Just My Joe

Excerpt Letter to Reader About the Author Title Page Dedication Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Copyright

What Strange Spell Was This Refreshing, Lovely Woman Weaving Around Him?

You’d better watch your step, Dillon, Joe told himself. He usually had his guard up automatically when he was in the company of single women.

But with Polly? She was so open and honest, so far removed from the social set he was accustomed to. He found himself relaxing, just being himself, Joe Dillon, exactly as he was.

Oh, yeah. He most definitely had better watch his step in regard to Polly Chapman. He was treading on foreign turf, where lurking in the shadows there was danger of losing his heart before he knew what hit him....

Dear Reader,

Spring is in the air—and all thoughts turn toward love. With six provocative romances from Silhouette Desire, you too can enjoy a season of new beginnings...and happy endings!

Our March MAN OF THE MONTH is Lass Small’s The Best Husband in Texas. This sexy rancher is determined to win over the beautiful widow he’s loved for years! Next, Joan Elliott Pickart returns with a wonderful love story—Just My Joe. Watch sparks fly between handsome, wealthy Joe Dillon and the woman he loves.

Don’t miss Beverly Barton’s new miniseries, 3 BABIES FOR 3 BROTHERS, which begins with His Secret Child. The town golden boy is reunited with a former flame—and their child. Popular Anne Marie Winston offers the third tide in her BUTLER COUNTY BRIDES series, as a sexy heroine forms a partnership with her lost love in The Bride Means Business. Then an expectant mom matches wits with a brooding rancher in Carol Grace’s Expecting.... And Virginia Dove debuts explosively with The Bridal Promise, when star-crossed lovers marry for convenience.

This spring, please write and tell us why you read Silhouette Desire books. As part of our 20th anniversary celebration in the year 2000, we’d like to publish some of this fan mail in the books—so drop us a line, tell us how long you’ve been reading Desire books and what you love about the series. And enjoy our March titles!

Regards,

Joan Marlow Golan

Senior Editor, Silhouette Desire

Please address questions and book requests to:

Silhouette Reader Service

U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

Just My Joe

Joan Elliott Pickart

About the Author

JOAN ELLIOTT PICKART is the author of over seventy novels. When she isn’t writing, she enjoys watching football, knitting, reading, gardening and attending craft shows on the town square. Joan has three all-grown-up daughters and a fantastic little grandson. In September of 1995, Joan traveled to China to adopt her fourth daughter, Autumn. Joan and Autumn have settled into their cozy cottage in a charming small town in the high pine country of Arizona.

For Dana, a woman of courage

beyond measure.

I love you, dear friend.

One

“Call the cops. Call the cops.”

Polly Chapman rolled her eyes heavenward as she heard the scratchy-voice command.

“Hush, Jazzy,” Polly said, then pressed on the brake as she came to a red light The ancient van she was driving shuddered and shook as it idled. “We have no need for an officer of the law.” She glanced quickly around the shabby neighborhood. “Well, not at the moment, anyway. Hold that thought, though.”

“Call the cops,” Jazzy squawked.

“Oh, brother,” Polly muttered, starting off again as the light turned green. -

She shot a glare at the talkative creature in the passenger seat. Jazzy was a brightly colored and definitely opinionated macaw that was traveling in a large, bellshaped cage. His feathers were glossy, vibrant shades of green, orange, red and yellow, and he was perched on a swing in the middle of the cage, as though determined not to miss seeing anything that might be happening.

At the next red light, Polly shifted in her seat as much as the seat belt would allow, making certain that all the doors of the vehicle were securely locked.

It had taken over an hour to drive from the northwest section of Tucson to the far south side. Now with each passing block, bleak poverty seemed to shout at her from all directions.

The buildings were old and many were decorated with sprawling graffiti, the message not always discernable. Some of the windows of stores were boarded, others whitewashed, then suddenly there would appear a store with a faded Open sign hanging on the door.

Polly frowned in dismay as she saw several people curled up in doorways, either sleeping or simply ignoring the dismal world around them. A few people strolled along the trash-cluttered sidewalk, obviously in no rush to get where they were going.

She’d heard of south Tucson, of course, but she’d never had any reason to come into this area. It had a reputation of a high crime rate, gangs on the prowl and danger. Now that she was there, she most definitely wished that she wasn’t.

She glanced quickly at the map drawn on a piece of paper next to her on the seat, then began to look for street signs, many of which were missing from the metal poles.

With a sigh of relief, Polly found the street she was seeking and turned right, the map indicating that she should go five blocks to reach her destination.

A cloud settled over the sun, dropping a gray curtain on the area and emphasizing the dreary aura of the residential neighborhood she was now driving through. The houses were small, some exhibiting an attempt at pride of ownership, others seeming to shout the message of a total lack of caring.

Polly shivered, partly from the cool temperature of the overcast November day, and partly from a sense of struggle and despair that seemed to be sifting into the van and touching her with chilling fingers.

“Call the cops,” Jazzy squawked.

“No, not the cops, Jazzy,” Polly said quietly. “What’s needed here is whole platoon of guardian angels, or fairy godmothers with magic wands.”

“Silly girl,” Jazzy said. “Silly girl.”

“Thanks a lot,” Polly said, shooting the macaw a dark glare. “I don’t know why I bother to try to have a conversation with you. You’re just so opinionated and judgmental.”

“Fix some soup,” Jazzy said.

“And sexist,” Polly added. “Fix your own dumb soup. I’m not your maid.” She shook her head. “Why am I talking to this bird? Just shut up, Polly Chapman.”

“Polly want a cracker?” Jazzy said.

“That,” she said, “is not funny. I could wring Robert’s neck for teaching you to say that.”

“Polly want a cracker?”

“No!”

Polly slowed her speed, pressed on the brake, then leaned forward for a better look, as she realized she’d found what she was searching for.

“Abraham Lincoln High School,” she said aloud. “Grim, very grim.”

The four-story building was obviously ancient, the red bricks crumbling at the corners and the windows having a strange yellow cast to them. There was another structure that appeared newer; it was to the right and behind the main building. The sign on the second, one-story creation announced that it was the Multipurpose Building.

“That’s where we’re headed, Jazzy,” Polly said. “We’re among the multipurpose rank and file today. Now to find somewhere to park.”

It was another two blocks before Polly discovered a tight-squeeze parking place on the street. She twisted the rearview mirror to check her appearance.

That’s as good as it gets, she thought. She was twenty-four years old and still got carded in bars. Nothing she tried made her look any older.

Her short, naturally curly blond hair, blue eyes and the dusting of freckles across her nose combined into a face that caused her to prove her true age time and again.

“Oh, well,” she mused, with a shrug, “look at the bright side. I’ll be the envy of the masses when I’m forty and look thirty. Right, Jazzy?”

“Right, Jazzy,” the macaw repeated.

“Write that down. You actually agreed with something I said.” Polly paused. “Well, let’s trudge back to Abraham Lincoln High School. Duty calls.”

“Show biz,” Jazzy said. “Show biz.”

“Whatever,” Polly muttered.

Joe Dillon stood at one end of the Multipurpose Building, a clipboard in his hand. He was oblivious to the high volume of noise created by five hundred students talking and laughing. An army sergeant in full uniform stood in front of Joe.

“Okay,” Joe said, making a check mark on the paper attached to the clipboard. “We appreciate your coming to career day, Sergeant. Just have a seat on one of those folding chairs behind the table.”

The sergeant nodded and walked away.

“How are we doing, Joe?”

Joe turned to see the principal of the school. Mark Jackson was in his mid-fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair and more wrinkles on his weary face than his age indicated. He was much shorter than Joe’s six feet, but Joe knew from experience that Mark was physically stronger than he appeared.

The two men not only worked together, they liked and respected each other. They were friends.

“Everyone is here except Dr. Robert Dogwood, the veterinarian. Dogwood? Do you suppose that’s his real name?”

Mark chuckled. “Who knows? Clara and I hired a baby-sitter once whose name was Ima Nanny. She swore that was what her mother christened her. I take it you’ve never met Dr. Dogwood?”

Joe shook his head. “No, I just started with A in the yellow pages of the telephone book under Veterinarians, and hit it lucky when I got to Dogwood. People in general aren’t real excited about coming into this part of town.”

“True,” Mark said, “and I don’t blame them.”

“Well, let’s give the vet five more minutes to show up,” Joe said. “If he doesn’t make an appearance by then, we’ll start without him. The troops are getting restless.”

Mark swept his gaze over the crowded bleachers.

“I hope they listen,” he said. “I want them to realize there’s a way out of this part of town. If they’d just buckle down and study, choose a career goal, have a dream, a...” Mark sighed. “Well, this is our first attempt at a career day. There’s no telling how it will be received by the students.”

“Nope,” Joe said, smiling. “There’s no secondguessing these guys, Mark. That’s just one of the things that makes teaching at Lincoln so...shall we say...challenging?”

Mark laughed. “That’s a polite word for it But you and I sign new contracts every year. We’re either dedicated, or dumb.” His smile faded. “Who am I kidding? We belong here, honestly believe we might make a difference, reach a few of these frustrated, angry kids.”

“Yep,” Joe said, nodding. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m in for the long haul.”

“And I’m grateful for that,” Mark said. “I’d hate to be doing this without you on my staff.”

“Don’t get mushy on me, Mark.” Joe glanced toward the door at the other end of the building. “Well, Dr. Dogwood is a no-show, I guess. So, let the games begin.”

“All right I’ll quiet the inmates down, then turn the microphone over to you, since you’re the one who coordinated the whole thing.”

“Go for it,” Joe said, then watched the principal walk away.

Mark was a good man, he thought. He’d grown up in a neighborhood like this one in Detroit, understood these students and what they were up against. He and his family lived in a nice home on the northwest side, but Mark was dedicated to helping these kids, would stay at Lincoln until he retired.

Joe swept his gaze over the noisy crowd.

And Joe Dillon? he mused. He came from a far different upbringing. His family was wealthy and he’d had every materialistic whim met and then some. He’d taken it all for granted. He wanted it, he got it, no questions asked, and the image of it all in his mind made him cringe.

Ten years ago he’d decided it was payback time. He’d walked away from the world of money, except for the occasional appearances at megabucks events to keep his parents happy.

He worked in the ghetto. Lived in the ghetto. Breathed the air in the ghetto. It was the only way to really relate to these kids, be the kind of teacher he was determined to be. He lacked Mark’s firsthand knowledge of this life, but he was making up for it in his own way.

Sacrifices? Joe mentally wandered on. Yeah, sure, he’d made sacrifices. The biggest one, he supposed, was the fact that he would never marry and have a family. He couldn’t ask a wife and children to live down here and he had every intention of staying. So be it.

As the years went by, he had less patience and tolerance for the idle rich, the jet-set crowd, those who refused to address anything beyond their selfish pleasures. They pretended that neighborhoods like this one, kids like these, didn’t exist. Damn.

Enough, Dillon, he told himself. The vet had obviously gotten cold feet. It was time to get this show on the road.

The two-block walk back to the school seemed more like twenty to Polly as the weight of Jazzy’s heavy cage began to make her hand, arm and shoulder ache.

Arriving at last outside the wide double doors of the Multipurpose Building, Polly stopped to catch her breath and regain her composure. She blew a puff of air up over her face, ruffling the curls on her forehead.

“Well, here we go, Jazzy,” she said.

She pulled open one of the doors and stepped inside to hear an amplified man’s voice say, “...who put in many hours to make this career day at Abraham Lincoln possible. Ladies and gentlemen, please show your appreciation to our own Coach Dillon.”

Polly took another step, then stopped dead in her tracks with a gasp of shock as the student’s appreciation erupted at full volume. They applauded, hooted and hollered, stamped their feet in a rumbling rhythm on the bleachers and whistled shrilly.

“Good grief,” Polly muttered, then frowned. Heavens, she thought, she had to cover the entire length of the building to reach the ever-famous and much-appreciated Coach Dillon and the other people, who were seated on folding chairs. With a chatty bird in a cage, she was about to parade in front of several hundred students.

“Thank you,” Joe said, raising both hands for silence.

Polly started tentatively forward.

The students quieted slowly, then silence fell.

Polly lifted her chin and kept moving.

“The purpose of this first career day at Lincoln,” Joe continued, “is to give all of you the opportunity to...”

“Call the cops,” Jazzy squawked, loud and clear.

The students whooped with laughter.

“No way, Bird Lady,” a boy shouted. “The cops come calling on me more than I want to see them.”

Polly felt a warm flush stain her cheeks as she quickened her step, mentally clicking off ways to murder Jazzy.

What in the hell... Joe thought frowning, as the noise level increased to full volume again. Who was this? It sure wasn’t the Dr. Robert Dogwood he’d spoken to on the telephone. It was some kid with a talking bird, who had managed to totally disrupt the program before it had hardly begun.

No, wait a minute. The girl had to have been sent by the vet. Otherwise, it didn’t make any sense for her to be here. He didn’t envy her the walk she was marking, that was for sure. Well, she was getting closer now and...

Whoa, Joe thought. That wasn’t a kid, it was most definitely a woman. A very pretty—in a fresh, wholesome way—woman. She was wearing pale blue slacks that defined her feminine curves and a dark blue blouse that hinted at womanly breasts beneath it.

Oh, yes, she was young, but she was a woman, no doubt about it. He was going to take pity on her and escort her past the remaining students.

Joe came from behind the table and strode toward the woman carrying the birdcage, his long legs covering the distance in short order.

Polly stopped and looked up at the man she now knew to be Coach Dillon.

“I...” she began, then forgot what she was about to say.

My stars, she thought. In the midst of this embarrassing chaos she was in close proximity to one of the most ruggedly handsome men she’d ever seen.

Oh, yes, one certainly should appreciate Coach Dillon. He was tall, with wide shoulders, his chiseled features were tan, his dark brown hair thick and in need of a trim, and his yummy eyes were the color of fudge sauce.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” Polly said, amazed she had enough air in her lungs to speak. “I couldn’t find a place to park and I had to walk a couple of blocks. This cage is heavy, so I had to set it down once and...”

“You’re not Dr. Dogwood,” Joe said, frowning. Very, very pretty, now that he was close enough for a full perusal. But how old was she? Twenty? Twenty-two? Twenty-five? He really couldn’t tell. “I’m assuming he sent you, though?”

“Yes. Robert had an emergency surgery to perform. His wife, Dr. Nancy Dogwood, is covering the appointments at the clinic. I’m Ms. Polly Chapman, a veterinary technician.”

“I see,” Joe said.

“I’ve never done anything like this before. I have no idea what you want me to say, Coach Dillon. Robert didn’t have time to explain things to me.”

“It’s Joe...Polly. You won’t be first on the program, so you’ll have a chance to hear some of the others speak before it’s your turn. May I carry your bird for you?”

“What? Oh. Yes, thank you.”

Polly lifted Jazzy’s cage and Joe slid his fingers through the brass ring at the top, brushing Polly’s fingers as she released her hold. A sudden and startling heat exploded from the feathery touch, shooting up both Polly and Joe’s arms.

Their eyes collided with matching confusion; summer-sky blue eyes and eyes of fudge-sauce brown.

“Wanna snuggle, bunny?” Jazzy squawked.

Polly snapped her head around to glare at the bird.

“Jazzy, for heaven’s sake,” she scolded, “hush.”

Joe spun on his heel and strode back to the area containing the table and chairs, Polly following more slowly behind him.

Gracious, she thought, what a strange sensation that had been when her hand had met with Joe Dillon’s. She could still feel the heat tingling along her arm and across her breasts.

It was probably static electricity.

No, she thought, in the next instant. That was an easy-out explanation, but she somehow knew it wasn’t true. It had been a man-woman thing, a sensuous something, that was disconcerting, to say the least.

Joe Dillon was one of those dangerous men who oozed blatant masculinity by doing nothing more than standing there. He was the type who had to beat women off with a stick. Oh, yes, Joe was very, very dangerous.

Polly settled onto a folding chair, smiled politely at the people on either side of her, then nodded her thanks to Joe as he set Jazzy’s cage on the floor in front of her. She folded her hands primly in her lap and plastered what she hoped was a pleasant, professional expression on her face.

Only then did she realize she was seated directly behind Joe, where he was now standing at the microphone on the table.

My, my, Polly thought, such delectable scenery. Coach Dillon certainly did have a nice tush, and those long, beautifully muscled legs weren’t too shabby, either. The man just didn’t quit. He had it all, from head to toe.

Oh, goodness, there was that heat again, only this time it was traveling in the opposite direction, swirling low within her. This would never do. She didn’t have reactions like this to men she’d known for about three seconds. She didn’t have reactions like this to men she’d known for three years.

Enough was enough. She was going to quit staring at Joe Dillon’s buns and get herself back under control.

Slowly and admittedly a tad reluctantly, Polly shifted her gaze to the side wall of the building, where a huge, snarling head of a bear had been painted with vivid yellow and blue colors. Beneath the bear was the blockletter word Grizzlies.

That must be the school mascot, Polly thought absently. The Abraham Lincoln Grizzlies. How nice. The years in high school were such fun. But then again, maybe they weren’t for the kids in this neighborhood. That was a depressing thought.

“Polly want a cracker?” Jazzy said.

“Shh,” she whispered, nudging the cage with her toe.

Joe fiddled with the papers he’d picked up from the table, then cleared his throat.

Lord, he thought, he felt like he’d been punched in the gut. When his fingers had slid over Polly Chapman’s, heat had rocketed up his arm, then slammed into his lower body.

That wholesome-looking, freckles-on-her-cute-nose woman had had a potent impact on him. He wasn’t accustomed to things like that happening to him, and he didn’t like it, not one damn bit.

Cripes, Polly wasn’t even his type. He didn’t keep company with women who looked like they could be a model for a box of cornflakes. He dated savvy gals, the single scene game players who knew the rules. No one got hurt, and a good time was had by all.

Enough mental talking to yourself, Dillon, he thought. If he didn’t get this show on the road, he’d have a mutiny on his hands. The natives of Lincoln High were definitely getting restless.

“Okay, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, speaking into the microphone, “settle down, please.”

“Bring on the Bird Lady, Coach,” a boy yelled. “We want the Bird Lady.”

The students cheered and stamped their feet, obviously in favor of the hollered request.

Oh, dear heaven, Polly thought, the building was going to fall down. All those stamping feet pounding on the bleachers was creating a deafening roar. Well, Joe Dillon, who must coach something or other, better not make her speak before the others, because she had absolutely no idea what to say.

“Chill,” Joe said, slicing one hand through the air. “Now.”

Silence fell so quickly it was as though someone had pulled the plug on a boom box.

“All right,” Joe said. “This career day is being presented for you, and I respect the fact that you should have some say in how it’s conducted. Therefore, please welcome Ms. Polly Chapman.”

Joe turned and smiled at Polly, who glowered at him and stayed glued to her chair. Joe closed the short distance between them and bent over slightly to speak to her.

“Look, I’m sorry,” he said. “If I try to cram this program down their throats they’ll tune out from word one. You’ve peaked their curiosity and that’s terrific.”

“Terrific?” Polly said, raising her eyebrows. “What am I supposed to say?”

“Just tell them what you do and the kind of training it required to be able to do whatever it is you do.” Joe shrugged. “Wing it.” He chuckled. “That wasn’t a pun, Bird Lady.”

“Cute,” Polly muttered.

Joe smiled his best hundred-watt smile, picked up Jazzy’s cage and returned to the table, placing the cage in front of the microphone.

“Oh, dear, dear,” Polly mumbled, getting to her feet.

Joe stepped back to allow Polly access to the microphone. Polly moved to the table, then out of the corner of her eye she saw Joe settle onto the chair she’d vacated.

Her eyes widened as she remembered the clear view of Joe’s tush she’d had while sitting in that chair. She was going to have enough difficulty talking to this rowdy audience without knowing that Joe Dillon was probably indulging in a thorough scrutiny of her bottom.

Polly spun around. “You can’t sit there.”