Amundson felt a brief, irrational surge of jealousy. He slowly and deliberately stamped it down. She wasn’t his girl, after all. They’d shared a bed in London for a couple of nights, made love in ways he hadn’t thought possible-and which wouldn’t have been, if he wasn’t in such amazing physical shape. But she’d made it clear that she wanted nothing more than sex. She didn’t even like to cuddle. The couple of times he’d tried, she had rolled on top of him, fucked him insensible, then rolled off and gone back to sleep.

When he’d told his best buddies, lieutenants Savo and Lobes, they’d stared at him like he’d just won the Kentucky Derby. And actually, it kinda bugged him, them just looking at him like he was out of his mind.

Julia Duffy was famous. And beautiful. And rumor had it that she was as rich as a Rockefeller. So if he didn’t feel like sharing her bed, then Savo and Lobes reckoned they’d be more than happy to volunteer. After all, if she was good enough for the president of the United States of America-well, he’d be president someday, at least, if he survived the war-then who were they to turn her away?

Amundson caught himself staring at her just before she locked eyes with him. He glanced away guiltily.

Julia kicked him. It would have hurt if he hadn’t been wearing a thick rubber knee pad.

“You and your boys, you’ll be fine, Lieutenant,” she called out over the noise. “Don’t sweat it. You’re gonna eat those fuckers alive. Garry-fuckin’-owen.”

The men in his chalk roared back.

“Garryowen!”

Amundson smiled. But he felt sick in the pit of his stomach.

About three months after the Allies had retaken Hawaii, a package had arrived for Julia at The New York Times. She’d been back home for a month by then. After the slaughter on Oahu, the paper had insisted that she take a proper vacation, and to everyone’s surprise she had agreed.