Everyday, Average Jones

by Suzanne Brockmann

  Jones shook his head. "Melody, I can't—"

  "Please. Do me a favour and don't say anything," she begged him. "Just...leave and think about it for a week or two. Don't say anything until you've given yourself time to really think it through. This whole concept—my pregnancy—is still so new to you. I'm giving you a chance to walk away. No strings attached. Give yourself time to think about what that means before you say or do anything rash." She turned and headed toward the house.

  He didn't follow, thank God.

  She nearly dropped her keys as she unlocked the door. As she went inside, he was still standing there, half in and half out of his car.

  As she shut the door behind her, she heard the car door slam. And then, through the window, she saw him drive away.

  With any luck at all, he'd do as she asked and think about his options. And if her luck held, he would realize that she was dead serious about this easy way out she was giving him. And that would be that. He wouldn't call, he wouldn't write.

  She would never see Lt. Harlan Jones of the U.S. Navy SEALs again.

  The baby kicked her, hard.

  Chapter 5

  Cowboy thought Mel was going to faint again, merely at the sight of him.

  He opened the screen door, ready to catch her, but Melody stepped out on the porch rather than let him into the house.

  "What are you doing here?" She sounded breathless, shocked, as if she'd actually expected him to take her advice and leave town.

  He met her eyes squarely, forcing himself to keep breathing as the enormity of what he was about to do seemed to set itself down directly on his chest. "I think you can probably figure it out."

  Melody sat on the edge of one of the plastic lounge chairs that hadn't yet been moved inside for the coming winter. "Oh, God."

  He'd put on his white dress uniform, hat and all. He'd even shined his shoes for the occasion. This was not your everyday, average social call.

  "Sweetie, who's...?" Brittany's voice trailed off as she came to look out the screen.

  "Good evening, ma'am." Cowboy was uncertain if the covered porch was considered indoors or out. He took off his hat, deciding that the ceiling above his head had to count for something. And he didn't want to risk being rude. God knows he was going into this with enough points against him already.

  Brittany did a double take. "Are those all medals?" she asked.

  "Yes, ma'am."

  Melody wasn't looking at him. She was staring off into space, across the front yard and down the road that led into town. She looked worn-out and about as unhappy as he'd ever seen her. Even in the Middle East, in the midst of all the danger and death, she hadn't looked this defeated.

  Her sister pushed open the screen door. "God, you've got—there must be...how many?"

  "Lucky thirteen, ma'am."

  "Thirteen medals. My God"

  She leaned even closer to look and Cowboy cleared his throat. "If you'll excuse us, Brittany...? You see, I came over here tonight to ask Melody to marry me."

  He managed to get the words out without choking. Dear God, what was he doing here? The answer came swiftly: he was doing the only thing he could do now. He was doing the right thing.

  Melody looked up at him, clearly surprised he'd be so forthcoming.

  He smiled at her, praying he didn't look as terrified as he felt. She'd told him back in Paris that she couldn't resist his smile. He held out his hand, too. "What do you say we go for a walk?"

  But she didn't reach for him. In fact, she all but slapped at his hand. "Didn't you hear anything I said this afternoon?"

  It seemed as if over the past seven months, she'd somehow learned to resist him.

  "I'll just go and, um, go." Brittany faded back into the house.

  "You don't need me." Cowboy repeated Melody's words. "You don't want me. You've got it all figured out. You and you alone can give this baby everything he or she needs. Except you're wrong. Without me, you can't give this child legitimacy. And you can't be his father."

  His words came out sounding a whole lot more bitter than he'd intended, and as he watched, her eyes filled with tears.

  "I didn't say those things purposely to hurt you, Jones," she told him quietly. "I just thought... I wanted to give you a chance to escape. To get away from here free and clear. I wanted to keep you from doing exactly what you're doing right now. I thought if I could make you see that I truly, honestly don't need you to support me or the baby—"

  "You actually thought I'd just walk away?" Cowboy felt sick to his stomach.

  Her tears almost overflowed, but she fiercely blinked them back. "I thought if I could convince you that I'm absolutely not your responsibility—"

  "You truly believed I'd just turn around and go back to the Alpha Squad and never even think of you again?" Cowboy sat down heavily in the chair directly across from hers. "Honey, you don't know me very well."

  Melody leaned forward. "That's the point. We don't know each other at all. We were together for...what? Eight days? During which time we actually talked for all of eight hours? That's not enough to build a relationship on, let alone a marriage!"

  Even tired, even with the seriousness of this argument keeping her from smiling, she was lovely.

  There was a trail of freckles across her nose and cheeks, making her look as if she had slowly ripened in the summer sun. Her pregnancy had added a lushness to her body, a womanly fullness to breasts and hips that had been almost boyishly slender before.

  Even her face was fuller, less little-girl cute and more grown-woman beautiful.

  Cowboy wanted to touch her. He was dying to press his hand against the tautness of her stomach, to feel the reality of her baby—his baby—beneath his fingers.

  They'd done this together. They'd created this baby in the cramped bathroom of that 747 to Paris. It had to have happened then. It was the only time they hadn't used protection. Hell, it was the only time in thirteen years he'd had sex without a condom.

  He could still remember the dizzying swiftness with which he had thrown aside a lifetime of precaution and control. And he could also remember the heart-stoppingly exquisite sensation when he'd driven himself deeply inside her.

  Damn, but he wanted to do that again. And over and over again...

  Cowboy cleared his throat, unable to hide the heat he knew was in his eyes as he looked at her. "It's just that, well, let me put it this way. I could think of far worse ways to spend the rest of my life than being married to you."

  Married. Damn, the word still made him feel faint.

  She held his gaze with eyes the colour of a perfect summer sky. They were so familiar, those eyes. He'd dreamed about her eyes more times than he could count. He'd dreamed about sitting right here, across from her on the front porch of her house and gazing at her.

  He'd dreamed that he'd touch her. He'd trail one finger down the silky smoothness of her cheek and she would smile and open her arms to him. And then, finally, after all these months of starving for the taste of her lips, he would kiss her and...

  But here in real life, he didn't dare reach for her. And she didn't smile. She simply looked away.

  But not before he saw it—the undeniable answering heat of attraction that flashed across her face. There was still a spark between them. Despite everything she'd said, she was not unaffected by his presence. But it just wasn't enough.

  "I can't think of anything worse," she said softly, "than to get married for the wrong reason."

  "And you don't think that little baby you're carrying is a right enough reason?"

  Melody lifted her chin in the air in that gesture of defiance that was so familiar. "No, I don't. Love is the only reason two people should get married."

  He was about to speak, but she stopped him. "And I know you don't love me, so don't insult my intelligence by even trying to pretend that you do. People don't really fall in love at first sight—or even after eight days. Lust, yes, but not love. Love takes time. The kind of love you base a long-te
rm relationship on-a relationship like marriage-needs to grow over a course of weeks and months and even years. What we experienced during my rescue and those days following it had nothing to do with love. Love is about normal things—about sharing breakfast and then going off to work. It's about working in the yard together on the weekend. It's about sitting on the back porch and watching the sunset."

  "When I go off to work, I don't come back for four weeks," Cowboy said quietly.

  "I know." She gave him a very sad smile. "That's not what I want from a husband. If I'm going to get married, it's going to be to a man whose idea of risking his life is to mow the lawn near the hornet's nest."

  Cowboy was silent He'd never been one for long speeches. He'd never been the type for philosophizing or debating some minute detail of an issue the way Harvard could do for hours at a time.

  But at this crucial moment, Cowboy wished he had Harvard's talent for waxing eloquent. Because he knew how he felt—he just wasn't certain he'd be able to find the right words to explain.

  "Sometimes, Mel," he started slowly, hesitantly, "you've got to take what life dishes out. And sometimes that's real different from what you hoped for or what you expected. I mean, I didn't exactly picture myself getting married and starting a family for a whole hell of a lot of years, but here I am, sitting here with a diamond ring in a box in my pocket."

  "I'm not going to marry you," she interrupted. "I don't want to marry you!"

  His voice rose despite his intentions to stay calm. "Yeah, well, honey, I'm not that excited about it myself." He took a deep breath and when he spoke again his voice was softer. "But it's the right thing to do."

  She pressed the palm of her hand against her forehead. "I knew it. I knew you were going to start with 'the right thing.'"

  "You bet I'm starting with it. Because I believe that baby—my baby as well as yours, Mel—deserves a name."

  "He'll have a name. He'll have my name!"

  "And he'll grow up in this little town with everyone knowing he's a bastard. Yeah, you're really looking out for him, aren't you?"

  Anger flashed in her eyes. "Stop with the Middle Ages mentality. Women are single mothers all the time these days. I can take care of this baby by my—''

  "I know. I heard you. You've got it all figured out. You've got his college education handled. But you know, there is one thing you can't provide for this kid, and that's a chance for him to know his father. I'm the only one who can make sure this kid grows up knowing that he's got a father who cares."

  Cowboy couldn't believe the words that had come out of his mouth. He was glad he was sitting down. A father who cared. Hell, he actually sounded as if he knew what he was talking about—as if he knew anything at all about how to make sure this unborn child would grow up believing that he was loved.

  In truth, he was clueless. His own father had been a dismal failure in that regard. By-the-book U.S. Navy, Admiral Jones was a perfectionist. He was harsh and demanding and cold and—with the exception of Cowboy's joining the SEALS—was never happy with anything he ever did. With the old man as his only real role model, Cowboy wasn't sure he was ready to get within a hundred feet of an impressionable child.

  Still, he didn't have any choice, did he? He drew the ring box from his pocket and snapped the lid open. He held it out to her. "Mel, you gotta marry me. This isn't just about you and me anymore."

  Melody couldn't bring herself even to look at the ring.

  She clumsily pushed herself to her feet, fighting to keep from crying. She'd made a mistake—assuming Jones wouldn't care. She'd misjudged him—thinking his good-time, pleasure-seeking, no-strings disposition would win out over his sense of responsibility.

  But a sense of responsibility didn't make for a happy home.

  "The worst thing we can do for this baby is enter into a marriage neither one of us wants," she said. "What kind of home life could we possibly give him when we don't even know if we like each other?"

  That seemed to floor Jones. He swore softly, shaking his head. "I like you. I sort of thought you liked me, too." He laughed in disbelief. "I mean, come on..."

  She stopped, her hand on the screen door. "I did like you," she told him. "I liked you a whole lot when you were the only thing standing between me and death when we were inside that embassy. And I liked you even more when you made love to me, after we were back and safe. But there's a whole lot more to you besides your abilities as a Navy SEAL and your considerable talent in bed. And I don't know that part of you at all. And you don't know me, either. Let's be honest—you don't."

  Let's be honest. Except she wasn't—not really. She did like Cowboy Jones. She admired and respected him, and every time he opened his mouth, every minute longer he hung around, she liked him more and more.

  It wouldn't take much for her feelings to grow into something stronger.

  And that would be trouble, because adventure and excitement were this man's middle names. There was no way he would be satisfied with a marriage to someone as unadventurous and unexciting as Melody Evans. And after the novelty of doing the right thing wore off, they'd both be miserable.

  By then, he'd be bored with her, and she—fool that she was—would be hopelessly in love with him.

  Melody looked up at him as she opened the door and stepped inside. "So, no, Lieutenant Jones, I'm not going to marry you."

  "I need a room."

  The elderly woman behind the counter at the local inn could have been a SEAL team's point man. Cowboy could tell that she missed nothing with her shrewd, sweeping gaze. She quickly took in his naval uniform, his perfectly shined shoes, the pile of medals that decorated his chest. No doubt she was memorizing the colour of his eyes and hair and taking a mental picture of his face- probably for reference later when she watched Top Cops or another of those reality-based TV shows just to make sure the uniform wasn't an elaborate disguise when, in fact, he was wanted for heinous crimes in seven different states.

  He gave her his hundred-dollar smile.

  She didn't blink. "How many nights?"

  "Just one, ma'am."

  She pursed her lips, making her face look even longer and narrower, and slid a standard hotel-room registration form across the counter to him. "You're from Texas?"

  Cowboy paused before picking up the pen. His accent wasn't that obvious. "You have a good ear, ma'am."

  "That was a question, young man," she told him sternly. "I was asking. But you are, aren't you? You're that sailor from Texas."

  Another elderly woman, this one as round and short as the other was tall and narrow, came out of the back room.

  "Oh, my," she said, stopping short at the sight of him. "It's him, isn't it? Melody's navy fellow."

  "He wants to stay the night, Peggy," the stern-faced woman intoned, disapproval thickening her voice. "I'm not sure I want his type in our establishment. Having all kinds of rowdy parties. Getting all of the local girls pregnant."

  All of the...?

  "Hannah Shelton called to say he just bought a diamond ring at Front Street Jeweler's," the round lady-Peggy-said. "On credit."

  Both women turned to look at him.

  "About time," the tall one sniffed.

  "Did he give it to her?" Peggy wondered.

  It was odd—the way they talked about him as if he weren't there, even as they stood staring directly at him.

  He decided the best course would simply be to ignore their comments. "I'd like a room with a telephone, if possible," he said as he filled out the registration form. "I need to make some out-of-state calls. I have a calling card, of course."

  "None of our rooms have private phones," the tall lady informed him.

  "Our guests are welcome to use the lobby phone." Peggy gestured across the room toward an antique sideboard upon which sat an equally antique-looking rotary phone.

  The lobby phone. Of course. God forbid a conversation go on in this building that Peggy and the bird lady not know about.

  "You did buy it as an engag
ement ring, didn't you?" the tall woman asked, narrowing her eyes, finally confronting him directly. "With the intention of giving it to Melody Evans?"

  Cowboy tried his best to be pleasant. "That's private business between Ms. Evans and me."

  "Thank God, Lieutenant! You're still here!" Brittany came bursting through the inn's lobby door. "I have to talk to you."

  "It's Brittany Evans." Peggy stated the obvious to her dour-faced companion.

  "I can see that. She wants to talk to the sailor."

  "Do you have a few minutes?" Mel's sister asked Cowboy.

  He shrugged. "Yeah, sure. Although I'm not sure if the Spanish Inquisition has finished with me."

  She laughed, and he could see traces of Melody in her face. The wave of longing that hit him was overpowering. Why couldn't this have been easy? Why couldn't he have arrived in Appleton to find Melody happy to see him—and not seven months pregnant?

  But "why couldn't" scenarios were of no help to him now. He couldn't change the past—that wasn't in his control. And difficult as it seemed, he somehow had to change Mel's mind. He had to make her see that they really only had one choice here.

  As he'd walked away with that diamond ring still in his pocket, it occurred to him that he'd been taking the wrong tack. He shouldn't have tried to argue with Melody. He should've spent all of his energy sweet-talking her instead. He should've tried to seduce his way back into her life.

  Yeah, sure, great sex probably wasn't enough to base a long-term relationship on. But great sex combined with a soon-to-be-born baby were grounds for a definite start.

  Brittany turned to the two old ladies, fixing them with a pointed finger and a glare. "Peggy. Estelle. If either one of you breathes so much as a word about the fact that I came here to talk to Lieutenant Jones, and my sister hears about it, I swear I will take my chain saw to your rosebushes. Is that understood?"

  Estelle didn't seem convinced, lifting a hawklike nose into the air. "She'd never do it."