âI love Christmas,â Chloe said, drawing his thoughts back to reality.
âAll weâre missing is a little mistletoe to hang over the doorway.â
She flushed, and he was tempted to draw her to him anyway, to kiss her senseless. In fact, as she lifted her eyes to his, as their gazes locked, desire flared.
He had no business following through on it, though. He didnât even know where heâd been, let alone where he was going. But if she didnât stop looking at him like that â¦
Oh, what the hell.
âSomething tells me Iâve never needed any prompts.â Then he stepped forward, placed his hands on her cheeks. He waited a moment, taking the time to study her eyes, her expression, checking for any sign of protest.
Instead, her chin lifted and her lips parted.
That was all the invitation he needed.
* * *
JUDY DUARTE always knew there was a book inside her, but since English was her least favorite subject in school, she never considered herself a writer. An avid reader who enjoys a happy ending, Judy couldnât shake the dream of creating a book of her own.
Her dream became a reality in March 2002, when Mills & Boon® Cherish⢠released her first book, Cowboy Courage. Since then she has published more than twenty novels. Her stories have touched the hearts of readers around the world. And in July 2005 Judy won a prestigious Readersâ Choice Award for The Rich Manâs Son.
Judy makes her home near the beach in Southern California. When sheâs not cooped up in her writing cave, sheâs spending time with her somewhat enormous but delightfully close family.
Chapter One
Brighton Valley, Texas, was the last place in the world Joe Wilcox had ever expected to step foot in again.
Well, not when it came to the good olâ U.S.A. He sure as hell wouldnât look forward to another deployment to Afghanistan. But heâd made a promise to deliver a letter for a friend, and if there was one thing that could be said about Joeâhe always kept his word.
So heâd packed a few belongings, rented a car just outside of Camp Pendleton and left California. Heâd stopped in El Paso long enough to spend the night with Red Conway, a retired marine heâd met on a bus ten years ago. Red had taken Joe in when heâd been a down-and-out teenage runaway, hell-bent on leaving everyone and everything heâd once known behind.
The two men had shared a couple of beers, a pizza and a few stories. The next day, Joe had continued on for another nine hundred miles, finally arriving in Brighton Valley exhausted and hungry.
The first thing Joe did after checking in to a cheap but clean room at the Night Owl, a motor lodge that catered to travelers who were low on funds and just passing through, was to shove his duffle bags under the bed. There was a closet he could have used, but that had never felt like a safe place when heâd been a kid determined to protect his valuables from an uncle who might not have enough cash to buy a pack of cigarettes and a pint of Jack Daniels.
He probably should have shaken the habit years ago, but being back in town brought back all kinds of weird memories, leaving him a bit unbalanced.
Next he took a long, hot shower, slipped into a comfortable pair of worn jeans and a black sweatshirt and hoofed it across the highway to the Stagecoach Inn.
In spite of the seasonal chill in the air, a cold beer would really hit the spot right about now, but he wasnât looking for a drink or any entertainment. He was on a mission. He had a letter to deliver to a blonde cocktail waitress named Chloe Dawson.
Once he found the coldhearted woman whoâd broken Dave Cummingsâs heart, heâd give her the letter Dave had asked him to deliver.
Now, as he stood on the side of the busy highway, waiting for a lull in the traffic so he could cross, he pulled out Chloeâs photograph, the one Dave had always carried. He studied the photo in the flickering streetlight overhead. The snapshot was a little grainy, so her facial features werenât especially clear, but it was easy to see that the platinum blonde had long, wavy hair and a dynamite shape.
To be honest, when he and Dave had been stationed in Afghanistan, all Dave could talk about was the woman heâd placed on a pedestal and the dreams heâd had for them. Joe had been a little envious. Heâd never had a familyâwell, not one heâd wanted to claimâso heâd never dared to consider a white-picket-fence dream. But his buddy had grown up as an only child, adored by his parents. So why wouldnât he expect to have that same life for himself?
Joe had to admit that heâd wondered what such an attractive woman had seen in Dave. Not that his friend wasnât a good person. He was kind and generous to a fault, but heâd been so sheltered by his doting parents that he tended to be naive about life and other things.