really qualify as a little girl. Maria’s seven, and the sweetest, smartest, most loving...” She broke off, her brows snapping together. “Kincaid?”
“Huh?”
Her scowl deepened. “Am I boring you?”
“What? No.”
“You looked like you were a thousand miles away.”
“I heard every word. Maria’s seven and sweet and smart and...” he couldn’t suppress a huff of laughter “...not mine.”
“Yours?” She jerked back in her chair. “Why on earth would you...? Oh!”
Her astounded expression morphed into one of unholy amusement. Then something that looked a whole lot like chagrin.
The amusement Ben could understand. The chagrin got him nervous all over again. Especially when she went back to peeling off strips of the wet label.
One corner of his brain could hear Charley Pride’s “Kiss an Angel Good Mornin’” above the clink of glasses and buzz of conversation. Another corner registered the fact that Swish and Dingo were keeping him under close surveillance. But the main cortex, the cerebrum or cerebellum or whatever the hell part processed danger signals, was flashing a red alert.
“Back up a few steps,” he instructed. “Tell me what seven-year-old Maria has to do with you and me and Vegas.”
“I want to adopt her.”
“And?”
She sucked in a deep breath. Manfully, Ben kept his eyes above the bling. Mostly.
“Ordinarily, that wouldn’t be a problem. Most states, including this one, allow single-parent adoption. But in Maria’s case, there are special circumstances that make it necessary for me to...ah...have a husband.”
“Whoa!” He plunked his beer on the table. “I hope you’re not thinking what I think you’re thinking.”
“As a matter of fact...” Those warm brown eyes cut through the cigarette haze to lock with his. “I came here to... I need to ask... Oh, hell. The thing is, I want you to marry me, Major.”
Before he could recover enough to ask what the hell she was smoking, she tacked on a caveat.
“Temporarily.”
She was crazy. Certifiably nuts. He could’ve kicked himself when curiosity made him ask.
“How temporary?”
“Six months. Or less, depending on...well...circumstances. And I promise there’ll be no strings.” She rushed on. “No obligations on your part, financial or otherwise. Just your signature on a marriage certificate before you take off again for parts unknown.”
“Look, lady, these ‘circumstances’ you keep referring to make me think that what you’re suggesting comes real close to fraud.”
“It’s not fraud! I’ve discussed this with my attorney. He’s assured me what I’m doing is legal. And you don’t have to declare me your spouse or dependent or whatever the military term is. I promise, I won’t make any claim on you or the air force.”
“Doesn’t matter whether you make a claim or not. If we’re married, we’re married. That entitles you to whatever privileges come with the ring.” He shoved back his chair. “Sorry, you’ll have to find another—”
“I’ll pay you.”
“’Scuse me?”
“Five thousand when you sign the wedding certificate, another five when we divorce.”
Okay, now he was pissed. Ben almost started to blister her with a few well-chosen words about what she could do with her money but the sudden flash of desperation in her eyes had him biting back the words.
“Please!” The table wobbled as she pushed to her feet and threw a quick glance around the noisy bar. “Can we go somewhere quieter? So I can explain these...these special circumstances? Five minutes,” she pleaded. “Please. Give me just another five minutes.”
If Ben had a lick of sense he would’ve wished her a happy life and rejoined his buddies. Now that his anger had cooled, though, he wanted to hear what the hell was behind her crazy proposal.
“My ride’s outside. We can talk there.”
She started for the exit while Ben detoured to tell his friends that he was stepping out for a bit.
“Riiight,” Dingo drawled. “Have fun.”
“And find out where I can get one of those shirts,” Swish called after him.
The hot desert night hit with a wallop after the air-conditioned bar. Ben shrugged it off as he caught up with Alexis.
“I’m parked over here. Careful.”
He took her elbow to steer her around a man-size pothole. A relic of the old Route 66 heyday, the Cactus Café had long passed its prime. Half the bulbs in the illuminated sign that gave the place its name had burned out. The rest shed only a flickering green glow over the pitted dirt lot.
He beeped the locks on his muscled-up Chevy Tahoe and opened the passenger door for her. She had a long step up from the running board but Ben resisted the temptation to provide any help with a palm under her rear. Once behind the wheel, he keyed the ignition and lowered all four windows to let out the trapped air.
“Okay,” he commented as he settled against his seat, “the clock’s ticking.”
“My sister married a single dad with a young daughter. Janet—my sister—adored the girl. Then, last year, Janet was diagnosed with stage four ovarian cancer and I moved to Albuquerque to help take care of her. She died within six months of the initial diagnosis and I’ve had custody of her stepdaughter, Maria, since.”
“Why did you get custody instead of the kid’s father?”
“Because the scumbag walked out on Janet less than a week after she found out she had cancer. And he’s now in prison for dealing drugs.”
She kept her voice flat and the words succinct, with no hint of the anguish Ben knew she had to have gone through.
“I want to legally adopt Maria but her father won’t agree to the adoption.”
“Why not?”
“Spite. Pure and vicious and vengeful.” Her lip curled. “Before he got busted for drugs, I went after him for child support. He got hauled into court several times. That pissed him off so much he would cut off his own nose to spite me.”
“He sounds like a real winner.”
“A real loser, you mean.”
She stared out the open window for a few moments, presenting a profile that showed a taut, angry jaw. When she faced Ben again, he had to admire her rigid self-control.
“The
