One Tough Marine

But that night with Luke Cooper had changed her world.

“NOTHING UNDER THE NAME Matt Randall, either?” Luke asked the bus-station attendant on the phone, using one of the aliases Matt had used undercover with Marine Corps Intelligence.

“No, sir.”

“Thanks anyway.” Luke rang off and scanned the traffic around him, looking for any sign of a tail. He’d seen no one tailing Abby, but that didn’t mean someone wasn’t watching.

He spotted Abby’s silver Honda a few car lengths ahead and his stomach turned a flip. Even tired, scared and frustrated, Abby Chandler was as beautiful as he’d remembered.

And even more off-limits now than when he first realized he was in love with Matt Chandler’s wife.

Evening traffic was busy. Though he’d called San Diego home for the past seven years, he’d spent much of that time overseas and on assignments out of town. Only life as a civilian had allowed him to really get to know the place. It wasn’t a bad place to live. The zoo was world-famous, Sea World a fun way to spend a lazy Saturday and the place was crawling with military personnel. But now that he was out of the Corps, he found himself thinking of his real home more and more.

He missed the green mountains of Chickasaw County, Alabama, the sparkling waters of Gossamer Lake and his mother’s cooking. Now that his brother Sam was back in Alabama after years away, Luke was the last Cooper in exile.

Even with Eladio Cordero’s threats hanging over him, the call of home was strong these days.

He wondered what Abby would think of Gossamer Ridge, Alabama, with its ten stoplights and one decent grocery store. He squelched that thought ruthlessly, aware how dangerous it was to think of Abby as anything but his old friend’s widow.

He’d made a mistake three years ago, taking advantage of her grief and vulnerability to assuage his own. It didn’t matter that he loved her; Abby had been Matt’s wife. And now, the mother of the only child Matt Chandler would ever have.

And it just might be Luke’s fault that Matt wasn’t there to see his son grow up.

Stevie looked like Abby, from his freckles to his wide, expressive mouth. Not a hint of Matt’s laughing brown eyes or olive complexion. Was it easier for Abby that way, not to have to see Matt in Stevie’s eyes every time she looked at him?

How old was the kid now—two? Two and a half? No more than that; if Abby had been more than three or four months pregnant the night they spent together, he’d have noticed.

His smile faded suddenly.

What if she hadn’t been pregnant that night? He tried to remember how she’d answered his questions about Stevie. Had she ever said, outright, that Matt was Stevie’s father?

A chill washed over him. They hadn’t used protection that night; they were too far gone to think about stopping for something like that. Neither of them had been thinking about pregnancy.

But she’d have told him. Abby wasn’t a secret-keeper like he and Matt had been. She’d been open, sharing her thoughts and feelings with abandon. It had been one of the things about her that had drawn him, that candor.

If their night of comfort sex had left her pregnant, she’d have told him.

When would she have had the chance?

He’d left her still asleep, a hastily jotted note of explanation tucked under her pillow. Sleeping with her—hell, just being around her—had been dangerous. Matt’s sudden death had come too closely on the heels of Cordero’s vow of vengeance. Had Cordero had him killed as part of his vendetta against Luke?

It hadn’t been out of the question. People he cared about automatically became targets.

He’d shipped out that morning for two years in Kaziristan, knowing she’d be hurt by his abandonment, hating every part of what he’d done. But it hadn’t changed his determination to cut himself off from her and everyone he loved.

He’d meant his note to be a cold brush-off. He hadn’t wanted her to try to contact him. If she’d found herself pregnant a few weeks later, he couldn’t blame her for keeping that information to herself.

He almost missed the turn onto Abby’s street. He slowed, made a quick right and reacquired Abby’s silver Honda ahead. She pulled into a parking space in front of the building.

He took an empty spot nearby, hoping the building super wouldn’t have the Mustang towed, and caught up with Abby on the sidewalk in front of the first apartment.

She jumped when he touched her arm. “Sorry,” he said, wondering if he should just go ahead and ask her about Stevie’s paternity. Would she tell him the truth?

Probably not, he realized. If she’d kept it a secret for three years, she wouldn’t spill the beans just because a couple of gunmen had thrown her into Luke’s life again.

He wouldn’t push for now. It was the least he owed her.

“It’s a mess,” she warned him as she set Stevie down on the ground and unlocked the front door of her first-floor apartment.

She wasn’t lying, he realized with dismay a few seconds later, taking in the torn sofa cushions, the books in scattered heaps where the searchers had pulled them from the bookshelf against the wall, the overturned coffee table with the shattered crystal box in shards on the hardwood floor.

“I didn’t stop to clean up,” she explained. “I needed to know if you knew what Matt might be hiding, so I just grabbed Stevie and headed out.”

He picked up a couple of the books and put them back on the shelf. “Is the bedroom as bad?”

“The mattress is ripped open, but I can probably stuff most of the filling back inside and cover it with a sheet—”

“You can’t stay here tonight, Abby. This is unlivable.”

She squared her jaw. “I’ll make it work.”

“You don’t have to make it work. Just grab some clothes, some toys for Little Bit and let’s get the hell out of here. We can regroup and figure out what to do next once we’re settled.”

Her brow creased. “Settled where?”

He looked down at Stevie, who was toddling toward the ruins of the broken crystal box. Picking him up to keep him out of the sharp shards, he settled the wriggly little boy on one hip and met her troubled gaze.

“At my place, of course,” he answered.

Chapter Three

Abby stared at him, her mind racing through a checklist of reasons why moving herself and Stevie into Luke Cooper’s house was a very bad idea. Beyond the tangled history between them, which was reason enough, she’d be putting Luke at risk at a time when he was supposed to be helping her find out what Matt had hidden and where. At least one of them needed to be able to get around San Diego without a team of thugs dogging every step.

“That’s just not a good idea,” she said.

“What’s the alternative—book a room in a motel? Do you think motel security is worth a damn?” Luke shifted Stevie on his hip and met her gaze with a look of calm skepticism. Stevie turned his head toward her and gave her an almost identical look. She didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry.

She couldn’t argue with Luke’s logic, however. She couldn’t afford a few unexpected nights at a motel, and she’d probably be in even greater peril holed up with Stevie alone in a place where nobody knew or cared who they were.

“We don’t have to complicate this,” Luke said. “There’s plenty of room for you and Little Bit there.”

Her lips twitched at the nickname he’d apparently settled on for Stevie. “You don’t owe us anything.”

He started to say something, then narrowed his lips to a tight line. After a moment, he said, “I can put you to work, if it’d make you feel better.”

“Cooking and cleaning?”

He arched an eyebrow. “No. I’ve eaten your cooking.”