Brett didn’t know why he continued to hold Caitlin close, why he wasn’t ready to let her go.

The silk of her hair lay soft against his cheek, and without a conscious thought, his lips brushed the strands in a whisper-soft kiss that was too out of line for anyone’s good.

Her arms still locked around his neck, she lifted her face. A vibrant aquamarine gaze wrapped around him like seaweed in the surf.

His heart slammed into his chest.

Should he apologize? Make some moronic excuse for letting a hug get out of hand?

He tried to think of an apology, an excuse, some explanation of why his body had taken charge of his brain—until he spotted desire brewing in her eyes. And in the scheme of things, reason and good sense no longer seemed to matter.

So he lowered his mouth to hers….

Dear Reader,

We’re deep into spring, and the season and romance always seem synonymous to me. So why not let your reading reflect that? Start with Sherryl Woods’s next book in THE ROSE COTTAGE SISTERS miniseries, The Laws of Attraction. This time it’s Ashley’s turn to find love at the cottage—which the hotshot attorney promptly does, with a man who appears totally different from the cutthroat lawyers she usually associates with. But you know what they say about appearances….

Karen Rose Smith’s Cabin Fever is the next book in our MONTANA MAVERICKS: GOLD RUSH GROOMS continuity, in which a handsome playboy and his beautiful secretary are hired to investigate the mine ownership issue. But they’re snowbound in a cabin…and work can only kill so much time! And in Lori’s Little Secret by Christine Rimmer, the next of her BRAVO FAMILY TIES stories, a young woman who was always the shy twin has a big secret (two, actually): seven years ago she pretended to be her more outgoing sister—which resulted in a night of passion and a baby, now child. And said child’s father is back in town… Judy Duarte offers another of her BAYSIDE BACHELORS, in Worth Fighting For, in which a single adoptive mother—with the help of her handsome neighbor, who’s dealing with a loss of his own—grapples with the possibility of losing her child. In Elizabeth Harbison’s hilarious new novel, a young woman who wonders how to get her man finds help in a book entitled, well, How To Get Your Man. But she’s a bit confused about which man she really wants to get! And in His Baby to Love by Karen Sandler, a long-recovered alcoholic needs to deal with her unexpected pregnancy, so she gratefully accepts her friend’s offer of her chalet for the weekend. But she gets an unexpected roommate—the one man who’d pointed her toward recovery…and now has some recovering of his own to do.

So enjoy, and we’ll see you next month, when things once again start to heat up, in Silhouette Special Edition!

Sincerely yours,

Gail Chasan

Senior Editor

Worth Fighting For
Judy Duarte

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Patricia Kawano Barberio, with whom I’ve shared

laughter, tears and wine while we discussed—

and sometimes cussed—life’s unexpected curves.

Together, we always come out on top.

I love you, Patty!

JUDY DUARTE

An avid reader who enjoys a happy ending, Judy Duarte always wanted to write books of her own. One day she decided to make that dream come true. Five years and six manuscripts later, she sold her first book to Silhouette Special Edition.

Her unpublished stories have won the Emily and the Orange Rose, and in 2001, she became a double Golden Heart finalist. Judy credits her success to Romance Writers of America and two wonderful critique partners, Sheri WhiteFeather and Crystal Green, both of whom write for Silhouette.

At times, when a stubborn hero and a headstrong heroine claim her undivided attention, she and her family are thankful for fast food, pizza delivery and video games. When she’s not at the keyboard or in a Walter Mitty–type world, she enjoys traveling, spending romantic evenings with her personal hero and playing board games with her kids.

Judy lives in Southern California and loves to hear from her readers. You may write to her at: P.O. Box 498, San Luis Rey, CA 92068-0498. You can also visit her Web site at www.judyduarte.com.

From the Bayside Banner:

A drive-by shooting on Saturday evening claimed the life of an eighteen-year-old pregnant woman at a downtown bus stop. The woman was rushed to Oceana General, where she was placed on life support until her baby girl was delivered by Caesarean section.

Kay Logan, a member of the board of directors of Lydia House, a nonprofit organization that helps homeless young women get their lives on track, said, “Jennifer Harper was once a teen runaway from the Midwest and was living on the street when she first came to Lydia House. She was well on her way to becoming a success story until this senseless tragedy occurred.”

According to Mrs. Logan, funeral services for the single mother will be held at 2:00 p.m. this Saturday at the Bayside Community Church.

A hospital spokesman reported the five-pound two-ounce newborn was doing well and would be placed in foster care.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Epilogue

Chapter One

Lieutenant Brett Tanner had never done anything so stupid.

Not since he joined the U.S. Navy ten years ago.

And he damn sure didn’t know why he did it now, after all this time. Curiosity, he supposed, but for some reason he felt compelled to drive by the house, to peer from a safe distance. To make sure his kid was okay.

He rode his black Harley Softail past the high school, where he’d first met Kelly, his son’s mother, and turned left at the fire station. The old neighborhood appeared the same, but he knew better.

The bike made another left onto Periwinkle Lane, as though it didn’t need a rider, then slowed to a stop.

Brett cut the engine before he reached the cul-de-sac, where the two-story house stood in silent testimony of the things that had remained the same.

And the things that hadn’t.

The outside walls boasted creamy-white stucco. And the wood trim was painted a pale teal—something Kelly had repeatedly told him had needed to be done. Something he’d never gotten around to, since he’d been deployed most of the short time they’d been together.

The grass, obviously fertilized, was a deep shade of green and had been newly mown, the edges cut straight. A rainbow spray of flowers grew along the sidewalk—from the front porch to the drive, where a late-model, white Chevy pickup and a blue minivan rested.

For a moment, he had a masochistic urge to leave the Harley parked at the curb and saunter up the walk like he still owned the place.

But he remained rooted to the spot.

On a couple occasions he’d reconsidered his decision to walk away from his son without a fight. But that was only after having one too many beers. When he was thinking clearly, he knew he’d done the right thing.

His son, a little boy Brett hadn’t seen since he was two, deserved to be happy.

Why confuse the poor kid and screw him up now? Too much time had passed, and David Hopkins was the only dad Justin had ever known.

Besides, with the duty Brett pulled, he’d be in and out of the kid’s life like he was pushing through a revolving door. What good was that?

Brett didn’t know how long he studied the house, the new fence, the bright yellow swing set in the backyard. But he stood there long enough to see that it was just the kind of home every kid ought to have.

One of those purple-flowered trees Kelly had always liked now grew in the front yard. A bright blue flag, adorned with a picture of a birdhouse, hung from the porch overhang, and a wrought iron bench with a floral seat cushion sat by the front door, where a wooden welcome sign hung.

It was vivid proof of all that was right in Kelly’s world—now that Brett was no longer a part of it.

The relationship had been wrong from the get-go, he supposed. They’d squabbled about most everything. But when Kelly got pregnant, he’d insisted they get married for the kid’s sake. And when she’d reconnected with her old boyfriend, he’d wanted an amicable split for the same reason.

So Brett joined the ranks of absent fathers. But at least he wasn’t a deadbeat dad. The Navy deducted an allotment from his pay for child support. And each month he sent Kelly a personal check for an extra two hundred dollars—for incidentals. Stuff his kid might need. Something a dad ought to provide.

It was also a way to keep in touch, to let Kelly know where he was—in case his son needed him. In case she wanted to send him a picture or something.

She hadn’t sent him squat, not even a thank-you. But he hadn’t pressed her, even though something deep inside fought his passive reaction.

Instead, he’d taken out an additional $250,000 life insurance policy—above and beyond what the Navy would provide his son—should something happen to him.

It had been his way of doing right by the kid he’d fathered.

And so had his letting go, staying away and allowing his child to grow up in a loving, peaceful home. Little Justin had two parents to raise him, two people who could be civil to one another. It was bound to be a hell of a lot better childhood than Brett had suffered through.

Just then, a little boy wearing a pair of jeans, a white T-shirt and a red baseball cap came out of the neighbor’s side yard. He ran a short distance down the sidewalk, leaped over a small hedge in the front of the house Brett had been watching, then dashed inside yelling, “Mom, I’m home.”

That was his son. Justin.

Emotion clogged his throat, and his eyes went misty at the thought of what he’d given up.

But Justin was better off this way. Happy and settled in a home where two parents loved him. But that didn’t mean the decision wasn’t tearing Brett up inside.

Justin had been only four months old when Kelly told Brett she wanted to end their marriage, that she’d hooked up with her old boyfriend from college.

Brett’s first thought was to tell her to give Justin to him and get the hell out of his life, but he’d managed a calm tone and used all the tact he could muster.

“What about the baby?” he’d asked her, when she told him over the phone that things weren’t working between them and she wanted a divorce.

“What about the baby?”

“I thought maybe I should raise him, since you and David probably want to have a family of your own.”

“I’m Justin’s mother,” Kelly had cried into the telephone. “I’m not giving him up. He needs me, not a dad who’s never home.”

A sense of anger, frustration and hostility had come over him, making him want to fight her for his son. And he didn’t like it. Didn’t like what it meant, what he knew it would lead to, so he’d shut up, stepped back and let go.

Besides, what would Brett have done with the baby? Take him away from his mother? No way. Kelly loved the child. He knew that.

Visitation had been established through the uncontested divorce, and Brett had seen his son from time to time, but because of his military career, it wasn’t very often.

With Kelly and her new husband always present, things had been awkward. But on the last visit, when Justin was two, the toddler had acted kind of timid. Kelly had said that Brett’s presence was confusing him.

Maybe so, because Brett felt uneasy around his son, too. Hell, with his unstable upbringing, he didn’t feel nearly as qualified to father his son as David was. The guy was a schoolteacher, for God’s sake. So Brett had stepped back.

It hadn’t been easy, and a couple of years ago, when Justin had gotten older, he’d contemplated stepping in and insisting Kelly tell the boy David wasn’t his real dad. But Brett was afraid that would only screw the kid up and make him a hellion, like Brett had once been.

So he’d sucked it up and made the biggest sacrifice he would ever make. And time hadn’t done a damn thing about easing the grief.

The same familiar ache settled deep in his chest, and his eyes began to water. Damn. He felt like bawling. And he hadn’t cried in years. Not after he’d grown battle weary and lashed out at his warring parents in a fit of rebellion that damn near landed him in jail.

Brett started the engine and turned the Harley around. It was time to head back to Bayside. Back to the condo he was house-sitting for a Navy buddy. Back to a big-screen TV, a fridge full of beer and a crotchety old cat named Fred.

But his mind would remain on the vision he’d seen, the perfect life Kelly had created for his son.

His parents’ nasty divorce and vicious custody battle had lasted most of his growing-up years and done a real number on him. For that reason, he’d sworn never to do that to a child of his own.

“I’d walk away first,” he’d told Kelly, “rather than make my son a pawn, make him suffer like I did.”

And Brett had kept his word—even though it nearly killed him not to be a part of Justin’s life.

At the stop sign, he gunned the engine, then headed back to the condominium complex where he would spend his shore duty. But his chest still ached and his eyes stung.

What the hell was the matter with him?

Brett Tanner didn’t cry. He sucked it up and did his duty. He did the right thing.

After all, he’d chosen the wrong road too many times in the past.

As tears welled in his eyes, he cursed the evidence of his weakness, then tried to shake the pain and anger as he sped through the city streets. He turned into the Ocean Breeze complex, just as a white Volvo appeared from nowhere.

A loud metallic thud sounded when his bike slammed into the car. His body flew through the air, then slid along the driveway.

He didn’t feel any pain at first. Not until his head cleared and he felt the sting of asphalt on his knees and arm, followed by an agonizing ache where his shoulder had hit the ground first.

The impact had sent his two-hundred-dollar sunglasses flying, probably smashing them to smithereens.

How was he going to explain this to the other driver? Or to a police officer, if one showed up on the scene? Or to any of his buddies, if they ever caught wind of this?

He’d had his head up his ass, thinking about his son, about Kelly. About the raw pain in his chest and the tears that clouded his sight.

And he’d caused an accident.

A black shadow struck the car with a vengeance. Caitlin Rogers slammed on her brakes, but much too late to avoid an accident. She threw the gearshift into Park, and glanced in her rearview mirror to see her four-year-old daughter sitting wide-eyed in the car seat in back.

“Baby, are you okay?”

Emily nodded. “What happened, Mommy?”

“I ran into someone. You wait here.”

Caitlin swung open the door and rushed to check on the motorcyclist she’d just struck.

Had she killed him? Maimed him? Oh, God. Please let him be okay.

How could she have been so blind, so irresponsible?

She’d been so caught up in the trouble looming over her that she’d been on autopilot and hadn’t even seen the motorcycle turn into the complex. All she’d been thinking about these past few days was that she might lose custody of the child she’d loved and raised since birth, the precious little girl she hoped to adopt.

Caitlin looked at the dazed man and saw a nasty abrasion on his chin, a blood-speckled white T-shirt, a scraped leather aviator jacket, jeans that were torn and bloody at the knee. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.”

The man slowly got to his feet, and she had to tilt her chin to look him in the eyes—glassy blue eyes that looked watery. Gosh, had she hurt him that badly? Had his injuries made him teary-eyed?

“It’s all my fault,” she said. “But I have insurance.”

He grimaced and rubbed his shoulder. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to admit blame in a traffic accident?”

“No. But I was thinking about something else and not paying attention. I’m really sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it.” He glanced at the raw and bloodied knuckles of his right hand. Then he looked at the scraped and battered bike, the dented gas tank, the broken mirror, the bent handlebars, the scratched leather seat that looked like a fancy saddle. He clicked his tongue, blew out a ragged sigh and rolled his eyes.

Gosh, she felt terrible about this. Thank God he was wearing a helmet. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“I’m fine. Really.” He limped to the big, black motorcycle that lay on its side, then shut off the engine.

He didn’t appear fine. But Caitlin had a feeling he’d looked pretty sharp on that bike before she ran into him.

Was that a Harley? Those things were expensive. And her insurance rates would probably skyrocket at a time when she needed every cent she could find.

She eased closer, and he looked up at her with the most incredible sky-blue eyes she’d ever seen. He had a scar over his right brow that made him look manly. Rugged. Not afraid of a fight.

Was she crazy? Maybe she’d hit her head on the steering wheel or something. What provoked her to gawk at the good-looking stranger like a star-struck teenybopper?

He looked at his mangled bike, grimaced and shook his head.

“I’m really sorry,” she said again, the words sounding useless.

“Don’t be.” He caught her eye, drew her deep into his gaze. “Just for the record, the accident was my fault.”

“I’ll call the police,” she said, as she turned and walked back to the car for her cell phone.

“Wait.” He reached out, caught her by the arm and turned her around to face him. “It’s no big deal. Let’s not bother filing an accident report. I’ll just pay you for the damages to your car.”

She needed to watch her expenses, since she expected some hefty legal bills soon. Lawyers were expensive, and she intended to retain the best one she could find—even if it cost her every last dollar she’d saved. Because, if Caitlin wouldn’t fight for her daughter, who would?

The system?

No way. Caitlin knew better than that.

For that reason, she ought to quit struggling with her conscience and let him take the blame for something that felt like her fault. But the brawny biker looked so vulnerable, so hurt.

“Maybe you should see a doctor,” she said.

He offered a wry, one-sided grin, then gazed at her with wounded eyes. “I only hurt my pride. That’s all.”

Then he looked at her—really looked, as though assessing her for injury.

Or was he checking her out in a male/female sort of way? It had been so long since she’d dated that she’d nearly forgotten what that sensual, I’m-available-and-interested eye contact felt like.

“Are you hurt?” he asked her.

Okay. So there went her romantic assumption. But that was just as well. Getting involved with anyone right now wouldn’t be in her best interests. Or Emily’s.

“I’m just a little shaky.” She glanced at the car and saw her daughter peering out the driver’s door with a look of awe on her face.

“My mommy can fix your owies,” Emily said. “She’s a nurse. And she has a whole bunch of Hello Kitty Band-Aids and the stuff that doesn’t sting.”

“Are you okay?” the man asked her daughter.

Emily nodded. “But you’re bleeding really bad. Does it hurt?”

“No. Not a bit.”

The wounded biker swiped a bloodied hand across his cheek, as though wiping something away. He left a red smear in its place.

“Are you crying?” Emily asked him.

“No. A bug flew in my eye.”

Caitlin let his comment alone, since it appeased her daughter. But the man was obviously in pain. “You really ought to see a doctor.”

“I don’t want to see a doctor.” Then he blew out a ragged breath and lifted the heavy bike. He tried to push it toward the carport, but the effort seemed to tax him. He checked something at the handle and near the pedal, then muttered—probably a swear word—under his breath.

Gosh. He was favoring that right leg.

“If you won’t see a doctor, then come to my house and let me tend your wounds.”

“That’s not necessary.” He continued toward the carport.

Caitlin had been on her way to the market, but she was too jittery to go now, so she turned the car around and returned to her parking space. She watched as the motorcyclist pushed his battered bike next to hers.

“Number 39 belongs to my neighbor, Greg Norse,” she told him. “But he’ll be gone for a while, so I’m sure it’s all right if you leave the bike there.”

“I know,” he said. “Greg’s a buddy of mine, and I’m house-sitting while he’s in Australia for the next few weeks.”

“Are you going to cat-sit, too?” Emily asked, as she climbed from the car with her favorite stuffed kitty in tow.

No one loved cats more than Emily. And Greg, bless his heart, let her come over and play with Fred whenever he was home.

“Yeah, I’m watching the dam—” He looked at her daughter, catching himself. “The darn cat.”

“Fred is a good cat,” Emily said in her furry friend’s defense. “He’s the best kitty in the whole world.”

“I’m glad you think so,” the biker said with an I’m-not-convinced smile. “That little beast is psycho.”

“Maybe Fred doesn’t like you,” Emily said.

The biker smiled. “You’ve got that right.”

“I wanted to baby-sit Fred,” Emily told him, “but my mom is ’lergic to cats.”

The biker glanced at Caitlin, then smiled at the child. “Maybe you can come over and feed him. He runs under the bed whenever I get close to him.”

“Can I, Mommy? Please?” Emily’s eyes held such longing, that Caitlin hated to tell the child no. But she didn’t know this man very well.

“We’ll see, honey.” Then she extended a hand to the biker. “My name is Caitlin Rogers, and this is my daughter Emily. We live next door to Greg.”

“Brett Tanner.” He held up his battered hand. “I’m afraid we’d better shake after I get cleaned up.”

“I’ll show you where we live,” Emily said eagerly.

The biker—or rather, Brett—took off his helmet, revealing chocolate-brown hair cut in a military style. He had a nice face, with baby-blue eyes and a classic, square-cut jaw. In fact, he was a good-looking man who probably had his share of female admirers.

“You were leaving,” he said. “And that dent on your hood and grill looks bad, but your car ought to drive okay.”

She smiled and held up a trembling hand for him to see. “The car’s in better shape than my nerves. I’ll wait for a while. Besides, I want to check you out.” Warmth flooded her cheeks. “I mean, check your injuries.”

“I know what you meant.” He slid her a devilish grin that made her wonder what it would have been like to meet him under different circumstances.

But enough of that. Right now, Caitlin’s only focus was Emily. And ensuring that the little girl’s biological father didn’t take the child away from the only mother she’d ever known.

“Come on,” Caitlin said. “Let’s get your wounds cleaned up.”

Brett didn’t know why he’d let Caitlin talk him into this. As he followed her to the house, he glanced at his bloody knuckles. Hell, this was nothing. He’d had worse scuffles as a teenaged delinquent—before Detective Harry Logan had taken an interest in him and helped an angry, surly seventeen-year-old get his life back on track.

So why had he agreed to let the petite blonde with sea-green eyes lead him into her house?

Because the nurse was one hell of an attractive lady, and he didn’t mind letting her practice a little TLC. It had been a long time since a woman had fussed over him.

Besides, her kid was really cute. And a cat lover, no doubt. Maybe she could coax that crazy feline to eat, so Greg wouldn’t come home and find out his good buddy had let the damn critter starve to death under the bed.

At the front door, which boasted a flowery wreath in colors of green, pink and lavender, the attractive blonde slipped a key into the deadbolt, turned the knob and let them inside.

Women sure liked to leave their mark on a place.

Inside, the house was neat and clean, although the furniture looked a bit worn. He caught of whiff of something fragrant. Potpourri?

His mom used to display crystal bowls full of that scented, shaved wood and dried flower petals throughout the house.

“The bathroom is this way,” Caitlin said.

He followed her down the hall and into the guest bathroom, which had pale pink walls and a lacy white curtain. Floral-printed decorative towels hung on the racks and matched the shower curtain.

“Can I help?” Emily asked.

“No, honey. There isn’t much room in here for three of us.”

She had that right. The walls seemed to close in on them the minute he’d stepped inside with her, making him even more aware of their difference in height. And their gender.

As she bent to retrieve something from under the sink, he couldn’t help but appreciate the gentle curve of her hips, the way the white fabric fit a nicely shaped bottom. She straightened and set a first-aid kit on the countertop.

“I can do this myself,” he said, feeling a bit awkward and vulnerable.

“Don’t be silly. I insist.” She took his bad hand in hers, gripping it with gentle fingers that sent a flood of warmth coursing through his blood.

Inside the tight quarters, he caught a whiff of her scent, something alluring and tropical.

While she worked on washing the grit and asphalt from his knuckles, he couldn’t help but assess her with an appreciative eye.

She wore a pair of white pants cropped at the calf. And a lime-green T-shirt that probably would reveal the midriff of a taller woman, but the hem merely tickled her waistline.

Did she have a husband?

He didn’t see a ring on her hand. But that didn’t mean much. Kelly had taken off her wedding band while he’d been in the Middle East.

The water and antibacterial soap stung, but her ministrations were gentle, thorough. Professional. Yet his thoughts weren’t those of a patient. Or a neighbor.

“Are you married?” he asked, unable to quell the curiosity.

Her movements slowed, but quickly resumed without her looking up. “No, I’m not.”

Divorced then, since she had a kid.

“Mommy,” Emily said from the doorway. “Can I get Brett a Popsicle?”

“You can’t reach the freezer door. And he might not want one,” the mother said.

“I can push a chair to the fridge. Then I can reach it.” The little girl offered him a bright-eyed grin. “Do you want a Popsicle? That’s what my mommy gives me after I get my owie bandaged.”

“Thanks for the offer, but I’m afraid a Popsicle will ruin my appetite for dinner.” Brett wasn’t used to kids, but he figured her mother would appreciate his thoughtfulness.

“What are you having for dinner?” Emily asked.

“I’m going to drive through one of those burger joints.” Whoops. Driving wasn’t an option until he got his Harley fixed. He chuckled, then added, “I guess I’ll have to walk, though.”

“Want to have dinner with us?” Emily asked. “We’re having spusghetti.”

Actually, he liked Italian food and wondered if Caitlin was a good cook. Probably. She seemed to have domestic stuff down pat. “Thanks for asking, Emily. But I’ll probably just rustle up something to eat from the pantry.”

At least, he hoped so. He’d come in late last night, and Greg hadn’t left him much to choose from by way of food in the fridge. And with his bike out of commission for a while…

“What does rustle up mean?” Emily asked.

“It means find something.”

“Greg never buys food, ’cept for Fred. That’s why he goes to Burger Bob’s all the time…’cept when he eats with us.” The little girl offered him a sweet, expectant smile. “Spusghetti is better than those crunchy little brown fishies that Fred eats. I know, ’cause I tasted one once, and it was yucky.”

Caitlin looked up from her work on his hand. “I still feel the accident was my fault, Brett. Please join us for dinner. It’s the least I can do.”

He ought to turn tail and run, get the heck out of Dodge. But for some reason, sharing spusghetti with his pretty neighbor and her little girl sounded kind of appealing.

“Are you sure it’s no trouble?” he asked the mother.

“I’m sure. But Emily will probably expect you to play cards or a board game with her. That’s the usual after-dinner routine when Greg comes over to eat.”

“It’s hard to believe a gruff guy like Greg plays kid games.” Brett shook his head and grinned. His buddy stood about six-two and weighed more than two hundred pounds. And he was about as tough a man as the Navy had to offer.

Caitlin chuckled. “He plays a killer game of Candyland and Go Fish.”

Greg? That mountain of a man who smoked cigars and could cuss a blue streak?

“Amazing.” Brett realized he had something on his buddy now.

“Okay,” Caitlin said. “Sit on the commode so I can look at your knee.”

He wondered if she’d ask him to remove his pants. A part of him—that rebellious side he’d allowed to run amok during his youth—hoped she would.

“Do you mind if I cut your jeans?” she asked.

Score one for the lady. “Nah. Go ahead. They’re going in the trash anyway.”

She pulled scissors from the first-aid kit, then knelt at his feet and began to snip at the denim fabric. Her hair had white-gold highlights that probably lit up on a sunny day or in the candlelight.

He could imagine her walking hand in hand with a guy in the summer sun, sitting across a linen-draped table at a high-class restaurant.

What he couldn’t imagine was her not having a man in her life.

What was the deal with her and Greg? Were they friends? Lovers?

And what about Emily’s father? Where was he? And why had he let a woman like Caitlin slip away?

Brett wasn’t sure why he was so curious about the men in her life. It’s not as though he wanted a shot at dating her himself. He made it a point to steer clear of women with kids.

But for now, he couldn’t see any reason why he shouldn’t join them for spusghetti and a game of Go Fish.

It beat the heck out of munching on dried cat food in front of the TV.

Chapter Two

Brett stood before the woven, heart-shaped welcome mat on his pretty neighbor’s front porch and glanced at his watch—five-fifty. Ten minutes early.

He paused before knocking.

What had he been thinking when he’d agreed to dinner? Should he try and figure out a way to back out graciously?

Unlike his buddy Greg, Brett wasn’t into cats, board games or neighborly get-togethers.

And Caitlin was just the kind of woman he steered clear of—a homemaker, like Kelly had been. And probably just as set in her ways and disagreeable. But to make matters worse, Caitlin also had a kid—and an ex-husband, no doubt.

It was just the kind of broken household Brett didn’t want to be a part of.

His stomach rumbled, urging him to put aside his reservations for the sake of hunger. He should have walked ten or twelve blocks to the twenty-four-hour convenience store on Vine, but he’d spent the better part of the afternoon on the telephone looking for a certified Harley repair shop.

He’d found one in Bayside, and the owner had come out to look over the battered bike about twenty minutes ago.

The estimate was astronomical, but not a surprise. Six months ago, Brett had paid over twenty grand for the new Softail. Then he’d put a fortune into the high-priced accessories he’d added, not to mention the custom paint job. So he had no other choice but to let the mechanic from Hog Specialists haul it back to the repair and body shop.

And since Greg had loaned his pickup to his brother, Brett was left without wheels until the bike was fixed. Damn. He wasn’t about to spend his leave on foot, so he’d have to rent a car, which he’d probably do tomorrow. But for now, he was temporarily stranded.

So why should he back out and tell Caitlin he wasn’t hungry when he was actually starving?

Just as he lifted his good hand to rap at the door, a movement near the window caused him to glance to the right, where Emily peered through the white slatted shutters.

She had the front door open before he knew it. “How come you were just standing there for a long time? My mommy won’t let me open the door unless someone knocks.”

He scanned beyond the doorway, looking for her mother, hoping Caitlin wouldn’t think he’d been waiting at the door trying to muster a little courage. Not seeing her, he lifted his bandaged knuckle, trying to sidetrack the child by reminding her that he had an injury. “It hurts to knock.”

“Then you should have ringed the doorbell.”

Smart kid. Too smart.

“Come in.” Her smile lit up her face in a warm welcome.

She was a cutie, that’s for sure. Her mom had pulled back the sides of her long, blond hair with brightly colored, kitty-cat barrettes and dressed her in a white top, pink-and-white striped shorts and little white sandals.

“Guess what?” Emily’s eyes danced like sugarplum fairies, and she answered before he could ponder her secret. “I got to butter the bread and shake the sprinkles on it.”

“Your mom is lucky to have such a great helper,” he said.

“I know.” The little girl took him by his good hand and led him into the house.

He hadn’t paid much attention to the decor when he’d come inside earlier, but he did now. The cozy living room had an overstuffed sofa with a floral print in shades of pink and green, an antique rocking chair by the hearth, framed photographs placed on light oak furniture and lots of girly doodads on the pale green walls.

“Mommy!” Emily cried. “He’s here.”

Brett’s pulse rate slipped into overdrive, as he waited for Caitlin to respond—a visceral reaction he didn’t want and hadn’t expected. Heck, she was just a neighbor.

Okay, so she was nice to look at. And she had a gentle touch, a lilt in her voice. That didn’t mean he was interested in her in a romantic sense. The single mom was too heavy-duty for him.

“Hi,” Caitlin said, as she walked out of the kitchen wearing a yellow sundress and a breezy smile—a perfect blend of Suzy Homemaker, Florence Nightingale and Meg Ryan. “I didn’t hear the bell.”

“That’s ’cause he didn’t push the button,” Emily interjected. “And his owies hurt too much, so he couldn’t knock.”

The heat in Brett’s cheeks suggested he’d turned a brilliant shade of red, but he shrugged off the embarrassment and hid his discomfort behind a grin. “Emily spotted me through the shutters and opened the door before I got a chance to knock.”

“Is your hand still bothering you?” Caitlin asked, nodding toward his bandage.

“Nah,” he lied. “It’s fine. The knee, too. I’m almost back to fighting weight.”

As she took his wrist and assessed her handiwork, he couldn’t help but study her. She had a light sprinkle of freckles across a slightly turned-up nose and dark, spiked lashes that were much longer and thicker than he remembered.

Standing this close, he caught a good whiff of her perfume, or maybe it was body lotion. Piña colada? Or some other tropical drink? Whatever it was smelled darn good.

“I’m not sure what you did to this,” she said, “but it’s damp and coming undone.”

A piece of tape had lifted, probably from the steam and spray of the shower he’d taken before walking over here. He had a feeling she would offer to redo it for him, and the thought of her fussing over him again didn’t bother him nearly as much as it should have.

Brett’s lifestyle wasn’t conducive to family life or happy ever after. He loved the Navy and flying choppers too much to give them up. And even if he bit the bullet and gave marriage or a one-on-one relationship another try, he wouldn’t look twice at a woman with kids. That kind of gig was built-in trouble and turmoil, as far as he was concerned. And it smacked of a future rife with disagreements, threats and family court.

No. All that baggage made Caitlin off-limits.

But, hey. What was a little hand holding while she tended his wounds? A man wouldn’t mind being sick or injured, just to have a woman like her hover over him.

She tucked a golden strand of hair behind her ear, revealing a pearl earring and a slender neck made for nuzzling and kissing, then glanced up at him with expressive, oceanic eyes. “I’ll get the first-aid kit, just as soon as I drain the spaghetti. It won’t take long.”

“Don’t worry about it now,” he said, knowing the TLC bit wasn’t something he should encourage. “You can just slap another piece of tape on it later. After dinner.”

“It needs a whole new bandage, but I’ll wait.” Then she turned and walked back to the kitchen with a determined step.

“Is there something I can do to help?” Brett asked, his voice chasing after her.

“Not a thing,” she hollered from the other room. “I’ll have dinner on the table in no time at all.”

“I already did all the helping,” Emily told him with little-girl pride. “Want to see what else I did?”

Brett nodded. “Sure.”

When Emily took his hand again, it did something sappy to him. Something that touched a part of him he’d kept hidden. A part of him that longed to connect to a child.

His child, of course.

But this particular kid, as cute and smart and precocious as she was, seemed to fit the ticket—for tonight, anyway.

He’d have to be careful, though, since the mother scared him.

All right. That wasn’t entirely true. Caitlin didn’t scare him at all. But his attraction to her left him a little unbalanced.

“See?” Emily said, pointing to the dining room table that had been set with plain, white everyday wear. Nothing fancy. No romantic touches to cause him to feel uneasy.

A water glass sat in the middle of the table, with three drooping daisies and a red blossom of some kind. And a child-sketched crayon drawing sat at each plate, indicating who sat where.

Brett smiled when he saw his place. Emily had spelled his name with a skinny B, no R, a leaning E and only one T. And she’d drawn his picture, adding a bandage on the stick man’s face and hand.

“The table looks great,” he told the little girl. “And so does the picture of me.”

“You can have it when you go home. And then you can put it on the ’frigerator so Fred can see it.”

“Sounds like a perfect place for such a special piece of art.” He offered her a smile, but his mind drifted to his own son, a boy who wore a red baseball cap and leaped over small hedges with a single bound.

Had Justin made pictures like that when he was Emily’s age? Did he like to color?

If so, did Kelly display the artwork on the refrigerator for all the world to see?

Brett figured she did.

Caitlin entered the dining room with oven mitts on both hands, carrying a bowl of spaghetti sauce. “Usually, I fill our plates in the kitchen. But I thought it might be best if we ate family style.”

The family thing might be kind of nice, he supposed.

When Caitlin reached to set the sauce on the table, the neckline of her sundress gapped a bit, giving him a glimpse of white lace and the soft swell of her breast—just enough for his thoughts to drift in a direction that wasn’t at all neighborly.

“I have a bottle of red wine,” she said. “Would you like me to open it?”

“Sure. Why not?”

She smiled, then returned to the kitchen.

Five minutes later, they sat at the table—family style. It was a weird experience for Brett. Surreal, actually. But kind of interesting.

Caitlin fixed a plate for Emily, filling her glass with milk. Then she poured wine for herself and Brett.

He had half a notion to offer a toast. But to what? Friendship? Being temporary neighbors? An accident that, even before he paid to have her car fixed, would cost him nearly ten grand in parts, labor and bodywork, not to mention custom paint?

That didn’t make sense. So, instead, he lifted the glass and took a drink, hoping to wash away an unwelcome attraction to the kind of woman who would complicate his life—if he let her.

Caitlin didn’t know why she’d brought out that bottle of wine. Just trying to be a good hostess, she guessed. She’d been given a couple of bottles of Merlot in a gift basket during a hospital Christmas party a year or so ago. She’d offered to open one for Greg once, after he’d worked on the starter for her car. But he preferred beer, which she’d never acquired a taste for and didn’t keep in the house, so they’d settled for iced tea.

Dinner progressed with little fanfare, but Emily seemed to latch on to Brett. It didn’t seem to bother him, and he was good with the child. In fact, it appeared that he was enjoying the little-girl chatter as much as Greg did. Maybe more.

So Caitlin sat back and watched.

Emily sucked up a long strand of spaghetti, splattering a bit of marinara sauce on her chin, and studied their temporary neighbor. “How come you don’t like Fred?”

Brett glanced at Caitlin as though he didn’t know how to answer the child. Earlier, he’d referred to Fred as a psycho cat, so Caitlin assumed they’d had a run-in or two.

“Fred doesn’t like me,” he told her daughter. “And he hisses if I come near him.”

“Maybe I need to tell him you’re nice and he shouldn’t be afraid of you,” said Emily.

“Maybe so.” Brett cast her a smile, then returned to his meal, twirling spaghetti onto his fork. His dark brow furrowed in concentration.

He was handsome, and if Caitlin didn’t have enough complications in her life, she might strive to be more neighborly, more open to romance. As it was, she’d better steer clear of the man. She wasn’t sure how the courts would look upon her having a boyfriend or dating. Her case would be based upon her providing a stable home and having a solid bond with the child she loved, a child who was the top priority in her life.

“Can we come over and visit Fred tomorrow?” Emily asked Brett.

It saddened Caitlin that she had to deny Emily a pet, just because of her allergies to dander. So she always let Emily visit the neighborhood cats and dogs whenever possible.

“I can’t imagine Fred being fun to play with,” Brett said, “but you can come over, if your mom wants to bring you.”

When he looked at Caitlin, she nodded. Emily was especially partial to cats, the kind of animal that bothered Caitlin’s allergies the most. The little girl also gravitated toward kind and gentle men, especially Greg, and Gerald Blackstone, the older man who lived next door.

Caitlin tried to tell herself it was because Emily was a loving child who liked people, especially people with pets. It seemed reasonable since Greg had a cat, and Gerald and his wife had Scruffy, a terrier-mix they let Caitlin and Emily take for daily walks. But sometimes Caitlin wondered whether not having a daddy made Emily draw close to any kind man who had time for her.

Emily did, of course, have a father, as much as Caitlin wished that wasn’t the case.

He was alive and well in the Riverview Correctional Facility, awaiting release and wanting custody of the child he’d never seen. A child whose mother died from wounds received in a drive-by shooting.

The possibility of the court ordering Caitlin to relinquish Emily was almost unbearable to ponder. How could she possibly hand over her foster daughter to a man who’d been involved in an armed robbery that had left a man paralyzed? It was enough to make Caitlin ill, whenever she thought about it.

What would happen if the little girl who loved rainbows and kitties was uprooted from the only mother and home she’d ever known and turned over to a convicted felon?

Caitlin couldn’t imagine. But she, better than anyone, could guess.

She’d spent the first few years of her life in the inner city of San Diego, oftentimes in homeless shelters run by the Salvation Army. Her mom, an on-again, off-again prostitute and drug addict, couldn’t get her act together. And by the time Caitlin was seven, she’d entered the first of many foster homes.

By the age of eleven, she’d finally settled into a stable home—one she’d hoped would be her last. But before her twelfth birthday, her mother went into a court-ordered rehab that seemed to work. And when the woman came out, she wanted Caitlin back.

Caitlin had cried, begging her foster mom, as well as her caseworker, to do something. But her pleas went unheard. And in the end, no one spoke up on her behalf, no one cared enough to fight a system that tried its best to reunite parents and children.

A social worker was ordered to take her to a rundown apartment to live with a mother whose taste in men hadn’t improved. Six months later, her mom’s boyfriend came home drunk one night and beat her mother to death. It was the kind of thing Caitlin wouldn’t want any child to witness.

She glanced at Emily and felt a fierce ache in her chest.

No, Caitlin wouldn’t give up her foster daughter.

Not without a fight.

After a pleasant dinner, Brett joined Caitlin in a game of Go Fish. He actually enjoyed playing with the child, even though he had to turn his back whenever she organized her cards by spreading them face up on the beige carpet.

At eight o’clock, Caitlin told Emily it was time for bed.

“Oh, Mommy. Please let me stay up longer. I’m not even tired.” Her little-girl plea was enough to make Brett want to jump in and argue for one more game. But since Caitlin had a loving but firm smile fixed on her face, he figured it wouldn’t be a good idea to buck the system.

“Tell Brett good night,” Caitlin said.

The child got up from the spot where she’d been sitting on the living room floor, padded to the sofa, put her arms around Brett and gave him a pint-sized hug that damn near squeezed the heart right out of him. “Good night, Brett. Thank you for coming over to play with me.”

Brett smiled, relishing the scent of childhood, ice-cream sundaes and daydreams. “Sleep tight, pumpkin.”

As she turned to go, he added, “Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”

Emily stopped in her tracks and turned. “What are bedbugs?”

Oops. He hadn’t meant to freak her out before bedtime, make her have nightmares about critters climbing in her bed. So he tapped his finger on the tip of her turned-up nose. “They’re little cooties that like to sleep with naughty boys who don’t take baths and don’t mind their mothers.”

Emily smiled, revealing two cute dimples. “Then they won’t get in my bed.”

“I’m sure they won’t.” He had the urge to give her another hug, but that felt a little too daddy-ish. And God knew he didn’t want to step on anyone’s toes.

“Did the bedbugs used to sleep with you when you were little?” she asked.

A smile tugged on his lips. “Not when I was your age.” But if his cootie explanation held true, his bed would have been bombarded with them when he was a hell-bent teen.

“Okay, young lady. Off to bed.” Caitlin took her daughter by the hand, then looked at Brett. “Excuse me. I’ll be back in a couple of minutes.”

He nodded, then watched them head down the hall, his focus on the pretty mother, on the sway of her hips, the way the hem of her dress brushed against shapely calves.

Now was a good time to leave, to thank her for dinner, then be on his way. But for some stupid reason, he waited on the living room sofa for her to return.

He scanned the room, spotting the framed photographs of Emily on the mantel and on various tables throughout the room. He snatched one from the lamp table to his right and studied the picture of a bald-headed baby with a bright-eyed smile and sparkling-clear dribble on her chin.

Without any hair, she kind of looked like Justin had, when he was a baby.

Had Kelly taken a ton of pictures and placed them throughout her house, too? Probably.

Brett put the photograph back, grabbed the deck of cards off the coffee table and began to shuffle them over and over, just for something to do.

When Caitlin returned, she took a seat in the easy chair that rested by the fireplace.

Good move. It saved them both from feeling awkward. Well, it had saved him, anyway. Caitlin hadn’t given him much indication that she found him as attractive as he found her. And that was a good thing. It made keeping his distance easier.

“Do you have any idea how long your motorcycle will be out of commission?” she asked.

“Not long,” he lied. The mechanic from Hog Specialists said it would take a month or so, since the parts had to be ordered and weren’t always easy to get. But he didn’t want Caitlin feeling any guiltier over that damned accident than she already appeared to. “I’ll probably rent a car anyway.”

A look of remorse settled over her pretty face, and he wanted to see it lift. The accident had been mostly his fault, no matter what she thought.

“I’ve been wanting to buy an SUV,” he said, “so this is the perfect opportunity to try one out before I fork over the cash.”

She nodded, then managed a half smile. “I’d be happy to give you a ride to the rental place, if you need one.”

That would be great. He didn’t like being grounded. And being stranded was even worse. “Maybe, if you have some free time, we could go tomorrow.”

“I have to work in the afternoon, but I can take you in the morning.”

“Thanks.” He studied his motorcycle boots for a moment, thinking about how tough it must be to raise a kid alone, to have to worry about babysitting and child care. Then he looked up and caught her eye. “Who watches Emily for you, while you work?”

“Gerald and Mary Blackstone, the retired couple who live in the end unit. They’ve become surrogate grandparents.”

He didn’t know why he asked. Curiosity, he supposed. “What about her father?”

Caitlin paused, then blew out a whispery breath. “Emily doesn’t know her father. He hasn’t been a part of her life.”

Brett sat up straight, suddenly interested in Caitlin’s past. In the man who’d walked away from Emily.

It wasn’t any of his business, and he shouldn’t ask, but he wanted to know more. “Does he, Emily’s dad, pay child support?” Somehow it mattered a lot. Brett wanted to know the man was doing right by the little girl and looking out for her the best way he knew how.

“No,” Caitlin said. “He doesn’t pay anything.”

Brett couldn’t leave it alone. “Does he contact her at all?”

“No.” Caitlin stood and walked toward the window, looked out upon the darkened complex lit by Tiki-style lamps. “But he wants to.”

“And that bothers you?” Something twisted in Brett’s gut. He sensed trouble coming down the pike. Hadn’t he experienced enough domestic squabbles of his own?

His mom and dad had spent years in court fighting over every damn thing imaginable, while their son got caught in the crossfire until he rebelled the only way an angry teenager knew how.

“Yes, it does bother me. The idea of her father popping into her life tears me up inside. She doesn’t even know him.”

Brett figured Kelly would probably feel the same way, if he contacted her now and said he wanted to have a relationship with Justin. Call it an experiment, but getting a handle on Caitlin’s feelings seemed like a good way to gauge how things would pan out if he approached his ex.

Caitlin had grown quiet, solemn, as though she was still hurting from the divorce.

Or maybe from her ex-husband’s desertion.

Like a hound closing in on a buried bone, Brett couldn’t seem to let it go. “Maybe Emily’s dad had a good reason for not sticking around.”

Did it tear the man up inside to walk away from his kid, like it had Brett? Did he get an ache in his chest each time he saw a child about the same age as his own?

Brett had to stop beating himself up. According to Harry Logan, the retired detective who’d managed to stop Brett’s downhill slide into the juvenile justice system, Justin was happy.

And if anyone knew what made a boy tick, it was the guy who’d helped a dozen or more delinquents get their lives back on track. A guy who’d put his heart where his mouth was, opening his arms, his home and his family to boys with nowhere else to turn. And Brett was happy to count himself as one of the bad-boys-turned-good-guys.

According to Harry, who’d done a little investigating, Justin’s stepfather was good to him. Maybe not better than Brett would have been, but at least David was home every night and not deployed to the far side of the earth flying a Sea Hawk and risking his life.

Hell, as a Navy helicopter pilot, Brett was away the better part of the year. What kind of husband or father could he ever hope to be?

“So tell me about you,” Caitlin said, doing them both a favor and diverting the conversation to something more pleasant. “How did you meet Greg?”

“We met during a bar fight at a seedy joint in downtown San Diego. And we’ve been watching each other’s backs ever since.”

“Greg was involved in a bar fight?” Her brows lifted and her eyes widened. “I can’t imagine it. He’s so sweet and gentle.”

Were they talking about the same guy? That knockdown drag-out hadn’t been the first for Greg, who became a superhero whenever he’d had too much to drink.

Brett grinned as the memory surfaced. “Greg saw a couple of the local boys harassing the female bartender and decided to step in and correct the situation.”

“Now that sounds like the Greg I know.”

Brett couldn’t help but chuckle. “Yeah, well the lady bartender stood over six feet tall and had forearms the size of Popeye’s. I might have been a bit snockered myself, but her afternoon shadow suggested she—or rather he—could hold his own.”

“So Greg stepped in?”

“And about got his head knocked in with a chair, until I jumped in to help. And just as the fight turned into a rip-roaring free-for-all, the bartender pulled a gun and settled it.”

“Was anyone shot?”

“Just the ceiling. But Greg and I limped out of there with our share of cuts and bruises. We’ve been buddies ever since.”

She smiled, then glanced at his bad hand. “Speaking of cuts and bruises, I nearly forgot to fix that bandage for you. I’ll be right back.”

When she returned with the first-aid kit, she took a seat next to him on the sofa.

He caught a faint whiff of a tropical breeze, felt the sultry heat as she touched his arm. Was she feeling it, too? The attraction that seemed to grow stronger each time their gazes met?

As she removed the tape and gauze from his hand, her knee brushed against his thigh, sending a shimmy of heat through his blood. He watched her hair sweep along her shoulder and fought the urge to touch the golden strands, to see if they felt as silky as they looked.

Instead, as she rewrapped his hand and fastened the tape, he tried to waylay the flicker of desire that taunted his better judgment. “Let me know what the bodywork on your car is going to cost.”

“I’ll take it in for an estimate, but I still feel as though that accident was my fault.” She looked up from her work, then furrowed her brow when the scrape on his chin caught her eye. She probed around it lightly. Her soft, gentle fingers lingered on his jaw.

When she looked into his eyes, he was swept into that sea-blue gaze. Her tropical scent swirled around them, making him envision an evening luau for two on a deserted beach.

Something passed between them, something he suspected she’d felt, too. A need. A hunger.

He wouldn’t act on it, although it damned near killed him not to. “Thanks.”

“My pleasure,” she said, her eyes still fixed on his.

He knew better than to reach out and touch her, but when she looked at him like that, with what seemed like virginal interest, his common sense flew by the wayside. He ran the knuckles of his good hand along the softness of her cheek.

Had she pulled away, that would have been the end of it. But she didn’t. She merely watched him, her lips parting, tempting him to take things a step further.

Ah, man. What an idiot. Why’d he have to go and do that? Stir things up. Make things complicated.

He withdrew his hand, then clicked his tongue. “I’m really sorry about that, Caitlin. I have no idea what got into me. I must have jarred my brains on the pavement.”

“No, I kind of lost it, too.” She fingered the place on her cheek where his knuckles had stroked. When their gazes met, she quickly looked away, and her hand dropped into her lap.

Yeah, she’d definitely lost it, too.

He got to his feet and dragged a hand though his hair. He wasn’t used to women wanting to take the blame for something he should have been able to avoid, like an accident or an inappropriate caress. So he changed the subject. “Thanks for dinner, Caitlin.”

“You’re welcome.” She followed him to the door to see him out. But something continued to hover between them. Something sensual. Something he ought to avoid, if he hadn’t complicated things by making a promise to her daughter.

“I was serious about letting Emily visit Fred,” he said. “Your call, of course.”

“She’s really attached to him.”

“Okay.” he said, even though he was now feeling as skittish as the psycho cat hiding under the bed. “Maybe tomorrow morning.”

“That’s fine.” She smiled. “Then I can take you to get that rental car.”

He nodded, then returned to the dark house alone. If he hadn’t already told Emily she could visit, he’d board up the windows of his place and lock himself inside.

Away from the woman and kid who promised to be nothing but trouble.

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