When A Hero Comes Along. Teresa Southwick
ever see you again.”
“Surprise.” He shrugged, then hooked his thumbs in the pockets of his worn jeans and leaned against the doorjamb.
“What are you doing here?”
That wasn’t what he’d expected, yet it provided his first clue that he’d had a script of this meeting. In his head there had been smiles, dimples, hugs and—if he was really lucky—maybe a tear or two—followed by a heartfelt declaration of how glad she was that he’d come home.
“I wanted to see you.”
“Why?”
He wanted to think this was shock talking, but he knew better. She’d been hurt when he’d abruptly told her they were over. She hadn’t understood that it was for the best and he hadn’t explained why he felt that way.
“I got the letter,” he said.
“I wasn’t sure.” Her chin lifted. “You didn’t write back.”
“There’s a reason for that—”
“It doesn’t matter.” Her full lips pressed tightly together for a moment. “You made it clear that I was nothing more than a fling. We had fun. Just an affair.”
A hot and steamy affair, he thought. Instant attraction that had burst into flame. They couldn’t get enough of each other. But she was right. He had made it clear they were over, unfortunately, his memories were not. And one of his most vivid was of the last time he’d seen her, when she’d been wearing nothing more than a sheet and a pair of dimples. Then he’d dumped her and the dimples had disappeared.
“I remember what I said.”
“Then you remember you told me not to bother waiting. That I shouldn’t expect—”
“About expecting…” he said.
She looked down for a moment, then met his gaze. “I—I only wrote because I thought you had a right to know—”
This is where the whole right and wrong thing tweaked his tail rotor. “How soon did you know?”
Something like guilt flickered in her eyes. “What is it you’re asking?”
“Whether you were going to tell me at all.”
“I did have some conflict about that,” she admitted. “I—”
“Can we discuss this inside?” He glanced at the apartment doors on either side of hers. “Let me go out on a limb here and point out that you probably don’t want the neighbors eavesdropping on this conversation.”
She caught her lip between her teeth and her expression told him she was seriously thinking about turning him down. Then she stepped back and pulled the door wide. “Okay. Come in.”
Before she could change her mind, he walked inside. From where he stood he could see a kitchen and dining area with a French door that led to a small patio. The walls were painted light gold with white crown molding and six-paneled doors. Neutral beige carpet. But the painting of wine bottles and the decorative wrought-iron plate rack personified Kate. It was cute and charming and colorful.
He turned and looked down at her. In her snug jeans and a scoop-necked T-shirt that hugged every curve, she almost made him forget that he wanted to know why she’d waited so long to tell him she was pregnant. If he’d found out sooner, would it have changed things? That’s something he would never know.
“About the letter,” he said.
“We hardly knew each other, Joe. You made it clear you didn’t want to be tied down. And why would you believe I wasn’t trying to trap you?”
“Before I get blamed for something, shouldn’t I get a chance to screw up first?”
“And didn’t I have a right to know that you only wanted sex? Somehow I missed the signs.” Her eyes flashed a color that was new to him. “For the record, I don’t blame you. No one held a gun to my head.”
That’s for sure. She’d been warm and willing in his arms. And he’d wanted her more every time he saw her. Even after all this time, he still wanted her. “I was there. I’m back now.” Maybe he was the one blaming her when she hadn’t screwed up.
But he’d been fooled once and that was enough. Maybe the experience had fine-tuned his cheater meter, because he believed her. “He’s my son, too.”
In a split second, the expression on her face went from woman scorned to mother lion. “Since when? You made it clear that you didn’t want to participate when you didn’t write back.”
He shook his head. “I didn’t write back because I couldn’t.”
“Oh? Your arms were broken?” She sighed and shook her head. “That was a cheap shot. Look, Joe, the fact is I don’t want or need anything from you. I felt obligated to let you know about the baby. You didn’t—couldn’t write back. End of story.”
“Not so fast. I’m here now.” He’d have been here sooner if not for mission debriefing, medical clearance and military retirement paperwork. And this conversation wasn’t one he’d wanted to have over the phone. Or in front of her neighbors. Or, apparently, sitting down on the sofa. He met her accusing gaze. “There is an explanation. And I’d like you to hear me out.”
“Okay.” She folded her arms over her breasts and stared him straight in the eye.
“The letter arrived just as I was getting ready for a mission and I was going to answer it when I got back.”
“I see.”
“The thing is—it took me some time to get back.”
“What?” There was a wary look in her eyes. “Why?”
“My helicopter was shot down and the Taliban extended their hospitality for a while.”
And that was all she needed to know, all he would tell her.
Her eyes went from dark brown back to warm cocoa as she put her hand on his arm. “Joe—”
The touch of her fingers felt too good and he backed up a step. “I got in a little while ago and came straight from McCarran.”
That was important for her to know.
“I don’t know what to say,” she said.
“Tell me about my son.”
A smile curved up the corners of her mouth. “He’s perfect, the best thing I’ve ever done.”
“What’s his—what did you name him?”
She walked over to the end table beside the sofa and picked up a framed photo, then handed it to him. “J.T.”
As Joe stared at the chubby-faced infant in the picture something inside him went tight and his heart skipped. The baby’s eyes were big, blue like his own, but he had his mother’s dimples. “What does J.T. stand for?”
She hesitated a moment, then said, “Joseph Turner—that was my grandfather’s name.”
He slid his gaze to hers and grinned. “Has a nice ring.”
“I thought so.” She shrugged.
“He’s about four months old?”
She nodded and his gaze lowered to Kate’s now-flat abdomen. He wondered what she’d looked like pregnant. “Can I see him?”
“He’s asleep,” she said quickly, protectively.
“I just want to see him.”
She thought about that for too long and frowned while she was at it. Finally, she nodded. “This way.”
He followed her into the baby’s room. A night-light kept it from being too dark and he could see the crib, some kind of box overflowing