Then again, she’d left the gathering in the company of one of the Badger’s protégées. Major Ben Kincaid. Also a Special Ops pilot. And a world-class stud. One long weekend with the major had pretty much made a believer out of Alex.
Now Kincaid was here. In Albuquerque. Just seeing him again after all this time knocked the breath back down Alex’s throat. He was leaning against the bar, one boot hooked on the rail, his jeans and black knit polo shirt hugging his long, lean frame and a grin tipping a corner of his mouth. Ruthlessly, she banished the memory of that mouth moving over her. Moving over every part of her.
This was business.
A very desperate business.
Dragging in a determined breath, she stepped out of the shadows of the bar’s entrance and let the door whoosh out the hot New Mexico night. As she wove her way through the Cactus Café’s beer-stained tables, smoky haze bit into her lungs and the country-pop crossover nasal whine blasting through the speakers assaulted her eardrums.
She didn’t recognize the man talking to Kincaid. Another military type she guessed from the buzz-cut hair and easy slouch that somehow still managed to convey a careless self-confidence. She did recognize the woman with the two men, though. The blonde was another of Badger’s protégées that Alex had met at the previous Bash. Susan Something. Alex couldn’t recall her last name but she did remember that the woman owed her call sign Swish to the ponytail that teased her shoulder blades seductively. That was the version put out for public consumption, anyway. A grinning Kincaid had indicated there was another version, known only to the chosen few.
Swish caught sight of Alex first. A frown creased her forehead as she tried to fit the face to a name or place. She made the connection while Alex was still a few yards away. Arching a delicately penciled brow, she nudged Kincaid with an elbow. Either he was too involved in the other man’s story or he mistook the poke for something more intimate. Smiling, he curled an arm around her shoulders and rubbed his palm up and down her arm.
The absentminded caress stopped Alex in her tracks. Damn! Had Love-’Em-and-Leave-’Em Kincaid changed his modus operandi? Her carefully constructed plan would disintegrate if the easy camaraderie Alex had observed between him and Swishy Susan two years ago had developed into something deeper. Something more permanent.
Then the blonde dug her elbow into Kincaid’s ribs again. Hard enough to get his attention this time. His beer sloshing, he winced and sent her a pained look.
“Hey!”
“We’ve got company,” the blonde said. “Someone from your checkered past, if memory serves.”
Swish tipped her chin. Kincaid followed her lead. Under other circumstances the blank look when he spotted Alex might have bruised her ego. Instead, it confirmed that the major was still the right man for her job.
Cutting past the last few tables, she joined the three of them at the bar. “Long time no see, Cowboy.”
That was his call sign. Cowboy. Reportedly gained when he’d swooped low over some grazing longhorns and stampeded the whole herd across thirty miles of Texas panhandle. Much to the displeasure of several local ranchers, he’d confided to Alex.
“Long time,” he agreed.
There was just enough of a question buried in his reply to confirm that he didn’t have a clue who she was. Alex wasn’t surprised. She’d changed considerably since Vegas. Her hair, her style of dressing, her life.
Still, they had spent two days and three extremely erotic nights together. She couldn’t help feeling a little piqued. With a cynical smile, she held out her hand.
“Alexis Scott. Las Vegas. Two years ago.”
She could see him make the connection. Those electric-blue eyes widened, made a quick trip south, zipped back up to her face.
“Alex! Damn. You’re looking good.”
She should be. She’d donned her best armor in preparation for this meeting. The subtly dramatic makeup. The snug short-sleeved black tank sparkling with turquoise and silver crystals along its low-cut scoop neckline. The slim black jeans with matching crystal trim on the pockets. The black boots with ice pick heels. She’d even coaxed some curl into her shoulder-length auburn hair.
“You’re looking good, too” she had to admit as she mirrored his quick inventory. His dark hair was a little shorter than she remembered from Vegas. The white squint lines at the corners of his eyes were pretty much the same, though. So were the square chin, the strong neck and the muscled shoulders under his faded denim shirt.
“What are you doing in New Mexico?” he asked, jerking her back to the here and now.
“I moved here last year.”
“With...” He cocked his head. “What was his name? The real estate tycoon?”
“Bryan, and no.”
She’d started dating Bryan a month or so after her wild weekend with the hotshot special operations pilot. She and Bryan had progressed to the exclusive stage when Kincaid called her some four months later. He’d been in Iraq, he’d explained. Then she’d explained her situation at the time, at which point he’d cheerfully wished her and Bryan the best and disappeared from her life again.
Not that Alex had ever expected her weekend with the major to result in any kind of long-term relationship. Kincaid had been up-front with her about his single state. No ties, no obligations, not even a pet goldfish. Short-notice deployments flying heavily armed gunships into hot spots around the world didn’t make for either stability or durability in relationships. Alex suspected there was more to his deliberately casual philosophy of life and love, but they hadn’t spent enough time together for her to want to dig deeper.
But now...with so much on the line... Kincaid’s here-today, gone-tomorrow philosophy formed an essential element of her desperate scheme. She itched to get him away from his friends and lay out her proposition but curbed her impatience while he introduced the other two.
“This is Susan Hall. She served as a comm officer under the Badger.”
“We met at the Vegas bash,” the blonde said with a friendly nod. “Good to see you again.” Her gaze lingered on the sparkling turquoise and silver decorating Alex’s top. “Love the bling.”
“Thanks. This is one of my most popular designs.”
“You designed that?”
“It’s what I do for a living.”
Swish looked as though she wanted to pursue that, but Kincaid hooked a thumb at the man beside him. “Blake Andrews. We call him Dingo for reasons that can’t be explained in polite company. Careful what you say around him, by the way. He’s a cop.”
“Ex-cop,” Dingo corrected. “I hung up my shield with my air force uniform.”
His palm was callused, his handshake firm without the iron crunch some men thought necessary to demonstrate their virility. The pleasantries observed, Kincaid asked Alex if she’d like a beer.
“I would. Thanks. And could we talk? You and I? If your friends will excuse you for a few minutes.”
“Sure. Why don’t you grab that table?” He gestured to one just being vacated. “I’ll bring your beer.”
Ben raised his bottle to signal the bartender, then watched as the unexpected visitor from his past headed for the corner table. Now that she’d stirred the memories, they played out inside his head in vivid detail. She was slimmer than he remembered. And her hair was different. Longer, he thought. Shot with streaks of red and deep, dark gold. Those chocolate-brown eyes were the same, though, and that full, sensual mouth. All in all, Ben decided with a kick to his gut, the overall package was pretty damned outstanding.
Dingo shared his assessment. “You lucky bastard,” he muttered as he followed her progress across the room.
Swish was more interested in the sparkles. “Find out where I can get one of those shirts.”
Yeah, right, Ben thought wryly as the bartender handed him a dew-streaked Coors. Like he was going to talk T-shirts with a woman he could only hope wanted to take up where they’d left off in Vegas.
Maybe this time it would work. It hadn�
�t last time. Truth was, he’d tried to reconnect with the auburn-haired hottie after their wild weekend. Just days after he’d returned from a four-month deployment to Iraq. Just his bad luck that she’d already hooked up with someone else. Some hotshot Realtor.
Ben was surprised by the regret that news had spurred. He’d thoroughly enjoyed their weekend together. And not just in the opulent suite at The Venetian he’d taken her to after deserting his pals at the Bash. Alexis Scott had kept him grinning with her lively recap of the joys and challenges of designing what passed for costumes at Vegas’s risqué revues and surprised him with her savvy knowledge of video marketing techniques. He’d shaken off the regret soon enough, though. Another no-notice deployment, this one a humanitarian mission to earthquake-ravaged Haiti, had shoved that weekend out of his head.
Maybe, just maybe, she was thinking to rekindle old fires. Hoping fervently that was the reason for her unexpected reappearance in his life, he took a seat and passed her the beer.
“Thanks.” She raised her bottle in a toast. “Here’s to Vegas.”
“To Vegas.”
She tipped her head back and took a long swallow. Ben did the same, but the glitzy stuff on the low neck of her T-shirt did exactly what he figured it was supposed to. Damned if the sparkling crystals didn’t catch his gaze. And hold it!
His, and every other male’s within a twenty-foot radius. He saw the stares, caught the elbow jabs. No wonder Swish wanted to know where to buy one of these seemingly sedate but disturbingly provocative T-shirts. Just in time, Ben managed to drag his gaze from the seductive valley between her breasts.
Her head tipped forward, her brown eyes met his. “I suppose you’re wondering why I tracked you down.”
“I was kind of hoping it was my charm and suave good looks.”
A quick smile flitted across her face. “That’s part of it.”
“What’s the other part?”
“Parts,” she corrected, her smile fading. “There are several.”
She glanced down and picked at the label on her beer with a fingernail. When she looked up again, Ben had the impression she’d steeled herself for something that ranked up there on the fun meter right alongside a colonoscopy.
“There’s a child. A little girl.”
He didn’t move. Didn’t alter his politely curious expression. But his stomach contracted and his mind razored back to their nights together.
He’d used protection. A whole damned box of protection, if he remembered right. Yet the possibility that one of those little suckers hadn’t worked had his knuckles going white on his beer bottle.
It wasn’t that he didn’t want kids. He did. Someday. Maybe. Hell, he was only thirty-two. Plenty of time yet.
Except now he had to face the possibility time might’ve run out. His spine going rigid, he waited for the hammer to fall.
“Well,” she said, spearing through his whirling thoughts, “I guess she doesn’t really qualify as a little girl. Maria’s seven, and the sweetest, smartest, most loving...” She broke off, her brows snapping together. “Kincaid?”
“Huh?”
Her scowl deepened. “Am I boring you?”
“What? No.”
“You looked like you were a thousand miles away.”
“I heard every word. Maria’s seven and sweet and smart and...” he couldn’t suppress a huff of laughter “...not mine.”
“Yours?” She jerked back in her chair. “Why on earth would you...? Oh!”
Her astounded expression morphed into one of unholy amusement. Then something that looked a whole lot like chagrin.
The amusement Ben could understand. The chagrin got him nervous all over again. Especially when she went back to peeling off strips of the wet label.
One corner of his brain could hear Charley Pride’s “Kiss an Angel Good Mornin’” above the clink of glasses and buzz of conversation. Another corner registered the fact that Swish and Dingo were keeping him under close surveillance. But the main cortex, the cerebrum or cerebellum or whatever the hell part processed danger signals, was flashing a red alert.
“Back up a few steps,” he instructed. “Tell me what seven-year-old Maria has to do with you and me and Vegas.”
“I want to adopt her.”
“And?”
She sucked in a deep breath. Manfully, Ben kept his eyes above the bling. Mostly.
“Ordinarily, that wouldn’t be a problem. Most states, including this one, allow single-parent adoption. But in Maria’s case, there are special circumstances that make it necessary for me to...ah...have a husband.”
“Whoa!” He plunked his beer on the table. “I hope you’re not thinking what I think you’re thinking.”
“As a matter of fact...” Those warm brown eyes cut through the cigarette haze to lock with his. “I came here to... I need to ask... Oh, hell. The thing is, I want you to marry me, Major.”
Before he could recover enough to ask what the hell she was smoking, she tacked on a caveat.
“Temporarily.”
She was crazy. Certifiably nuts. He could’ve kicked himself when curiosity made him ask.
“How temporary?”
“Six months. Or less, depending on...well...circumstances. And I promise there’ll be no strings.” She rushed on. “No obligations on your part, financial or otherwise. Just your signature on a marriage certificate before you take off again for parts unknown.”
“Look, lady, these ‘circumstances’ you keep referring to make me think that what you’re suggesting comes real close to fraud.”
“It’s not fraud! I’ve discussed this with my attorney. He’s assured me what I’m doing is legal. And you don’t have to declare me your spouse or dependent or whatever the military term is. I promise, I won’t make any claim on you or the air force.”
“Doesn’t matter whether you make a claim or not. If we’re married, we’re married. That entitles you to whatever privileges come with the ring.” He shoved back his chair. “Sorry, you’ll have to find another—”
“I’ll pay you.”
“’Scuse me?”
“Five thousand when you sign the wedding certificate, another five when we divorce.”
Okay, now he was pissed. Ben almost started to blister her with a few well-chosen words about what she could do with her money but the sudden flash of desperation in her eyes had him biting back the words.
“Please!” The table wobbled as she pushed to her feet and threw a quick glance around the noisy bar. “Can we go somewhere quieter? So I can explain these...these special circumstances? Five minutes,” she pleaded. “Please. Give me just another five minutes.”
If Ben had a lick of sense he would’ve wished her a happy life and rejoined his buddies. Now that his anger had cooled, though, he wanted to hear what the hell was behind her crazy proposal.
“My ride’s outside. We can talk there.”
She started for the exit while Ben detoured to tell his friends that he was stepping out for a bit.
“Riiight,” Dingo drawled. “Have fun.”
“And find out where I can get one of those shirts,” Swish called after him.
The hot desert night hit with a wallop after the air-conditioned bar. Ben shrugged it off as he caught up with Alexis.
“I’m parked over here. Careful.”
He took her elbow to steer her around a man-size pothole. A relic of the old Route 66 heyday, the Cactus Café had long passed its prime. Half the bulbs in the illuminated sign that gave the place its name had burned out. The rest shed only a flickering green glow over the pitted dirt lot.
He beeped the locks on his muscled-up Chevy Tahoe and opened the passenger door for her. She had a long step up from the running board but Ben resisted the temptation to provide any help with a palm under her rear. Once behind the wheel, he keyed the ignition and lowered all four windows to let out the trapped air.
“Okay,” he commented as he settled against his seat, “the clock’s ticking.”
“My sister married a single dad with a young daughter. Janet—my sister—adored the girl. Then, last year, Janet was diagnosed with stage four ovarian cancer and I moved to Albuquerque to help take care of her. She died within six months of the initial diagnosis and I’ve had custody of her stepdaughter, Maria, since.”
“Why did you get custody instead of the kid’s father?”
“Because the scumbag walked out on Janet less than a week after she found out she had cancer. And he’s now in prison for dealing drugs.”
She kept her voice flat and the words succinct, with no hint of the anguish Ben knew she had to have gone through.
“I want to legally adopt Maria but her father won’t agree to the adoption.”
“Why not?”
“Spite. Pure and vicious and vengeful.” Her lip curled. “Before he got busted for drugs, I went after him for child support. He got hauled into court several times. That pissed him off so much he would cut off his own nose to spite me.”
“He sounds like a real winner.”
“A real loser, you mean.”
She stared out the open window for a few moments, presenting a profile that showed a taut, angry jaw. When she faced Ben again, he had to admire her rigid self-control.
“The court awarded me temporary custody. Since Maria and I aren’t related by blood, though, the judge refused to revoke her father’s parental rights and approve an adoption over his objections. Especially since I would be a single mom. Judge Hendricks,” she said with a twist of her lips, “doesn’t hold a high opinion of single, working women attempting to acquire a ready-made family.”
“Which is where I come in,” Ben drawled, enlightened.
“Right.” Her eyes were dark pools in the flickering light. “I don’t want a husband, but I need one. Temporarily.”
“I guess I can see that. But why me, for God’s sake? We barely know each other. Surely you have better candidates to pick from.”
“No, you’re perfect.”
He gave a snort of laughter. “I must have performed better in Vegas than I remember.”
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