Dixie Browning - Stryker's Wife

Once more she admired the way his khakis hugged his rear end when he bent over to retrieve a couple more cans of cola from a locker under the ladder, and then she chided herself for noticing. Normally it was a man’s hands and eyes she noticed, not his behind.

Mark’s eyes had been blue, watchful and rather small.

The captain’s eye was gray, deep-set and surprisingly gentle in such a harshly angular face.

Mark’s hands had been elegant. He was the first man she’d ever met who had his nails professionally manicured. She’d been impressed, having been taught all her life the value of good grooming.

Captain Stryker’s hands were square and tanned, with a glint of golden hairs on the back. His nails were square and short and scrupulously clean, but she’d bet her last tea biscuit that he’d never been anywhere near a manicurist.

At least not in a professional capacity.

“Hey, you want something to eat? Sandwiches? Cheese crackers?”

“Yuck.” It occurred to her that she hadn’t eaten since supper the night before, and very little even then. “I mean, no, thank you.”

He smiled. He had nice teeth, too. Square, white but not quite perfect. She felt a vague stirring of excitement and put it down to the mixture of canned cola and French champagne and not enough food. It had to be that, because she was far too sensible to be distracted, much less attracted, by another man right now, no matter how nice his smile and his…

Well—that, too.

She had a book to finish and some major decisions to make concerning her future. In two brief years, her entire outlook on life had changed, and now she was ready to move forward. This time without any blow-dried jerk who wore silk underwear, Italian suits and too much cologne. A jerk who’d once made her feel like an idiot simply because she’d referred to his wristwatch as a Rolodex.

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