A Texas Soldier's Family. Cathy Thacker Gillen
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on every ounce of military reserve he had, sucked in a breath and looked straight into her wide, emerald-green eyes. “Are you all right?”
* * *
THIS, HOPE WINSLOW thought with an embarrassed grimace, was not how her day was supposed to go. Seven months out of the workplace might have left her a little rusty. But completely without social skills or enough balance to stay on her feet no matter how hard she’d been shoved?
Furthermore, it wasn’t as if she had wanted to take that last call from the client. She’d had no choice. She needed the income and acclaim this job was going to bring in, and like it or not, high-paying clients required high-level hand-holding. Plus, she had a soft spot in her heart for this current one...and that made any of Lucille’s requests difficult to resist.
But her quarry—the guy she had accidentally fallen on—would likely not understand any of that.
Resolved to retain whatever small amount of dignity she had left, Hope forced another small—apologetic—smile, inhaled deeply, then put her left hand down on the armrest beneath the window and shoved herself upright. Only it wasn’t an armrest, she swiftly found out. There wasn’t one there. It was the rock-hard denim-clad upper thigh of the man who’d caught her in his arms.
Mortified, she plucked her fingers away before they encountered anything else untoward. Then she promptly lost her balance, fell again and had the point of her elbow land where her hand had been.
Her gallant seatmate let out an oomph and looked alarmed. With good reason, Hope thought.
Another inch to the left and...!
“Let me help you,” he drawled, his voice a smooth Texas-accented rumble. With one hand hooked around her waist and the other around her shoulders, he lifted her quickly and skillfully to her feet, then turned and lowered her so her bottom landed squarely in her own seat. That done, he handed her the leather carryall she’d inadvertently assaulted him with.
Hope knew she should say something. If only to make her later job easier.
And she would have, if the sea-blue eyes she’d been staring into hadn’t been so mesmerizing. She liked his hair, too. So dark and thick and...touchable...
The pictures she had seen of him and his siblings hadn’t done him justice. Or indicated just how big and broad shouldered he was. Enough to make her own five-eleven frame feel dainty...
And heaven knew that didn’t happen every day. Even in Texas.
“Ma’am?” he prodded again, less patiently.
Clearly he was expecting some response to ease the unabashed sexual tension that had sprung up between them, so she tore her eyes from the way his black knit polo shirt molded the sinewy contours of his chest and taut abs, and said the first thing that came into her mind. “Thank you for your assistance just now. And for your service. To our country, I mean.”
His dark brow furrowed. His lips—so firm and sensual—thinned. Shoulders flexing, he studied her with breathtaking intent, then asked, “How’d you know I was in the military?”
* * *
IT WAS A simple question, Garrett thought.
One that shouldn’t have required any dissembling.
But dissembling was precisely what his seatmate appeared to be doing as she discreetly tugged the skirt of her elegant, white business suit lower on her shapely thighs, then leaned forward to place her bag beneath the seat in front of her, as per preflight requirements.
“Um...your hair,” she said finally.
Oh, yeah. Military cut. Made sense.
“Well, that and the duffel in the overhead.” She glanced at the passengers seated across the aisle, a young mother and a child with a Dora the Explorer backpack. The rest of the luggage stored above them was pink. Whereas his, he knew, was army green.
Point made, she sat back and drew the safety restraint across her lap, once again drawing his attention where it definitely should not be. “So, how long have you been in the military?” she asked pleasantly.
He watched as she fit the metal buckle into the clasp, drew it taut. Was there any part of her not delectable? he wondered. Any inch of her he did not want? “Eight years.” And why was it suddenly so hard to get the words out?
She wet her lips. Suddenly sounding a little hoarse, too, she inquired, “And what do you do?”
“I’m a physician.”
She pursed her lips in a way that had him wondering what it would be like to kiss her. “Which must make you a...?”
Not just kiss her. Make love to her. Hot, wild, passionate love, he thought, drinking in the soft, womanly scent of her. “Captain,” he said.
She extended a hand. It was as velvety soft as it looked, her grip warm and firm. “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Captain...?”
He let her go reluctantly, the awareness he’d felt when she’d landed in his lap returning, full force. “Lockhart. Garrett Lockhart.”
Her expression turned even more welcoming. She studied him intently. “I’m Hope Winslow.”
Okay, so maybe his first impression of her hadn’t been on point. Even if she wasn’t his type, there were worse ways to pass the time than sitting next to a charming, gorgeous woman. And she was gorgeous, Garrett reflected, feeling a little unsettled and a lot attracted as the plane backed away from the gate and the flight attendants went through the safety instructions.
Tall enough to fit nicely against him. With legs that were made for high heels and curves that just wouldn’t quit pushing against the taut fabric of her sleek summer suit. Honey-blond hair as straight and silky as spun gold brushed her shoulders and long bangs fell to frame her oval face. Her features were elegant, her bow-shaped lips soft, pink and full, her emerald eyes radiating wit and keen intelligence.
He doubted there was anything she set her mind to that she didn’t get. Her ringless left hand said she was single.
It was too bad he wasn’t in the market for a high-maintenance, high-powered career woman.
“So what do you do for a living?” he asked, after the flight attendant had come by to deliver bowls of warmed nuts and take their drink orders. Milk for her, coffee for him.
She picked out an almond. Then a pecan. “I’m in scandal management.”
Okay, he could see that.
She seemed like the type who could take a highly emotional, probably volatile situation and boil it down to something manageable. “I recently started my own firm.” She reached into a pocket of her carryall and plucked out a business card. Winslow Strategies. Crisis Management by the Very Best. It had her name featured prominently, printed in the same memorable green as her eyes, and a Dallas address.
He started to hand it back. She gestured for him to keep it, so he slipped it into the pocket of his shirt. “Business good?”
She gestured affably, looking reluctant to be too specific. “There’s always someone in trouble.”
I’ll bet. “But to have to hire someone to get yourself out of it?” He couldn’t keep the contempt from his voice.
“People hire lawyers all the time when they find themselves in a tight spot.”
Imagining that line worked on a lot of very wealthy people, he sipped his coffee. “Not the same thing.”
She turned slightly toward him, tilting her head. “It sort of is,” she said, her voice a little too tight. “Words can hurt. Or mislead. Or falsely indict. So can actions.” She paused to sip her milk and let her words sink in, then set her glass down on the tray. “It’s important when in the midst of a potentially life-altering, and especially life-damaging event, to have someone on your side who isn’t emotionally involved, calling the shots and orchestrating everything