A Bride For Jackson Powers

Men bound by blood, tied to the sea

and destined to be heroes.

Meet the Powers men:

Jackson Powers. Maritime lawyer. Rich, handsome and stranded with baby in A Bride for Jackson Powers by Dixie Browning, a 2/00 Silhouette Desire title.

Matthew Powers. Sea captain, forefather. Strong, honorable and married for convenience in The Paper Marriage by Bronwyn Williams, an 8/00 Harlequin Historicals novel.

Curt Powers. Navy SEAL. Arresting, determined and involved in a dangerous mission of the most private nature in The Virgin and the Vengeful Groom by Dixie Browning, an 11/00 Silhouette Desire title.

Don’t miss this exciting new series from

Silhouette Desire and Harlequin Historicals!

Dear Reader,

In keeping with the celebration of Silhouette’s 20th anniversary in 2000, what better way to enjoy the new century’s first Valentine’s Day than to read six passionate, powerful, provocative love stories from Silhouette Desire!

Beloved author Dixie Browning returns to Desire’s MAN OF THE MONTH promotion with A Bride for Jackson Powers, also the launch title for the series THE PASSIONATE POWERS. Enjoy this gem about a single dad who becomes stranded with a beautiful widow who’s his exact opposite.

Get ready to be seduced when Alexandra Sellers offers you another sheikh hero from her SONS OF THE DESERT miniseries with Sheikh’s Temptation. Maureen Child’s popular series BACHELOR BATTALION continues with The Daddy Salute—a marine turns helpless when he must take care of his baby, and he asks the heroine for help.

Kate Little brings you a keeper with Husband for Keeps, in which the heroine needs an in-name-only husband in order to hold on to her ranch. A fabulously sexy doctor returns to the woman he could never forget in The Magnificent M.D. by Carol Grace. And exciting newcomer Sheri WhiteFeather offers another irresistible Native American hero in Jesse Hawk: Brave Father.

We hope you will indulge yourself this Valentine’s Day with all six of these passionate romances, only from Silhouette Desire!

Enjoy!

Joan Marlow Golan

Senior Editor, Silhouette Desire

MILLS & BOON

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For Curtiss Ann Matlock, my dearest friend,

distant cousin and Oklahoma connection.

We’ve put in a few airport hours together, too.

DIXIE BROWNING

celebrated her sixty-fifth book for Silhouette with the publication of Texas Millionaire in 1999. She has also written a number of historical romances with her sister under the name Bronwyn Williams. A charter member of Romance Writers of America, and a member of Novelists, Inc., Dixie has won numerous awards for her work. She lives on the Outer Banks of North Carolina.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

One

Obviously, Jackson was doing it all wrong. He didn’t even know how to hold her. You’d think a man his age would’ve learned that much by now. She’d started to squeal and kick him in the belly.

A few people glared at him. Most were too busy comparing hard-luck stories.

“…catch a shuttle. If I’m not in D.C. by nine tomorrow—”

“Fat chance. I’ve been standing here for the past three hours and the damned line hasn’t moved an inch, I swear.”

“This place stinks. I mean literally! Last time I’m ever going to plan a trip this time of year, so help me. Hey, quit shoving, will you?”

Two small boys broke through the line, whooping like wild animals. A middle-aged woman wearing sweats and a fur coat dropped a heap of carry-on luggage, flopped down on the pile and began to swear.

Jax wanted to say, Yeah, well what if you were stuck here with a daughter you’d met only hours earlier, who doesn’t even speak the damned language? He sniffed. He had a pretty good idea what was stinking, and it wasn’t just the weather. He jiggled the damp, squirming baby in his arms, mumbling words that were supposed to be comforting, but didn’t appear to have that effect. Too bad babies didn’t come with an operations manual.

Someone bumped him from behind and murmured a soft apology. The natives were getting restless. He’d heard of road rage. It was nothing compared to airport rage, given a holiday crowd and the ice storm of the century.

“Whaddya mean, flight delayed? I gotta get outta here, dammit!” the man in front of him shouted. “Don’t nobody in this place know how to deice a plane? Buncha idiots, if you ask me!”

Lines for the two flights serviced from this particular desk had already merged into one unruly mob. He was being jostled from all sides.

The sigh that came from behind him was almost lost in the clamor. Jax’s shoulders sagged as Sunny shifted from fret mode to shriek mode. Pink-shod feet, size zilch, kicked him in the belly. Poor kid must be miserable. He wondered how long it would take the dampness to soak through her padded pink snowsuit and all the layers it enclosed.

Another sigh whispered behind him. He was tempted to turn around and snap out something really helpful, like, “You think you’ve got troubles? How’d you like to try mine on for size?”

He shifted his burden, struggling to hold on to baby, briefcase, carrier and pink plastic diaper bag. Sunny was bored with the carrier, which was why he was carrying her in his arms. The thing was a damned nuisance, but Carolyn had said she needed it.

“Shh, yeah, I know, babe, it’s a rough deal. I’ll get us out of here, don’t worry.” At this point he’d gladly take the first flight out, regardless of where it was bound.

“Excuse me,” said a voice so soft he nearly missed it.

“You talking to me?” He turned to the woman behind him in what had once been an orderly line.

“I was wondering—do you know—I mean, I think your baby might need changing.”

“So?” He wasn’t normally given to surliness, but these were not normal circumstances. “Sorry. Yeah, I kind of suspected as much.”

The woman glanced around, probably searching for someone who looked like a wife and mother. There were plenty of likely looking candidates as far as age was concerned, only none of them belonged to him and Sunny.

“Um…maybe I could hold your place in line while you…uh…”

“Change her drawers? You mean right here?” Jax dodged as a utility cart beeped its way through the throng.

“I’m pretty sure I saw a changing table in the ladies’ room.”

“The ladies’ room. Now, why didn’t I think of that?” Jax’s conscience was broadsided by a pair of silver-gray eyes the size of half dollars. Sarcasm wasn’t going to help matters. Besides, she didn’t deserve it, she was only trying to help.

It was the first thing he noticed about her, after the voice. Those eyes. Because it beat staring at the foulmouthed fathead in front of him, he took a moment to size up the rest. Either she was an elegant idiot or a model fresh off a tropical assignment. At first glance, her face struck him as too thin to be called pretty. Her skinny skirt, splashed with big, colorful blossoms, came down to her ankles and was topped off with a few baggy layers that wouldn’t stand a chance against this weather. He hoped to hell she had something warmer stashed away in a locker. That yellow thing draped around her shoulders wasn’t going to do the job.

“Look, I’m really sorry, miss. I know you’re only trying to—” Suddenly Sunny lunged. The woman flung up her hands in an instinctive gesture to catch her.

“I guess she’s hungry, too,” Jax said, a note of desperation edging into his voice. “I offered her a bottle, but she wasn’t interested.” He bounced the baby some more, the only noticeable effect of which was to make her pitiful cries waver.

Where was his secretary when he needed her?

Where was Sunny’s mother when he needed her?

Hell, for that matter, where was any woman when a man really needed them? One thing he’d learned over the course of nearly four decades was that women were about as dependable as the weather. Nothing had ever happened to change his mind to any great degree.

“This damned ice gets any thicker,” the guy in front grumbled, “we won’t get out of here till the Fourth of July. Where the hell is all this global warming when you need it, somebody wanna tell me that?”

Jackson Powers, who answered to Jax, J.M. and Mr. Powers, came close to regretting the impulse that had made him race directly from his office to Norfolk International, where he’d taken a seat on the first plane headed west. Thank God he kept a razor and a toothbrush at his office. He’d stuffed those and the report he’d been working on into his briefcase.

When he’d gotten the call from Carolyn Tribble, a woman with whom he’d had a short, pleasant fling out in San Diego about a year and a half ago, he’d been in the middle of negotiating the case of the single-hulled tanker, Panamanian registry, that had sunk off the Jersey coast back in October and was threatening the entire area with a massive oil spill. It had taken him a couple of minutes to place her.

“Jackson, this is probably going to come as a surprise,” she’d said, “but you have a six-month-old daughter.”

Surprise? Try stunned disbelief. Try instinctive denial. He never took chances when it came to sex. “What makes you think it’s mine?” he asked cautiously.

“Well, hon, the timing, for one thing. You were the only man I slept with after I filed for divorce. I was real careful about that because Stu was having me followed. Anyway, right after you flew back east I came down with this flu thing that dragged on for weeks, and sex was the last thing I was interested in, so you see, she has to be yours. That’s why I put your name on her birth certificate. Besides, she’s got your forehead and all that thick black hair, and I’m a natural blonde, remember? We talked about it that night I—”

“Look, are you sure about this? I always take precautions.”

“Remember that night in the bathtub, when you got that big bruise on your—”

“Okay, so maybe we slipped up once, but—”

“Slipped down, actually. It’s a wonder we didn’t break our necks. And it was twice, in case you’ve forgotten the next morning. That’s when we saw your bruise, remember?”

There was a long silence, during which Jax tried to recall the details of the encounter in question.

“Um…a daughter, you say.” His mind had raced frantically, weaving the shocking news into a totally unrelated memory from the distant past. “Carolyn? You still there? Look, how about if we got married? I know it’s a little late, but—”

“Oh, Jackson, you are so sweet! Thanks, but no thanks. That’s just what I’d have expected from you, though. You’re a genuine throwback, a real gentleman. What I was sort of hoping was that you’d already have a wife by now, and maybe you and she could…you know, like maybe adopt her? I mean, Sunny’s my baby, too, after all, and I do want the best for her.”

“A daughter. I have a daughter,” he remembered repeating numbly, unable to absorb the impact.

She had gone on to tell him all her reasons for not having an abortion, and how she’d honestly intended to be a wonderful mother, but that was before she’d become seriously involved with this guy from the State Department. “So you see, I’ll be traveling all over Europe the next few years, doing a lot of entertaining, and a baby’s not going to fit into that kind of life-style. What Sunny needs is two loving parents and a real home. Jax, that’s absolutely the only reason I’m putting her up for adoption, because she’s a perfect doll. You’ll adore her. Everyone does.”

He started to speak, but she wasn’t finished. “So I thought I’d give you first choice, but if you can’t take her, I won’t have any trouble finding someone to adopt her. In that case, though, I’ll still need your signature.”

That was Carolyn. Strikingly attractive, highly intelligent, totally self-centered. He wasn’t sure he could tolerate being married to her, but for the sake of their child he’d been willing to give it a shot.

So now here he was, stuck in a socked-in airport in Chicago on his way back to Norfolk with a baby that had his forehead and his thick black hair.

Jax’s hair was straight and laced with gray, while Sunny’s was soft as down and curly, but one look at that small pink face and he’d known. Known it in the marrow of his bones, or wherever such knowledge was centered. She was his, all right—toothless grin, fat pink cheeks, navy-blue eyes and all. His daughter.

“I could take her for you.”

“Huh?” His attention swerved to the tall, thin woman with the clear gray eyes and the quiet voice.

“Into the ladies’ room, I mean. To change her diaper. You could stand guard outside the door if you’re worried. Not that I’d blame you, because you read about things every day—kidnappings and all, I mean. And I’m a stranger, so it pays to be cautious.”

Caution fought with desperation. Desperation won. “Shh, Sunny, it’s going to be all right.” After only a moment’s hesitation, Jax handed his daughter over to the woman in the long, flowered skirt, the thick-heeled sandals and the layers of baggy sweaters on top. He was no expert on women’s fashions. Most of the women he associated with in the course of his work wore tailored suits. As for the others—the ones he took to dinner, a show, and occasionally to bed—they always looked pretty, but he’d never spent much time analyzing what they wore.

“Yeah, if you wouldn’t mind, I guess she’d be more comfortable. There’s powder and diapers and stuff in here—” He handed over the large pink bag and the carrier, then braced himself to wait. “Her name’s Sunny,” he called as an afterthought.

He could only hope he was doing the right thing. What he knew about babies could be scratched on the head of a thumbtack.

His daughter. That red-faced, smelly, noisy little miracle was his own flesh and blood. God, he didn’t know the first thing about relating to family. Other than the great-uncle a social worker had tracked down some thirty-five years ago who’d installed him in a series of boarding schools and grudgingly paid the freight, he’d never had to deal with a family. At least not since he was six years old.

As she turned away from the darkly handsome creature with the stern face, the guarded eyes and the beard-shadowed jaw, Hetty’s arms curved around the soggy little bundle. Brushing her lips against a soft, dark curl, she whispered, “Don’t fuss, sugar-britches, he’ll be right there waiting for you when I get you all cleaned up.”

He didn’t quite trust her, that much was obvious, but what choice had he had? If it hadn’t been for the hint of vulnerability he’d let slip through his guard, Hetty would never in a million years have dared speak to him. Mercy, he was intimidating. But at least he seemed to care about the baby, which said a lot in his favor.

Edging her way through the cluster of women, she got in line for one of the changing tables. The line inched forward slowly. Hetty bounced a fretful Sunny in her arms, wondering what on earth had possessed her to do such a thing. She had her own problems to deal with without taking on someone else’s burden. She’d been on her way from Oklahoma to Miami, Florida, supposedly changing planes in Cincinnati and again in Atlanta, when her plans had started to fall apart.

A table opened up and she grabbed it, plopping her charge down on her padded backside. “Stop squirming, sugar, your little doohickey’s stuck.” She struggled with the zipper, half-afraid if she took too long the baby’s father would come after her. “Ooh, you’re a real mess, aren’t you?” Rummaging in the stuffed diaper bag, she found a container of predampened tissues. “No wonder you were so fussy, you’re getting a rash.”

Holding two wriggling feet up with one hand, she felt in the bag again with the other and came up with a familiar-looking tube. She’d used the same ointment on Robert whenever he’d been threatened with diaper rash.

“I hope you’ve got a teething ring in here somewhere, else you’re going to wear those knuckles out,” she murmured. There were already several women lined up behind her, waiting for the fold-down changing table. The rest room was crowded. Someone called out that there was no paper. A roll was tossed from one booth to the other.

Mercy, to think she’d harbored the illusion that travel would be one glamorous adventure after another. Her friend at the agency had explained that the cheapest rates involved an illogical route with several changes along the way. Hetty hadn’t been intimidated. Once she’d taken the first step, she hadn’t looked back.

Now she almost wished she had. Still, her very first flight was proving exciting, if a bit tiresome. And in a few hours she’d be embarking on her very first cruise.

“Here’s hoping I don’t have to change ships between islands,” she muttered, disposing of the soiled diaper.

At any other time in her life, Hetty would never have considered doing something so absurdly impractical, never mind expensive. But when an old friend, a woman who knew about her situation and who worked at a travel agency in Oklahoma City, had called to tell her about a last-minute cancellation, Hetty had jumped at the chance. It was too late now for second thoughts.

“There, sweetheart, we’re all done. Let’s see if Papa brought along something for you to eat, shall we?”

“Would you mind? You’re not the only mother with a wet kid.”

Hetty smiled apologetically. “We’re all finished. Sorry you had to wait.” She got a frown for her efforts and scurried out of the way, taking her place in the line waiting for a lavatory.

The familiar scent of baby oil and the feel of the small, sweet bundle in her arms brought back painful memories. Hetty promised herself resolutely that once she got back from her cruise, found a job and a place to live, she would begin mending fences. Family—any sort of family at all—was too precious to be squandered. She was determined to patch things up again.

Conscious of the waiting lines behind her, she spared only a fleeting glance in the mirror, startled all over again by her new haircut and the unfamiliar clothes. If she’d known she was going to wind up in ice-bound Chicago instead of balmy Miami, she would have dressed far differently. Or at least worn something warmer than the silky knit tunic, the overshirt and shawl the clerk assured her were made to be worn with the new longer skirts.

But there’d been no way of knowing that the jet stream would zig when it should have zagged, or that the arctic blast would collide with a stream of Gulf moisture along the mid-Atlantic.

Hundreds of flights were being diverted as, one after another, airports from Atlanta northward were shutting down. Evidently she was among the lucky ones. According to rumor, there were a number of loaded flights trapped on runways, unable to take off, unable to return to the gates because of the planes already stranded there.

From now on, she’d just as soon stick to Greyhound.

With the diaper bag and carrier in one hand, and her big, lightweight purse that was supposed to be just the thing for traveling over her shoulder, she hugged the infant who was chewing on her yellow fringed shawl and said, “Come on, sugar-britches, let’s go before your daddy sends out a search party.”

He was hovering like a dark cloud just outside the ladies’ room door. Hetty wondered if he was even aware of all the women who glanced at him and then turned back for a second look.

Probably used to it. He was that kind of man. George Clooney with a harder edge, a narrower backside and broader shoulders. She’d noticed that much standing in line behind him, before she’d ever seen his face, which seemed to wear a perpetual scowl.

“About time you showed up. I was starting to worry.”

The crowd was thicker than ever, and from the snatches of conversation, growing more impatient by the minute. “Sorry. These things take time. Your little girl’s got a rash, and she’s either hungry or teething or both, but at least she’s dry now.”

Reluctantly she handed the baby to her father, thinking about the baby she’d left behind. As long as she was going to have to find work quickly once she got back home, she might as well try something in the care-giving line. At least she’d had plenty of experience.

She’d hoped the weather might have miraculously cleared while she was inside. It hadn’t. Fortunately she still had plenty of time to reach Miami.

Smiling, she gave the baby a goodbye pat on her padded bottom and said, “This isn’t the way the travel ads described it, else I might not have tried it.”

“Tried what?”

“Flying.” Sunny snuggled into her father’s arms and began to gnaw on his collar. The man was a mess. An expensive-looking suede jacket was slung over one shoulder, his tie was loose, the two top buttons on his shirt unfastened. Hetty thought she’d never seen a more strikingly attractive man in her life, scowl and all.

The scowl moderated. “You mean you’ve never flown before?”

“I never needed to go anywhere farther than Oklahoma City.”

“You picked a lousy time for your maiden voyage.”

“I’m beginning to—” Someone struck her in the back, and she stumbled against the man and baby. His free arm came around her, the carrier and diaper bag slammed into her behind, and she inhaled sharply, absorbing the mingled scent of bergamot and leather.

It occurred to her that with spare time on her hands for the first time in her adult life, she might just weave herself a lovely romantic fantasy from this chance encounter.

The fantasy gripped her arm and growled in her ear. “Let’s get out of this mob.”

Startled, Hetty glanced around. If there was a place out of the flow of traffic, it must be a closely guarded secret. Children played reckless games of tag or whined and tugged at parents’ arms. Babies cried. Tired travelers tried to hang on to baggage, children and patience against a constantly shifting current of humanity. Over all that came the confusing din of weather updates, distorted loudspeaker announcements and the polite beep-beep of motorized carts on some mysterious mission of their own.

Such was the power of a well-directed scowl, that Sunny’s father was able to lead her through the throng to a relatively clear corner behind a deserted service desk. “Hold her while I shift these trash receptacles, will you?”

Hetty watched as he rearranged airport property, commandeering an abandoned wheelchair and using it to block off a six-square-foot fortress. “Can you do that?” she asked dubiously.

The look he shot her said, I did it, didn’t I? Who are you to question my authority?

Hetty sighed. She might look like a seasoned traveler in her brand-new outfit, the discount store’s version of resort wear, but underneath it all she was plain-old Henrietta Reynolds, a thirty-seven-year old widow, who had never traveled farther than a few hundred miles from home in her life.