Barbara Phinney - Necessary Secrets

All those shameful details.

And he wanted to be a part of her baby’s life.

No. This baby was hers, not his. She would give it life, love it and raise it all by herself. She’d managed a career in the military by herself, and she’d managed to grow up without her father being around when she needed him. She would manage her new career as mother equally fine.

Without Jon Cahill, thank you very much.

“Well, Sylvie?” her father prompted.

Sylvie dared another look at Jon, half-afraid his intensity and tenacity might snare her. Those blue eyes seemed stronger, reflecting the determination he practically exuded from every pore on his strong body.

“Do I have the job, Sylvie?” As if purposely designed to contrast his powerful stare, his tone turned quiet, persuasive.

There was that silky version of her name, too.

This was insane. But to protest too much would be akin to suicide. Jon Cahill’s suspicions would soar through the roof if she kept refusing to hire him when she so obviously needed help.

“All right,” she found herself saying. He wanted the job, well, he could have it. She’d keep him so busy this summer, he’d ache to return to the easy life in Toronto. And every night when his head hit his pillow—out in the bunkhouse with the rest of the men—he’d be out like a light, forgetting, or regretting, that he’d ever told her he wanted to be a part of his brother’s child’s life.

A smile grew slowly on his face. It wasn’t much, but it did reach his eyes.

Her skin warmed and tingled in a subtle primitive answer, and those damn horrid hormones prickled under her skin again. For one stunning moment he did look just like Rick.

What had she got herself into? One night of fear and she’d broken her cardinal rule of never getting involved with another soldier.

She’d admired Rick, liked him, and had wanted him to excel in his career. But she hadn’t wanted an intimate relationship with him.

So why did you? Because of that you got him killed. The words arced across her brain, firing up another horrible wash of memories.

“Excellent.”

Mercifully, Jon’s words cut through her thoughts, and she blinked up at him. The smile, however, had slid from his eyes, leaving only cool, smug resolve.

He’d won, and he knew it, the bastard. He indicated the chair in front of her father. “Let’s get you something to eat. Then while you’re showing me what to do, you can tell me all about Rick.”

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