when he passed her on his way back from lunch. A little unusual, since she always handed it to him. She knew how he hated anything left on his desk, or anyone touching it. In fact, he often measured out how
far from the edge he placed his name placard and desk calendar, just to see if the CQ, charge of quarters, touched it when they cleaned his office at night.

  “Did you say on my desk, Lieutenant?”

  “Yes, sir.” Her next words confirmed something was up. “I figured you’d want to open the mail in private and not have it sitting in my inbox, waiting for you—where someone else might actually see it. Sir.” She swallowed and looked down at her dress shoes, avoiding eye contact.

  What made her practically shake in her uniform? Winters never got nervous. He frowned. “What is it?”

  “Remember your special request, sir?”

  Major General Tom Gilbert stepped out of his office. “What special request?”

  Crap. He had no inclination to elaborate to the post commander on this subject. Ever—friends or not. “Nothing, Tom.”

  Major General Gilbert narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest. As best friends, they often used each other’s first name—nothing unusual, but perhaps the stern tone he’d used, sounded more like none of your business. Tom Gilbert shot him the stink-eye, indicating he was about to pull rank and get his answer one way or the other. “Come again?”

  Eli sighed. “I requested the lieutenant get me a date. It’s nothing. You can go back to whatever you were doing and leave me alone about it. Sir.”

  His formal address did nothing to deter the nosey major general, much to his disappointment. Tom walked over to them, a huge grin on his face. “A date, huh? Is she cute—wait, beautiful. From around here? Do I know her?”

  Eli growled. “No, and I’d rather not discuss my personal life.” He glared, adding a bit more to clarify that he didn’t want to go there. “Sir.”

  Tom frowned and glanced over to Lieutenant Winters. “Can you leave us alone for a minute, Lieutenant?”