Terms of Surrender. Leslie Kelly

club card.”

      Her smile might have faded the tiniest bit. “Are you?”

      “Am I what? Single?”

      “And on the prowl?”

      Knowing she was questioning her own instincts, wondering if he was some kind of sleazy on-the-make playboy, he answered her truthfully. “Yes and no. I’m single, but I haven’t been accused of prowling since I was ten and played my last game of Ding-Dong-Dash at old Mrs. McCurdy’s house.”

      “Ding-Dong…”

      “You know. Ring the doorbell and run? Didn’t you ever play that as a kid?”

      She shuddered. “I grew up on military bases. No doorbells. And not much of a sense of humor from most of the guys who lived behind those doors.”

      “Yeah, well, old Mrs. McCurdy didn’t laugh much, either.”

      One corner of her mouth went up. “You got caught?”

      “Uh-huh. She was pretty spry for being on the verge of mummification.”

      Tsking, she shook her head. “Couldn’t outrun an old lady. Bet your friends didn’t let you live that one down.”

      “Nope, even though they all bailed on me when she grabbed me by the back of the shirt and dragged me into the house so she could call my parents.”

      “Uh-oh. Sounds like the opening of a horror movie on the Chiller channel.”

      “Just about. Get this, while we waited for my folks to show up, she made me look at her poor, swollen feet to show me how horrible I’d been to make her get up to answer the door.”

      “Eww!”

      “Tell me about it. Old lady feet—is there anything worse to a ten-year-old boy?”

      “Bet you never rang any doorbells and ran again,” she quipped.

      He held his fingers up in a Scout’s promise. “Not once.”

      “She sounds like a smart old lady.”

      His lips quirked. “She was. I felt so guilty afterward I always brought her paper up onto her porch instead of tossing it into the driveway.” Then he added, “And she definitely taught me a lesson.”

      “About ringing doorbells?”

      “About feet. If you ever need something to kill a fleeting moment of happiness, or a glimmer of sexual interest? Just think of old feet.”

      “Noted. But for the record, I happen to have great feet and I don’t intend to let that change.” Her smile was bright and comfortable, as if she’d finally let down all guard, and was being completely herself for the first time since they’d met.

      “Great feet, huh? Most people wouldn’t claim that.”

      She shrugged. “Don’t ask what I think about my goofy-looking ears or my thin, flat hair, but I have supreme confidence in my feet. Even pedicurists compliment them.”

      He glanced down at the sexy, spike-heeled pumps. He’d like to pull them off and closely examine those feet. Then work his way up. Inch by devastating inch.

      He already knew he’d have to add her calves to the list of fabulous body parts. And he suspected if he kept going up those legs, he’d find quite a few more.

      Danny shook his head, hard. Jesus, this woman was turning him into some kind of hound dog. He never started immediately thinking about how sexy a woman was right after meeting her. If she was attractive? Sure. Smart? Yeah. But downright I-think-I’ll-die-if-I-can’t-go-to-bed-with-you-soon thoughts? Uh-uh.

      He knew why. It wasn’t just how attractive she was—he’d met plenty of attractive women. It was because of the sharp bolt of utter, mouth-watering want that had roared through him when he’d stuck his hand in her glove compartment and found himself wrist-deep in sexy, feminine undergarments. The flood of pImages** that had gone through his brain, the sweet scent lingering in the air, the silky feel against his skin. All that had combined to put him on red alert.

      Even changing her car’s battery and checking her oil had done nothing to cool him down. Because he’d thought about nothing but charging her battery and slickening up her engine.

      “I might not ever be in line to model Dior in Paris, but I bet I could sell a lot of Dr. Scholl’s at Target. So you might just be in luck when it comes to my old lady feet,” she said with a laugh. “I might even be able to pull off flip-flops at seventy and not make you want to hurl.”

      Her words brought an image to his mind—him still knowing her, all those years in the future. And for some reason, Danny didn’t laugh with her.

      Maybe it was that crazy karma thing—fate, serendipity. Whatever the reason, despite being a thirty-three-year-old bachelor, he suddenly found the idea of being with someone for that long, knowing someone that intimately, a little appealing.

      Oh, it had always appealed to him when he thought of his parents and grandparents, all of whom were alive and happy back in Chicago. But he hadn’t really given much thought to it for himself. He’d been focused on so many other things.

      First, of course, on flight. That he’d focused on from the age of five when his mechanic father had first taken him to a field beneath a landing flight path at O’Hare and he’d felt the power of a 747 shaking his small body like an earthquake.

      Then, during a family trip to Disney World, he’d gotten his dad to take him over to Kennedy to watch a shuttle launch. And he’d suddenly begun to dream about another kind of flight altogether.

      Everything he’d done since that point had been with an eye toward space.

      He knew it would take years—and he’d planned his route carefully, knowing how most astronauts made their way into the manned space flight program. He’d listed his goals—air flight, navy, NASA—and pursued them with diligence from the time he hit high school, making sure he got the grades to get into Annapolis. Succeeding at this very academy had been key. Not just for everything that would come later, but also to justify the expense and sacrifices his family had made to get him here.

      Then, on to the navy. He’d finished at the Academy, gone to Pensacola, then to Whiting.

      Then to Afghanistan.

      And there, everything had sort of fallen apart.

      Not anymore. Now he was back on track. Back on schedule.

      So why the hell was he suddenly thinking about what it might be like to grow old with someone, when his focus should be entirely on awaiting word on his application to the Astronaut Candidate Training Program?

      “Anyway, back to my little wardrobe malfunction,” she said, apparently not having noticed his distraction. “I had a run in my hose, and…”

      “You panicked.”

      “Exactly.”

      Part of him was tempted to ask her if she’d had a run in her sexy black panties, too, but he figured that might be pushing his luck.

      Besides, he didn’t want to think about her sexy black panties any more than he had to. He especially didn’t want to think about the fact that she wasn’t wearing them right now. That just wasn’t good for his sanity.

      But it was tough to turn off the mental pImages**, knowing she wasn’t wearing a thing beneath that sinfully tight skirt. Under that simple black fabric was soft skin, curves and hollows and everything deliciously female.

      You’re an officer and a gentleman. An officer and a gentleman.

      “So I made a spur-of-the-moment decision.”

      “Sure, I get that,” he said, pulling his mind out of his own pants. “I mean, I once spilled tomato juice on my dress whites and had to go on duty in my skivvies.”

      She rolled