by Judy Duarte
He didn’t appear fine. But Caitlin had a feeling he’d looked pretty sharp on that bike before she ran into him.
Was that a Harley? Those things were expensive. And her insurance rates would probably skyrocket at a time when she needed every cent she could find.
She eased closer, and he looked up at her with the most incredible sky-blue eyes she’d ever seen. He had a scar over his right brow that made him look manly. Rugged. Not afraid of a fight.
Was she crazy? Maybe she’d hit her head on the steering wheel or something. What provoked her to gawk at the good-looking stranger like a star-struck teenybopper?
He looked at his mangled bike, grimaced and shook his head.
“I’m really sorry,” she said again, the words sounding useless.
“Don’t be.” He caught her eye, drew her deep into his gaze. “Just for the record, the accident was my fault.”
“I’ll call the police,” she said, as she turned and walked back to the car for her cell phone.
“Wait.” He reached out, caught her by the arm and turned her around to face him. “It’s no big deal. Let’s not bother filing an accident report. I’ll just pay you for the damages to your car.”
She needed to watch her expenses, since she expected some hefty legal bills soon. Lawyers were expensive, and she intended to retain the best one she could find—even if it cost her every last dollar she’d saved. Because, if Caitlin wouldn’t fight for her daughter, who would?
The system?
No way. Caitlin knew better than that.
For that reason, she ought to quit struggling with her conscience and let him take the blame for something that felt like her fault. But the brawny biker looked so vulnerable, so hurt.
“Maybe you should see a doctor,” she said.
He offered a wry, one-sided grin, then gazed at her with wounded eyes. “I only hurt my pride. That’s all.”
Then he looked at her—really looked, as though assessing her for injury.
Or was he checking her out in a male/female sort of way? It had been so long since she’d dated that she’d nearly forgotten what that sensual, I’m-available-and-interested eye contact felt like.
“Are you hurt?” he asked her.
Okay. So there went her romantic assumption. But that was just as well. Getting involved with anyone right now wouldn’t be in her best interests. Or Emily’s.
“I’m just a little shaky.” She glanced at the car and saw her daughter peering out the driver’s door with a look of awe on her face.
“My mommy can fix your owies,” Emily said. “She’s a nurse. And she has a whole bunch of Hello Kitty Band-Aids and the stuff that doesn’t sting.”
“Are you okay?” the man asked her daughter.
Emily nodded. “But you’re bleeding really bad. Does it hurt?”
“No. Not a bit.”
The wounded biker swiped a bloodied hand across his cheek, as though wiping something away. He left a red smear in its place.
“Are you crying?” Emily asked him.
“No. A bug flew in my eye.”
Caitlin let his comment alone, since it appeased her daughter. But the man was obviously in pain. “You really ought to see a doctor.”
“I don’t want to see a doctor.” Then he blew out a ragged breath and lifted the heavy bike. He tried to push it toward the carport, but the effort seemed to tax him. He checked something at the handle and near the pedal, then muttered—probably a swear word—under his breath.
Gosh. He was favoring that right leg.
“If you won’t see a doctor, then come to my house and let me tend your wounds.”
“That’s not necessary.” He continued toward the carport.
Caitlin had been on her way to the market, but she was too jittery to go now, so she turned the car around and returned to her parking space. She watched as the motorcyclist pushed his battered bike next to hers.
“Number 39 belongs to my neighbor, Greg Norse,” she told him. “But he’ll be gone for a while, so I’m sure it’s all right if you leave the bike there.”
“I know,” he said. “Greg’s a buddy of mine, and I’m house-sitting while he’s in Australia for the next few weeks.”
“Are you going to cat-sit, too?” Emily asked, as she climbed from the car with her favorite stuffed kitty in tow.
No one loved cats more than Emily. And Greg, bless his heart, let her come over and play with Fred whenever he was home.
“Yeah, I’m watching the dam—” He looked at her daughter, catching himself. “The darn cat.”
“Fred is a good cat,” Emily said in her furry friend’s defense. “He’s the best kitty in the whole world.”
“I’m glad you think so,” the biker said with an I’m-not-convinced smile. “That little beast is psycho.”
“Maybe Fred doesn’t like you,” Emily said.
The biker smiled. “You’ve got that right.”
“I wanted to baby-sit Fred,” Emily told him, “but my mom is ’lergic to cats.”
The biker glanced at Caitlin, then smiled at the child. “Maybe you can come over and feed him. He runs under the bed whenever I get close to him.”
“Can I, Mommy? Please?” Emily’s eyes held such longing, that Caitlin hated to tell the child no. But she didn’t know this man very well.
“We’ll see, honey.” Then she extended a hand to the biker. “My name is Caitlin Rogers, and this is my daughter Emily. We live next door to Greg.”
“Brett Tanner.” He held up his battered hand. “I’m afraid we’d better shake after I get cleaned up.”
“I’ll show you where we live,” Emily said eagerly.
The biker—or rather, Brett—took off his helmet, revealing chocolate-brown hair cut in a military style. He had a nice face, with baby-blue eyes and a classic, square-cut jaw. In fact, he was a good-looking man who probably had his share of female admirers.
“You were leaving,” he said. “And that dent on your hood and grill looks bad, but your car ought to drive okay.”
She smiled and held up a trembling hand for him to see. “The car’s in better shape than my nerves. I’ll wait for a while. Besides, I want to check you out.” Warmth flooded her cheeks. “I mean, check your injuries.”
“I know what you meant.” He slid her a devilish grin that made her wonder what it would have been like to meet him under different circumstances.
But enough of that. Right now, Caitlin’s only focus was Emily. And ensuring that the little girl’s biological father didn’t take the child away from the only mother she’d ever known.
“Come on,” Caitlin said. “Let’s get your wounds cleaned up.”
Brett didn’t know why he’d let Caitlin talk him into this. As he followed her to the house, he glanced at his bloody knuckles. Hell, this was nothing. He’d had worse scuffles as a teenaged delinquent—before Detective Harry Logan had taken an interest in him and helped an angry, surly seventeen-year-old get his life back on track.
So why had he agreed to let the petite blonde with sea-green eyes lead him into her house?
Because the nurse was one hell of an attractive lady, and he didn’t mind letting her practice a little TLC. It had been a long time since a woman had fussed over him.
Besides, her kid was really cute. And a cat lover, no doubt. Maybe she could coax that crazy feline to eat, so Greg wouldn’t come home and find out his good buddy had let the damn critter starve to death under the bed.
At the front door, which boasted a flowery wreath in colors of green, pink and lavender, the attractive blonde slipped a key into the deadbolt, turned the knob and let them inside.
Women sure liked to leave their mark on a place.
Inside, the house was neat and clean, although the furniture looked a bit worn. He caught of whiff of something fragrant. Potpourri?
His mom used to display crystal bowls full of that scented, shaved wood and dried flower petals throughout the house.
“The bathroom is
this way,” Caitlin said.
He followed her down the hall and into the guest bathroom, which had pale pink walls and a lacy white curtain. Floral-printed decorative towels hung on the racks and matched the shower curtain.
“Can I help?” Emily asked.
“No, honey. There isn’t much room in here for three of us.”
She had that right. The walls seemed to close in on them the minute he’d stepped inside with her, making him even more aware of their difference in height. And their gender.
As she bent to retrieve something from under the sink, he couldn’t help but appreciate the gentle curve of her hips, the way the white fabric fit a nicely shaped bottom. She straightened and set a first-aid kit on the countertop.
“I can do this myself,” he said, feeling a bit awkward and vulnerable.
“Don’t be silly. I insist.” She took his bad hand in hers, gripping it with gentle fingers that sent a flood of warmth coursing through his blood.
Inside the tight quarters, he caught a whiff of her scent, something alluring and tropical.
While she worked on washing the grit and asphalt from his knuckles, he couldn’t help but assess her with an appreciative eye.
She wore a pair of white pants cropped at the calf. And a lime-green T-shirt that probably would reveal the midriff of a taller woman, but the hem merely tickled her waistline.
Did she have a husband?
He didn’t see a ring on her hand. But that didn’t mean much. Kelly had taken off her wedding band while he’d been in the Middle East.
The water and antibacterial soap stung, but her ministrations were gentle, thorough. Professional. Yet his thoughts weren’t those of a patient. Or a neighbor.
“Are you married?” he asked, unable to quell the curiosity.
Her movements slowed, but quickly resumed without her looking up. “No, I’m not.”
Divorced then, since she had a kid.
“Mommy,” Emily said from the doorway. “Can I get Brett a Popsicle?”
“You can’t reach the freezer door. And he might not want one,” the mother said.
“I can push a chair to the fridge. Then I can reach it.” The little girl offered him a bright-eyed grin. “Do you want a Popsicle? That’s what my mommy gives me after I get my owie bandaged.”
“Thanks for the offer, but I’m afraid a Popsicle will ruin my appetite for dinner.” Brett wasn’t used to kids, but he figured her mother would appreciate his thoughtfulness.
“What are you having for dinner?” Emily asked.
“I’m going to drive through one of those burger joints.” Whoops. Driving wasn’t an option until he got his Harley fixed. He chuckled, then added, “I guess I’ll have to walk, though.”
“Want to have dinner with us?” Emily asked. “We’re having spusghetti.”
Actually, he liked Italian food and wondered if Caitlin was a good cook. Probably. She seemed to have domestic stuff down pat. “Thanks for asking, Emily. But I’ll probably just rustle up something to eat from the pantry.”
At least, he hoped so. He’d come in late last night, and Greg hadn’t left him much to choose from by way of food in the fridge. And with his bike out of commission for a while…
“What does rustle up mean?” Emily asked.
“It means find something.”
“Greg never buys food, ’cept for Fred. That’s why he goes to Burger Bob’s all the time…’cept when he eats with us.” The little girl offered him a sweet, expectant smile. “Spusghetti is better than those crunchy little brown fishies that Fred eats. I know, ’cause I tasted one once, and it was yucky.”
Caitlin looked up from her work on his hand. “I still feel the accident was my fault, Brett. Please join us for dinner. It’s the least I can do.”
He ought to turn tail and run, get the heck out of Dodge. But for some reason, sharing spusghetti with his pretty neighbor and her little girl sounded kind of appealing.
“Are you sure it’s no trouble?” he asked the mother.
“I’m sure. But Emily will probably expect you to play cards or a board game with her. That’s the usual after-dinner routine when Greg comes over to eat.”
“It’s hard to believe a gruff guy like Greg plays kid games.” Brett shook his head and grinned. His buddy stood about six-two and weighed more than two hundred pounds. And he was about as tough a man as the Navy had to offer.
Caitlin chuckled. “He plays a killer game of Candyland and Go Fish.”
Greg? That mountain of a man who smoked cigars and could cuss a blue streak?
“Amazing.” Brett realized he had something on his buddy now.
“Okay,” Caitlin said. “Sit on the commode so I can look at your knee.”
He wondered if she’d ask him to remove his pants. A part of him—that rebellious side he’d allowed to run amok during his youth—hoped she would.
“Do you mind if I cut your jeans?” she asked.
Score one for the lady. “Nah. Go ahead. They’re going in the trash anyway.”
She pulled scissors from the first-aid kit, then knelt at his feet and began to snip at the denim fabric. Her hair had white-gold highlights that probably lit up on a sunny day or in the candlelight.
He could imagine her walking hand in hand with a guy in the summer sun, sitting across a linen-draped table at a high-class restaurant.
What he couldn’t imagine was her not having a man in her life.
What was the deal with her and Greg? Were they friends? Lovers?
And what about Emily’s father? Where was he? And why had he let a woman like Caitlin slip away?
Brett wasn’t sure why he was so curious about the men in her life. It’s not as though he wanted a shot at dating her himself. He made it a point to steer clear of women with kids.
But for now, he couldn’t see any reason why he shouldn’t join them for spusghetti and a game of Go Fish.
It beat the heck out of munching on dried cat food in front of the TV.
Chapter Two
Brett stood before the woven, heart-shaped welcome mat on his pretty neighbor’s front porch and glanced at his watch—five-fifty. Ten minutes early.
He paused before knocking.
What had he been thinking when he’d agreed to dinner? Should he try and figure out a way to back out graciously?
Unlike his buddy Greg, Brett wasn’t into cats, board games or neighborly get-togethers.
And Caitlin was just the kind of woman he steered clear of—a homemaker, like Kelly had been. And probably just as set in her ways and disagreeable. But to make matters worse, Caitlin also had a kid—and an ex-husband, no doubt.
It was just the kind of broken household Brett didn’t want to be a part of.
His stomach rumbled, urging him to put aside his reservations for the sake of hunger. He should have walked ten or twelve blocks to the twenty-four-hour convenience store on Vine, but he’d spent the better part of the afternoon on the telephone looking for a certified Harley repair shop.
He’d found one in Bayside, and the owner had come out to look over the battered bike about twenty minutes ago.
The estimate was astronomical, but not a surprise. Six months ago, Brett had paid over twenty grand for the new Softail. Then he’d put a fortune into the high-priced accessories he’d added, not to mention the custom paint job. So he had no other choice but to let the mechanic from Hog Specialists haul it back to the repair and body shop.
And since Greg had loaned his pickup to his brother, Brett was left without wheels until the bike was fixed. Damn. He wasn’t about to spend his leave on foot, so he’d have to rent a car, which he’d probably do tomorrow. But for now, he was temporarily stranded.
So why should he back out and tell Caitlin he wasn’t hungry when he was actually starving?
Just as he lifted his good hand to rap at the door, a movement near the window caused him to glance to the right, where Emily peered through the white slatted shutters.
She had the f
ront door open before he knew it. “How come you were just standing there for a long time? My mommy won’t let me open the door unless someone knocks.”
He scanned beyond the doorway, looking for her mother, hoping Caitlin wouldn’t think he’d been waiting at the door trying to muster a little courage. Not seeing her, he lifted his bandaged knuckle, trying to sidetrack the child by reminding her that he had an injury. “It hurts to knock.”
“Then you should have ringed the doorbell.”
Smart kid. Too smart.
“Come in.” Her smile lit up her face in a warm welcome.
She was a cutie, that’s for sure. Her mom had pulled back the sides of her long, blond hair with brightly colored, kitty-cat barrettes and dressed her in a white top, pink-and-white striped shorts and little white sandals.
“Guess what?” Emily’s eyes danced like sugarplum fairies, and she answered before he could ponder her secret. “I got to butter the bread and shake the sprinkles on it.”
“Your mom is lucky to have such a great helper,” he said.
“I know.” The little girl took him by his good hand and led him into the house.
He hadn’t paid much attention to the decor when he’d come inside earlier, but he did now. The cozy living room had an overstuffed sofa with a floral print in shades of pink and green, an antique rocking chair by the hearth, framed photographs placed on light oak furniture and lots of girly doodads on the pale green walls.
“Mommy!” Emily cried. “He’s here.”
Brett’s pulse rate slipped into overdrive, as he waited for Caitlin to respond—a visceral reaction he didn’t want and hadn’t expected. Heck, she was just a neighbor.
Okay, so she was nice to look at. And she had a gentle touch, a lilt in her voice. That didn’t mean he was interested in her in a romantic sense. The single mom was too heavy-duty for him.
“Hi,” Caitlin said, as she walked out of the kitchen wearing a yellow sundress and a breezy smile—a perfect blend of Suzy Homemaker, Florence Nightingale and Meg Ryan. “I didn’t hear the bell.”
“That’s ’cause he didn’t push the button,” Emily interjected. “And his owies hurt too much, so he couldn’t knock.”
