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
