Worth Fighting For

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 front 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.”

The heat in Brett’s cheeks suggested he’d turned a brilliant shade of red, but he shrugged off the embarrassment and hid his discomfort behind a grin. “Emily spotted me through the shutters and opened the door before I got a chance to knock.”

“Is your hand still bothering you?” Caitlin asked, nodding toward his bandage.

“Nah,” he lied. “It’s fine. The knee, too. I’m almost back to fighting weight.”

As she took his wrist and assessed her handiwork, he couldn’t help but study her. She had a light sprinkle of freckles across a slightly turned-up nose and dark, spiked lashes that were much longer and thicker than he remembered.

Standing this close, he caught a good whiff of her perfume, or maybe it was body lotion. Piña colada? Or some other tropical drink? Whatever it was smelled darn good.

“I’m not sure what you did to this,” she said, “but it’s damp and coming undone.”

A piece of tape had lifted, probably from the steam and spray of the shower he’d taken before walking over here. He had a feeling she would offer to redo it for him, and the thought of her fussing over him again didn’t bother him nearly as much as it should have.

Brett’s lifestyle wasn’t conducive to family life or happy ever after. He loved the Navy and flying choppers too much to give them up. And even if he bit the bullet and gave marriage or a one-on-one relationship another try, he wouldn’t look twice at a woman with kids. That kind of gig was built-in trouble and turmoil, as far as he was concerned. And it smacked of a future rife with disagreements, threats and family court.

No. All that baggage made Caitlin off-limits.

But, hey. What was a little hand holding while she tended his wounds? A man wouldn’t mind being sick or injured, just to have a woman like her hover over him.

She tucked a golden strand of hair behind her ear, revealing a pearl earring and a slender neck made for nuzzling and kissing, then glanced up at him with expressive, oceanic eyes. “I’ll get the first-aid kit, just as soon as I drain the spaghetti. It won’t take long.”

“Don’t worry about it now,” he said, knowing the TLC bit wasn’t something he should encourage. “You can just slap another piece of tape on it later. After dinner.”

“It needs a whole new bandage, but I’ll wait.” Then she turned and walked back to the kitchen with a determined step.

“Is there something I can do to help?” Brett asked, his voice chasing after her.

“Not a thing,” she hollered from the other room. “I’ll have dinner on the table in no time at all.”

“I already did all the helping,” Emily told him with little-girl pride. “Want to see what else I did?”

Brett nodded. “Sure.”

When Emily took his hand again, it did something sappy to him. Something that touched a part of him he’d kept hidden. A part of him that longed to connect to a child.

His child, of course.

But this particular kid, as cute and smart and precocious as she was, seemed to fit the ticket—for tonight, anyway.

He’d have to be careful, though, since the mother scared him.

All right. That wasn’t entirely true. Caitlin didn’t scare him at all. But his attraction to her left him a little unbalanced.

“See?” Emily said, pointing to the dining room table that had been set with plain, white everyday wear. Nothing fancy. No romantic touches to cause him to feel uneasy.

A water glass sat in the middle of the table, with three drooping daisies and a red blossom of some kind. And a child-sketched crayon drawing sat at each plate, indicating who sat where.

Brett smiled when he saw his place. Emily had spelled his name with a skinny B, no R, a leaning E and only one T. And she’d drawn his picture, adding a bandage on the stick man’s face and hand.

“The table looks great,” he told the little girl. “And so does the picture of me.”

“You can have it when you go home. And then you can put it on the ’frigerator so Fred can see it.”

“Sounds like a perfect place for such a special piece of art.” He offered her a smile, but his mind drifted to his own son, a boy who wore a red baseball cap and leaped over small hedges with a single bound.

Had Justin made pictures like that when he was Emily’s age? Did he like to color?

If so, did Kelly display the artwork on the refrigerator for all the world to see?

Brett figured she did.

Caitlin entered the dining room with oven mitts on both hands, carrying a bowl of spaghetti sauce. “Usually, I fill our plates in the kitchen. But I thought it might be best if we ate family style.”

The family thing might be kind of nice, he supposed.

When Caitlin reached to set the sauce on the table, the neckline of her sundress gapped a bit, giving him a glimpse of white lace and the soft swell of her breast—just enough for his thoughts to drift in a direction that wasn’t at all neighborly.

“I have a bottle of red wine,” she said. “Would you like me to open it?”

“Sure. Why not?”

She smiled, then returned to the kitchen.

Five minutes later, they sat at the table—family style. It was a weird experience for Brett. Surreal, actually. But kind of interesting.

Caitlin fixed a plate for Emily, filling her glass with milk. Then she poured wine for herself and Brett.

He had half a notion to offer a toast. But to what? Friendship? Being temporary neighbors? An accident that, even before he paid to have her car fixed, would cost him nearly ten grand in parts, labor and bodywork, not to mention custom paint?

That didn’t make sense. So, instead, he lifted the glass and took a drink, hoping to wash away an unwelcome attraction to the kind of woman who would complicate his life—if he let her.

Caitlin didn’t know why she’d brought out that bottle of wine. Just trying to be a good hostess, she guessed. She’d been given a couple of bottles of Merlot in a gift basket during a hospital Christmas party a year or so ago. She’d offered to open one for Greg once, after he’d worked on the starter for her car. But he preferred beer, which she’d never acquired a taste for and didn’t keep in the house, so they’d settled for iced tea.

Dinner progressed with little fanfare, but Emily seemed to latch on to Brett. It didn’t seem to bother him, and he was good with the child. In fact, it appeared that he was enjoying the little-girl chatter as much as Greg did. Maybe more.

So Caitlin sat back and watched.

Emily sucked up a long strand of spaghetti, splattering a bit of marinara sauce on her chin, and studied their temporary neighbor. “How come you don’t like Fred?”

Brett glanced at Caitlin as though he didn’t know how to answer the child. Earlier, he’d referred to Fred as a psycho cat, so Caitlin assumed they’d had a run-in or two.

“Fred doesn’t like me,” he told her daughter. “And he hisses if I come near him.”

“Maybe I need to tell him you’re nice and he shouldn’t be afraid of you,” said Emily.

“Maybe so.” Brett cast her a smile, then returned to his meal, twirling spaghetti onto his fork. His dark brow furrowed in concentration.

He was handsome, and if Caitlin didn’t have enough complications in her life, she might strive to be more neighborly, more open to romance. As it was, she’d better steer clear of the man. She wasn’t sure how the courts would look upon her having a boyfriend or dating. Her case would be based upon her providing a stable home and having a solid bond with the child she loved, a child who was the top priority in her life.

“Can we come over and visit Fred tomorrow?” Emily asked Brett.

It saddened Caitlin that she had to deny Emily a pet, just because of her allergies to dander. So she always let Emily visit the neighborhood cats and dogs whenever possible.

“I can’t imagine Fred being fun to play with,” Brett said, “but you can come over, if your mom wants to bring you.”

When he looked at Caitlin, she nodded. Emily was especially partial to cats, the kind of animal that bothered Caitlin’s allergies the most. The little girl also gravitated toward kind and gentle men, especially Greg, and Gerald Blackstone, the older man who lived next door.

Caitlin tried to tell herself it was because Emily was a loving child who liked people, especially people with pets. It seemed reasonable since Greg had a cat, and Gerald and his wife had Scruffy, a terrier-mix they let Caitlin and Emily take for daily walks. But sometimes Caitlin wondered whether not having a daddy made Emily draw close to any kind man who had time for her.

Emily did, of course, have a father, as much as Caitlin wished that wasn’t the case.

He was alive and well in the Riverview Correctional Facility, awaiting release and wanting custody of the child he’d never seen. A child whose mother died from wounds received in a drive-by shooting.

The possibility of the court ordering Caitlin to relinquish Emily was almost unbearable to ponder. How could she possibly hand over her foster daughter to a man who’d been involved in an armed robbery that had left a man paralyzed? It was enough to make Caitlin ill, whenever she thought about it.

What would happen if the little girl who loved rainbows and kitties was uprooted from the only mother and home she’d ever known and turned over to a convicted felon?

Caitlin couldn’t imagine. But she, better than anyone, could guess.

She’d spent the first few years of her life in the inner city of San Diego, oftentimes in homeless shelters run by the Salvation Army. Her mom, an on-again, off-again prostitute and drug addict, couldn’t get her act together. And by the time Caitlin was seven, she’d entered the first of many foster homes.

By the age of eleven, she’d finally settled into a stable home—one she’d hoped would be her last. But before her twelfth birthday, her mother went into a court-ordered rehab that seemed to work. And when the woman came out, she wanted Caitlin back.

Caitlin had cried, begging her foster mom, as well as her caseworker, to do something. But her pleas went unheard. And in the end, no one spoke up on her behalf, no one cared enough to fight a system that tried its best to reunite parents and children.

A social worker was ordered to take her to a rundown apartment to live with a mother whose taste in men hadn’t improved. Six months later, her mom’s boyfriend came home drunk one night and beat her mother to death. It was the kind of thing Caitlin wouldn’t want any child to witness.

She glanced at Emily and felt a fierce ache in her chest.

No, Caitlin wouldn’t give up her foster daughter.

Not without a fight.

After a pleasant dinner, Brett joined Caitlin in a game of Go Fish. He actually enjoyed playing with the child, even though he had to turn his back whenever she organized her cards by spreading them face up on the beige carpet.

At eight o’clock, Caitlin told Emily it was time for bed.

“Oh, Mommy. Please let me stay up longer. I’m not even tired.” Her little-girl plea was enough to make Brett want to jump in and argue for one more game. But since Caitlin had a loving but firm smile fixed on her face, he figured it wouldn’t be a good idea to buck the system.

“Tell Brett good night,” Caitlin said.

The child got up from the spot where she’d been sitting on the living room floor, padded to the sofa, put her arms around Brett and gave him a pint-sized hug that damn near squeezed the heart right out of him. “Good night, Brett. Thank you for coming over to play with me.”

Brett smiled, relishing the scent of childhood, ice-cream sundaes and daydreams. “Sleep tight, pumpkin.”

As she turned to go, he added, “Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”

Emily stopped in her tracks and turned. “What are bedbugs?”

Oops. He hadn’t meant to freak her out before bedtime, make her have nightmares about critters climbing in her bed. So he tapped his finger on the tip of her turned-up nose. “They’re little cooties that like to sleep with naughty boys who don’t take baths and don’t mind their mothers.”

Emily smiled, revealing two cute dimples. “Then they won’t get in my bed.”

“I’m sure they won’t.” He had the urge to give her another hug, but that felt a little too daddy-ish. And God knew he didn’t want to step on anyone’s toes.

“Did the bedbugs used to sleep with you when you were little?” she asked.

A smile tugged on his lips. “Not when I was your age.” But if his cootie explanation held true, his bed would have been bombarded with them when he was a hell-bent teen.

“Okay, young lady. Off to bed.” Caitlin took her daughter by the hand, then looked at Brett. “Excuse me. I’ll be back in a couple of minutes.”

He nodded, then watched them head down the hall, his focus on the pretty mother, on the sway of her hips, the way the hem of her dress brushed against shapely calves.

Now was a good time to leave, to thank her for dinner, then be on his way. But for some stupid reason, he waited on the living room sofa for her to return.