Marry Me, Major. Merline Lovelace
“I would. Thanks. And could we talk? You and I? If your friends will excuse you for a few minutes.”
“Sure. Why don’t you grab that table?” He gestured to one just being vacated. “I’ll bring your beer.”
* * *
Ben raised his bottle to signal the bartender, then watched as the unexpected visitor from his past headed for the corner table. Now that she’d stirred the memories, they played out inside his head in vivid detail. She was slimmer than he remembered. And her hair was different. Longer, he thought. Shot with streaks of red and deep, dark gold. Those chocolate-brown eyes were the same, though, and that full, sensual mouth. All in all, Ben decided with a kick to his gut, the overall package was pretty damned outstanding.
Dingo shared his assessment. “You lucky bastard,” he muttered as he followed her progress across the room.
Swish was more interested in the sparkles. “Find out where I can get one of those shirts.”
Yeah, right, Ben thought wryly as the bartender handed him a dew-streaked Coors. Like he was going to talk T-shirts with a woman he could only hope wanted to take up where they’d left off in Vegas.
Maybe this time it would work. It hadn’t last time. Truth was, he’d tried to reconnect with the auburn-haired hottie after their wild weekend. Just days after he’d returned from a four-month deployment to Iraq. Just his bad luck that she’d already hooked up with someone else. Some hotshot Realtor.
Ben was surprised by the regret that news had spurred. He’d thoroughly enjoyed their weekend together. And not just in the opulent suite at The Venetian he’d taken her to after deserting his pals at the Bash. Alexis Scott had kept him grinning with her lively recap of the joys and challenges of designing what passed for costumes at Vegas’s risqué revues and surprised him with her savvy knowledge of video marketing techniques. He’d shaken off the regret soon enough, though. Another no-notice deployment, this one a humanitarian mission to earthquake-ravaged Haiti, had shoved that weekend out of his head.
Maybe, just maybe, she was thinking to rekindle old fires. Hoping fervently that was the reason for her unexpected reappearance in his life, he took a seat and passed her the beer.
“Thanks.” She raised her bottle in a toast. “Here’s to Vegas.”
“To Vegas.”
She tipped her head back and took a long swallow. Ben did the same, but the glitzy stuff on the low neck of her T-shirt did exactly what he figured it was supposed to. Damned if the sparkling crystals didn’t catch his gaze. And hold it!
His, and every other male’s within a twenty-foot radius. He saw the stares, caught the elbow jabs. No wonder Swish wanted to know where to buy one of these seemingly sedate but disturbingly provocative T-shirts. Just in time, Ben managed to drag his gaze from the seductive valley between her breasts.
Her head tipped forward, her brown eyes met his. “I suppose you’re wondering why I tracked you down.”
“I was kind of hoping it was my charm and suave good looks.”
A quick smile flitted across her face. “That’s part of it.”
“What’s the other part?”
“Parts,” she corrected, her smile fading. “There are several.”
She glanced down and picked at the label on her beer with a fingernail. When she looked up again, Ben had the impression she’d steeled herself for something that ranked up there on the fun meter right alongside a colonoscopy.
“There’s a child. A little girl.”
He didn’t move. Didn’t alter his politely curious expression. But his stomach contracted and his mind razored back to their nights together.
He’d used protection. A whole damned box of protection, if he remembered right. Yet the possibility that one of those little suckers hadn’t worked had his knuckles going white on his beer bottle.
It wasn’t that he didn’t want kids. He did. Someday. Maybe. Hell, he was only thirty-two. Plenty of time yet.
Except now he had to face the possibility time might’ve run out. His spine going rigid, he waited for the hammer to fall.
“Well,” she said, spearing through his whirling thoughts, “I guess she doesn’t really qualify as a little girl. Maria’s seven, and the sweetest, smartest, most loving...” She broke off, her brows snapping together. “Kincaid?”
“Huh?”
Her scowl deepened. “Am I boring you?”
“What? No.”
“You looked like you were a thousand miles away.”
“I heard every word. Maria’s seven and sweet and smart and...” he couldn’t suppress a huff of laughter “...not mine.”
“Yours?” She jerked back in her chair. “Why on earth would you...? Oh!”
Her astounded expression morphed into one of unholy amusement. Then something that looked a whole lot like chagrin.
The amusement Ben could understand. The chagrin got him nervous all over again. Especially when she went back to peeling off strips of the wet label.
One corner of his brain could hear Charley Pride’s “Kiss an Angel Good Mornin’” above the clink of glasses and buzz of conversation. Another corner registered the fact that Swish and Dingo were keeping him under close surveillance. But the main cortex, the cerebrum or cerebellum or whatever the hell part processed danger signals, was flashing a red alert.
“Back up a few steps,” he instructed. “Tell me what seven-year-old Maria has to do with you and me and Vegas.”
“I want to adopt her.”
“And?”
She sucked in a deep breath. Manfully, Ben kept his eyes above the bling. Mostly.
“Ordinarily, that wouldn’t be a problem. Most states, including this one, allow single-parent adoption. But in Maria’s case, there are special circumstances that make it necessary for me to...ah...have a husband.”
“Whoa!” He plunked his beer on the table. “I hope you’re not thinking what I think you’re thinking.”
“As a matter of fact...” Those warm brown eyes cut through the cigarette haze to lock with his. “I came here to... I need to ask... Oh, hell. The thing is, I want you to marry me, Major.”
Before he could recover enough to ask what the hell she was smoking, she tacked on a caveat.
“Temporarily.”
She was crazy. Certifiably nuts. He could’ve kicked himself when curiosity made him ask.
“How temporary?”
“Six months. Or less, depending on...well...circumstances. And I promise there’ll be no strings.” She rushed on. “No obligations on your part, financial or otherwise. Just your signature on a marriage certificate before you take off again for parts unknown.”
“Look, lady, these ‘circumstances’ you keep referring to make me think that what you’re suggesting comes real close to fraud.”
“It’s not fraud! I’ve discussed this with my attorney. He’s assured me what I’m doing is legal. And you don’t have to declare me your spouse or dependent or whatever the military term is. I promise, I won’t make any claim on you or the air force.”
“Doesn’t matter whether you make a claim or not. If we’re married, we’re married. That entitles you to whatever privileges come with the ring.” He shoved back his chair. “Sorry, you’ll have to find another—”
“I’ll pay you.”
“’Scuse me?”