Maureen Child - The Daddy Salute

One light brown eyebrow lifted and Kathy’s toes curled. Oh, brother, what was she letting herself in for?

“Strictly business?” he asked.

She cleared her throat noisily. “Business.”

“Good. It’s a deal, then,” Brian said, and held out one hand.

She looked at it as if it were a snake and had to work up her nerve before she slid her hand into his. But even braced for the contact with his skin, as his fingers were curled around hers, she felt a white-hot burst of light shoot straight from her fingertips, along her arm to dazzle her heart.

She was in deep trouble. She could feel it in her bones.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To my editor, Karen Taylor Richman, with thanks for her support and her belief in me. Karen, I wish you joy with your little miracle. You’re entering an amazing new world…enjoy the magic.

was born and raised in Southern California and is the only person she knows who longs for an occasional change of season. She is delighted to be writing for Silhouette Books and is especially excited to be a part of the Desire line.

An avid reader, Maureen looks forward to those rare rainy California days when she can curl up and sink into a good book. Or two. When she isn’t busy writing, she and her husband of twenty-five years like to travel, leaving their two grown children in charge of the neurotic golden retriever who is the real head of the household. Maureen is also an award-winning historical writer under the names Kathleen Kane and Ann Carberry.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

“You can’t die! Not now.” Kathy Tate turned the key one last time, listened to the dreaded coughing and droning of the engine, then shut it off and slapped the steering wheel. “For Pete’s sake,” she reminded her trusty Bug, “you just had a checkup.” An overhaul, she thought with disgust, that had cost her a whopping six hundred dollars.

The battered old VW sat silent, apparently having nothing to say in its own defense.

Well, perfect. She stared out the windshield at the tree-lined suburban street. How was she supposed to get into town and deliver the stack of résumés she’d been up all night typing and printing?

“U.S. Marines to the rescue, ma’am.” A deep voice interrupted her thoughts, and she slowly turned to look out the driver’s side window.

Oh, man. Talk about from the frying pan into the fire.

Her heartbeat did a weird little thump as she stared into the crystal-blue eyes of her across-the-hall neighbor, Sergeant Brian Haley. He and a friend of his had been playing basketball in the driveway when she’d left her apartment only a few minutes ago. She’d managed to get past them with just a quick wave, but now she was trapped. By her own blasted car. The traitor.

Her “rescuer” bent at the waist, put both hands on his knees and peered in at her. Sharply chiseled features, short, marine-regulation haircut and bare, tanned, sweat-dampened muscles that looked to have been meticulously carved into his chest made for one impressive package. Unfortunately, in the month since he’d moved in, she’d learned that he was all too aware of his impact on women.

Oh, not that he seemed conceited or anything. It was more subtle than that. When he smiled that crooked smile of his, it was clear that he fully expected a woman to turn into a puddle of goo. And, since Kathy Tate puddled for no man, she’d become something of a challenge to him. Lately it seemed that whenever she turned around, there he was.

“Need some help, ma’am?” another deep voice spoke up, and Kathy swiveled her head to look out the passenger window at Brian’s friend. Judging by the high-and-tight haircut, he was also a marine. But then, in Bayside, a town only a mile or so from Camp Pendleton, you couldn’t swing a broom without hitting a marine.

“No, thanks,” she said. She didn’t need help. What she needed was for her stupid car to start.

“Kathy Tate,” Brian said, “this is First Sergeant Jack Harris. Jack, meet Kathy. My new neighbor.”

“Hi.” He gave her a friendly smile that Kathy returned with ease once she noted the gold wedding ring on his left hand.

“Nice to meet you,” she said.

“I say she needs help, Jack.” Brian shook his head slowly as he gave the little car a good once-over. Then, looking past her at his friend, he asked, “What do you say?”

“Oh, definitely.”

Kathy turned to stare at Brian. One corner of his mouth was tilted into that patented lady-killer smile, but his eyes were all innocence. Yeah. Like she believed he was an innocent. “Okay, guys, I appreciate the offer. But look, the car will be okay. It just needs a rest, that’s all.”

“A rest?” Brian repeated with a short laugh. “For how many years?”

She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel and gritted her teeth. It was one thing for her to insult poor old Charlie the VW; it was quite another for somebody else to take a shot at it. “Sergeant Haley…”

“Gunnery Sergeant,” he corrected for her.

“Whatever,” she snapped, and shot him a look that should have singed the soles of his feet. However, he seemed completely unaffected. “I didn’t ask to be rescued, so why don’t you just go back to your game?”

He grinned at her and glanced at his friend. “Well, Jack, do the marines wait around to be asked or do we go where angels fear to tread?”

“Ooh-rah!” the other man said in a hoarse grunt.

“Oh, brother…”

“From the Halls of Montezuma…” Brian intoned in a deep, steely voice.

“…to the shores of Evans Avenue,” Jack finished for him as they both straightened up.

“Come on, you guys,” she said loudly, but they were already moving toward the back of her car. Kathy slapped her forehead against the steering wheel once, muttered a curse she hoped her car understood, then hopped out to keep an eye on the cavalry.

They had the little hood open by the time she got there. With their backs to her, she had quite a view of what looked like miles of tanned, muscled flesh. If nothing else, she had to give it to the corps. When they advertised “building men,” they weren’t kidding.

“So,” Jack asked, “what do you think the problem is?”

“Nothing a good round of mortar fire couldn’t fix.”

“A mortar?” Kathy repeated, leaning over them, trying to keep an eye on what they were doing.

Brian glanced at her over his shoulder and explained. “It’s a gun. A really big gun.”

“Very funny,” she retorted.

“Who’s kidding?” he asked on a snort of laughter. “This thing’s on its last legs.”

“VWs can go forever,” she said.

“And this one obviously has.” He shook his head, reached past a cluster of greasy wires to the shadowy interior of the engine and pushed and poked around for a minute or two. “Still,” he whispered, more to himself than anyone else, “never let it be said that a marine couldn’t get a machine to run.”

“Oh, perish the thought,” she muttered. Kathy thought she heard Jack chuckle, but she couldn’t be sure. A moment later, Brian stood up abruptly and almost knocked her over. He reached for her automatically to steady her, and where their hands touched, she felt a blast of white-hot heat that nearly swamped her.