Her Military Man

“Now I know you’re following me.”

“Guilty,” Garret said with a grin, “but I wanted to know how things went with your boss.”

“Why?” Connie asked, turning to face him. “So you could further rub it in that I’m teetering on the brink of unemployment?”

“You’re not getting fired. From what I’ve heard, your show’s too popular to end.” He shifted so he could reach out to touch her hair. To find out if it was as silky as he remembered. Unfortunately, he stumbled and pulled out the elegant knot she’d styled, leaving her in what he thought was glorious disarray.

“What’d you do that for?” she snapped. “I’m headed to the auto parts store to apply for a job there.”

Not thinking, just doing anything he could to make those sassy lips stop snapping and start smiling, he grabbed her. Sure, the gentlemanly thing would’ve been asking her permission for what came next, but what the hell?

A gentleman wasn’t something he’d ever claimed to be.

And so he kissed her.

Dear Reader,

What a fun ride this book was, from the standpoint that I’ve always had a secret thing for navy SEALs and my hero just happens to be one! I’ve been waiting a long time to try my hand at this sort of thing, but was daunted by the fact that I’m about as far from being military as a girl can get! That said, I thought if I can’t go to a base or aircraft carrier, why not bring my own SEAL, smoldering Garret Underwood, home to Oklahoma?

Even with a busted leg, Garret brings an extraordinary amount of chaos into his old flame’s life. Uptight Constance puts up a valiant fight to resist him, but puh-leaze, he’s a navy SEAL! Nuff said.

A major shout-out goes to photographer Carl Deal, who gives an amazing glimpse into SEAL life on his Web site, www.carldeal.com/seal.html. Not just logistics and fun lingo, but deep into these men’s hearts. I was deeply touched by the whole SEAL history and philosophy.

Will Constance finally give in to the temptation of her very own military man? I’m not telling! You’ll have to read the book to find out.

Happy reading!

Laura Marie

Her Military Man

Laura Marie Altom

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

After college (Go Hogs!), bestselling, award-winning author Laura Marie Altom did a brief stint as an interior designer before becoming a stay-at-home mom to boy/ girl twins. Always an avid romance reader, she knew it was time to try her hand at writing when she found herself replotting the afternoon soaps.

When not immersed in her next story, Laura enjoys an almost glamorous lifestyle of zipping around in a convertible while trying to keep her dog from leaping out, and constantly striving to reach the bottom of the laundry basket—a feat she may never accomplish! For real fun, Laura is content to read, do needlepoint and cuddle with her kids and handsome hubby.

Laura loves hearing from readers at either P.O. Box 2074, Tulsa, OK 74101, or e-mail: [e-mail]. Love lounging on the beach while winning fun stuff? Check out www.lauramariealtom.com!

Books by Laura Marie Altom

HARLEQUIN AMERICAN ROMANCE

1028—BABIES AND BADGES

1043—SANTA BABY

1074—TEMPORARY DAD

1086—SAVING JOE *

1099—MARRYING THE MARSHAL *

1110—HIS BABY BONUS *

1123—TO CATCH A HUSBAND *

1132—DADDY DAYCARE

This book is dedicated to all SEALs out there protecting our country, and to two special warrior women closer to home—Karen Lairmore and Debbie Parks. Thanks, ladies, for all the Pom rides, and most especially for the fun you’ve shown not only to Hannah, but to me!

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Epilogue

Chapter One

“Pardon my French, lady, but that’s a load of—”

Beeeeeeeep.

“My, my…” Constance Price, aka Miss Manners, said with a relieved sigh. How could it be Wednesday when it felt so much like Monday? Thank goodness she’d hit the censor button in time to avoid the juiciest portions of her caller’s rant from hitting Mule Shoe, Oklahoma’s airwaves. She liked to think her talk radio program was progressive, but not in a vulgar, do-any-stunt-for-ratings way. Monday through Friday, noon to 2:30, she prided herself in tastefully providing listeners with lifestyle tips on everything from hosting the perfect dinner party to sharing the perfect relationship. Sounded great in theory, but when it came to the whole guy-girl thing? Her own life hadn’t turned out so hot. That said, how had she landed the job as Mule Shoe’s queen of manners? Well, the show she’d originally pitched had had more of a Martha Stewart domestic-type theme. Much to her daily consternation, to expand the advertising base, Constance’s boss had tagged on the show’s relationship portion. Of course, that sometimes opened the door to a lot of opinionated listeners.

“Thank you, sir, for your enlightened view.”

“Enlightened, my—”

Beeeeeeeep.

“Thanks again,” Constance said before disconnecting the caller, then taking a hasty sip of a Diet Coke she wished had a bit more kick—with an un-ladylike poke of rum! “All right, as a refresher to my listeners, today’s theme is breakups—how to handle them in a mutually respectable and mannerly fashion. Renee-Marie,” she asked her show’s redheaded Cajun producer and the station’s part-time receptionist, “do we have another caller?”

“Line two,” Renee-Marie said with a wink.

A wink?

Shaking her head, Constance hit the feed. “Miss Manners here. How may I assist you in living a more civilized existence?”

“Okay,” the same obnoxious caller said, “I get the hint about toning down my language. But while you’ve been sitting in your no doubt pink satin broadcast booth, I’ve been off serving our country in godforsaken places you couldn’t imagine in your worst nightmares.”

“Sorry…” Constance glared at Renee-Marie who’d held up a note that read, Felix made me do it! Felix was the station owner, her boss and a royal pain in Constance’s derriere. “Truly, I am, but—”

“Look, all I’m trying to say is there’s no such thing as a mannerly breakup. I usually wouldn’t have time for rehashing ancient history on a show about manners, but I’ve been laid up with a busted leg, giving me far too many hours for reflection. Case in point, I once knew this girl—let’s call her Lucky—well…”

Chills ran up Constance’s forearms.

A million years ago back in high school, Garret used to call her Lucky—on account of her being his lucky charm. Long story short, if ever there’d been a textbook example of an unmannerly breakup, theirs was it!

“…Lucky was a looker. In fact, she reminded me a lot of you. Oh, she put on a great self-effacing act. You know, acting all demure and polite about what a closet sex kitten she truly was, but let me tell you, that girl could purr.”

Constance cleared her throat, loosening the collar of her high-necked, long-skirted, prairie-style dress in the process. “Might I remind you this is a family show. Please refrain from the more base details of your story.”

“Yes, ma’am…” Was that a mocking grin behind his words? Garret used to do the same thing—tease her about being too formal. Like she’d been born a century too late. “So, like I was saying, Lucky—” he coughed “—better known as you—pretended to be one thing, but inside…” His sad laugh rang over otherwise dead air. Dead. Out of necessity, the way things had been left between them. “Anyway, without airing dirty laundry, all I’m trying to say is how about not just laying all the guilt for poorly done exits on guys? As in the case of a certain lucky charm I used to know, there are some she devils out there deserving credit.”

Air.

Must.

Breathe.

Now.

Constance? Renee-Marie silently screamed behind the studio’s soundproof window.

No way was the caller Garret.

The man hadn’t stepped foot in Mule Shoe since the day he’d left for the Navy ten years earlier. Since that day, all color and hope and joy had been sucked from Constance’s life. At least until her daughter—their daughter—Lindsay, had been born.

On the flip side, who else could it be? The guy’s wrath felt targeted on her.

Really? Or was that guilt and regret over never having told Garret the truth about their little girl exploding in her head? In her heart, she’d called him a hundred times, written a hundred more letters, but somehow she’d never found the right words. How many times had she told herself fear kept her secret safely locked inside? Fear of her sad childhood playing out again? Only this time, with her daughter?

For the sake of her show—her sole means of financial support—she had to pull it together. Constance cleared her throat off air, then managed somehow to inquire in a blessedly detached voice, as if she hadn’t just joined Garret’s cat-and-mouse game, “Ever considered there may have been a reason behind Lucky’s actions? That maybe she’d actually been trying to help you?”

He laughed sharply. “By making out with another guy? Worse yet, my supposed best friend?”

“Yes, but did you look hard enough to see if the kiss was genuine—or maybe all for show?” Covering her face with her hands, Constance told herself to shut up. The man wasn’t Garret any more than her heart was on the verge of pounding straight up and out of her chest over the notion that maybe he was Garret, come home to haunt her. If he’d had any idea why she’d kissed Nathan that horrible night, maybe he wouldn’t now be so cruel. “Maybe the whole time, this Lucky person to whom you keep referring, was kissing that other guy, she was thinking about you. Wondering if—”

“Give me a break. See? This is what I’m talking about. This show is bogus. Entirely one-sided with the favor always going to the ladies. You’re always talking about how guys are basically snaggle-toothed brutes and women nothing but sweetness and light.”

“That’s not true. Just the other day we did a show on women who curse and how that affects the men who love them.”

He laughed again, filling her mind and heart and soul with a huskier, world-weary vision of her first love. No way. It couldn’t be him. No, no, no. “I’m gone. Peace out.”

“Well…” she eventually said after a four- or five-second dead air lag to regain her composure.

Seriously, the guy couldn’t have been Garret.

Last she’d heard through a friend of a friend, the Navy SEAL was rarely even in the country, let alone backwoods Oklahoma. He didn’t even come home for Christmas—instead always sending his mother a plane ticket to meet him somewhere exotic.

How did she know? Strictly beauty shop gossip. Well, except for that time she’d run into his cousin Hillary at the county fair. And then, Constance had only asked about him to be polite.

Yeah, right.

“Renee-Marie, do you have our next caller?”

“Miss Manners, my name’s Pat, and I just want to tell you how much I adore your program. You don’t pay that obviously ill-bred oaf the slightest bit of attention. Oh, and for the record, though I’m sixty-eight years young, and it’s been fifty years since my last breakup, I still believe kindness is a virtue—most especially with those we no longer want in our daily lives.”

And so the afternoon lagged on…

“Miss Manners, I’m Jim, and I gotta say I agree wholeheartedly with Military Man. All this manners stuff is hoity-toity horse crap. Oh, and just curious, how long were you two an item?”

“Miss Manners, I’m Vicki, and I agree with you in that manners are a beautiful, necessary part of life. That military man you used to date is obviously never going to land another girlfriend, much less a wife, if he persists in being such a barbarian.”

“Thanks to all my callers,” Constance finally said. “That wraps the show for today, so until tomorrow, I’m Miss Manners, wishing you mannerly days and deliciously refined nights.”

Sharply exhaling, Constance disconnected her mic.

“Great show!” Felix burst into the drab, brown-paneled broadcast booth with all the grace and forewarning of a Sooner State twister. “Wowza, where’d you find that guy? Wait—don’t answer. I don’t wanna know if you two never really dated and the whole thing was rigged. But whatever you do, keep him coming. The phone’s going nuts. All twenty of your faithful listeners must’ve called everyone they know to tell them about the show. We’ve had so many calls in the last five minutes, my cousin Wanda said the first time she tried getting through, there was actually a recording saying circuits are busy.”

“That’s all well and good,” Constance said, fishing under the brown laminate counter supporting her announcer turret and mic for her worn leather purse. “But I’m pretty sure I know this guy, and trust me, he’s rough around the edges. It’s best we never hear from him again.”

“Crap on a stick,” Felix said, “you’re going straightaway to sign the guy, right? Because with that much passion between you, the show’s a surefire hit.”

“But, Felix, I—”

He sobered. “Look, you know how I hate being the heavy, but remember that talk we had the other day?”

“A-about my ratings?” Her gaze plummeted to her scuffed brown boots.

“Yeah. How they’re the lowest in this station’s history—and that’s saying something, considering some of the junk we’ve had on the air.”

“But, Felix, I told you just as soon as folks realize how important caring about others’ feelings and incorporating manners into their everyday lives is, that—”

“Manners schmanners,” he said with a glint of his right gold canine. “All I care about are advertising dollars. Get this guy back on by the time I’m back from my trip, or your show’s in the can.”

Felix blustered off while Renee-Marie wandered in. They’d only been friends for a little under a year—the time Constance had been doing the show. Before that, Constance had worked more than a dozen small jobs that never seemed enough to pay the black hole of bills that came along with being a single mom.

She’d always dreamed of going to college, maybe earning a degree in history or literature to match her love of all things eighteenth and nineteenth century, back when everything seemed more…civilized. She’d fantasized about using that degree to work in a big city museum. Or the ultimate dream—penning a historic novel.

But then her and Garret’s relationship had moved to the next level, and suddenly being with him in every way a man and woman could—even though technically they’d still been teenagers—had meant more than future career aspirations. Her love for Garret had been like a living, breathing entity all its own. He’d made her feel cherished and safe and beautiful and interesting and above all, loved.

She’d have done anything for him—anything. Meaning, when she’d discovered she was pregnant a week before graduation, she’d loved him enough to let him go. To want him to follow his own dream of getting out of Mule Shoe, out from under his deceased father’s lengthy shadow.

“Felix doesn’t really mean it,” Renee-Marie said, wrapping Constance in a warm hug. “About firing you if you don’t track down that caller. You know how he is. Meaner than a crawdad with somebody dunking his tail in boilin’ butter. This’ll all blow over.”

Constance wished she could be so sure.

One thing was for certain, if the caller was Garret, he’d be easy enough to find. His mother lived only ten miles from Constance. All she’d need do was head that way, then politely inquire whether or not her son was in town.

On the one hand, if the caller was him, and if by some miracle Constance got him to agree to make a few guest appearances, then what? Yes, her much-needed job would be safe, but what about her most closely held secret?

“You going to be all right?” Renee-Marie asked.

“Maybe,” Constance said. Assuming Felix knocked off his foolish insistence on her old beau joining her show.

GARRET UNDERWOOD switched off the kitchen radio, wincing when the sudden movement stung deep within his bum left leg. Two months earlier, he’d busted it jumping from a helicopter onto a ship’s deck in choppy seas. Diagnosis? Comminuted fracture of his proximal femur. Docs fixed him with a steel rod, meaning no cast but plenty of pain. Recovery time? A good three or more months, which—taking into account time already served—left a minimum of three weeks to go.

He was now up to his neck in physical therapy. Plenty of weight-bearing exercises that left him aching, but if that’s what it took to get back on the job, so be it. His doc had yet to make a final decision as to whether or not he’d even still be fit to return to duty. He said he was waiting to see final X-rays to give his ultimate okay. Garret didn’t need pictures to tell him he’d be fine. He had to be. For if he no longer had his work, where did that leave him?

Lord knew he couldn’t spend the next fifty or so years stuck back in Mule Shoe.

He looked up to see his mother smiling. She calmly asked, “Mind telling me what that was all about?”

“What?”

She’d passed the morning in her garden, picking the first of that season’s green beans, zucchinis, cukes and tomatoes. She’d started her crop early in her greenhouse, placing her well ahead of everyone else’s garden game. At sixty, wearing jeans and a Rolling Stones T-shirt, Audrey Underwood looked a damn sight younger than he felt.

Tapping the portable radio she’d unhooked from the waistband of her jeans, she said, “I heard the whole thing. You do know Miss Manners is her, don’t you? Your Constance? The station has a billboard of her out by the cattle auction.”

“Yeah,” Garret said, trying not to glare, but not quite succeeding. “I know it’s her.” How many other people in the county had heard him make a complete jackass of himself? “But even if you did hear me, what makes you think I was talking about her?”

“Oh,” she said, setting her basket loaded with greens on the white tile counter beside the sink. The homey sight of her bountiful harvest completed the already disgustingly pleasant space. Yellow-flowered wallpaper set the tone for white cabinets and a worn brick floor. The flood of sunshine streaming through every paned window on the south wall didn’t do much for his mood, either. Where was a stinkin’ cloud when a guy needed one? “Maybe I don’t believe you’re over her because even after all this time, you still won’t say her name.”

Laughing, shaking his head while wobbling to his feet, he said, “Give me one good reason I should? That girl’s a snake.”

“That girl’s a woman now.”

He snorted. “A woman who ran off and married my best friend, then had his kid.”

“They’re divorced. Have been for quite some time.”

“And I’d care why?” he asked from in front of the picture window overlooking blue sky and rolling green pasture where a half dozen Herefords stood chewing their cud. Twenty or so stubby oaks dotted the landscape that otherwise consisted of nothing much but alfalfa and ragweed reaching as far as the overgrown fencerow serving as the boundary between his mom’s property and the Griggs’s. Though his dad had been gone for nearly twelve years, Garret remembered like it was yesterday when the two of them used to walk that fence, checking for breaks, mostly just swapping guy stories.

Though his dad, Ben, had been an attorney by trade and only a part-time farmer, he’d loved the land. He’d made sure that financially, Garret’s mother could live in the rambling two-story white Victorian plopped on the edge of five hundred acres of pasture and forest for as long as she liked or was able.

“Honey,” she said, stepping up behind him, resting her hand on his shoulder. “Let it go. Let her go.”

“What makes you think I haven’t?”

She shot him The Look. The one he’d always hated, because no matter how many missions he’d fought, or how many hellholes he’d barely made it out of, it was a look that instantly reduced him to a scraped-knee kid all of about eight. “How do pork chops sound for dinner? Mashed potatoes. Maybe sugar peas and a peach cobbler with plenty of ice cream?”

“Don’t do that,” he said, swinging about to watch as she hustled back to the sink to wash vegetables.

“Do what?” she oh so innocently sang over her shoulder.

It was no family secret the woman had been after him to settle down and give her grandkids for the past five years. But if she was for one second by way of reverse psychology suggesting he look up Constance, she could forget it. He’d been trained in all manner of mental warfare and he wasn’t about to succumb. “Never mind,” he grumbled. “Need help?”

She winked. “Only if you’re offering to get me a few dozen grandkids.”

MONDAY AFTERNOON after the longest, dullest weekend ever—but wait, he’d already barely survived that the weekend before—Garret sat in an entirely too girly white wicker rocker on the front porch of his mother’s house, trying to remember the last time he’d had fun.

For mid-April, the heat was fierce. Hot sun made even the usually blaring cicadas too weary to sing. Having been based on the East Coast for so long, he’d forgotten what Oklahoma heat was like—and this wasn’t anywhere near the prime of it.

He swigged bottled water, wishing it was beer, but his mom had strict rules about not drinking before five, and seeing how he was already in piss-poor shape, it probably wasn’t that hot of an idea to screw up his liver in addition to his leg.

Lord, how he wanted out of Mule Shoe and back to his own place in Virginia. Not that he was in the studio condo all that much, but it was the point of the matter. He needed his own space.

Far from memories being back here evoked.

Hard to believe that after all this time, after all he’d been through, all that old angst over Constance was still there. Simmering just beneath the surface.

Sitting here in the sweltering sun, if he closed his eyes and held his breath, he’d be back to their first time.

A sun-drenched May afternoon when he’d picked her up in Big Red—his old Chevy truck—for a day at the swimming hole on the backside of the Underwood land. The pond had a rock bottom and was spring-fed, meaning the water was clear and cool. Stubby oaks and maples and a few odd cedars provided dappled shade, save for the one grassy bank his dad had cleared for his mom years earlier where he’d planned on building her a gazebo. He’d died before making it happen, but at that moment, seeing how perfect the spot was for Constance to settle her oil-slicked bikini-clad bod on top of her towel, Garret was damn glad there wasn’t a gazebo mucking up the view.

Lord, Connie had been beautiful. Legs so long that every time he’d seen her in her cheerleading uniform, he’d been glad for the protection of his own football uniform’s cup.

The afternoon started out casual enough as they shared chips and Twinkies and talked in the blazing sun. Not before and not since had he ever felt more comfortable opening himself up to a woman. She’d had this way of looking at him—staring right into his soul. Made him spill secrets that in retrospect had been better off left inside. But he’d been a kid. Stupid in love. Stupid in the way she’d made him feel like the star of her life. As if being with her, he could do and be all things. With every part of his being, he’d secretly fantasized that one day, Connie would be his wife.