Worth Fighting For. Judy Duarte

who’d managed to stop Brett’s downhill slide into the juvenile justice system, Justin was happy.

      And if anyone knew what made a boy tick, it was the guy who’d helped a dozen or more delinquents get their lives back on track. A guy who’d put his heart where his mouth was, opening his arms, his home and his family to boys with nowhere else to turn. And Brett was happy to count himself as one of the bad-boys-turned-good-guys.

      According to Harry, who’d done a little investigating, Justin’s stepfather was good to him. Maybe not better than Brett would have been, but at least David was home every night and not deployed to the far side of the earth flying a Sea Hawk and risking his life.

      Hell, as a Navy helicopter pilot, Brett was away the better part of the year. What kind of husband or father could he ever hope to be?

      “So tell me about you,” Caitlin said, doing them both a favor and diverting the conversation to something more pleasant. “How did you meet Greg?”

      “We met during a bar fight at a seedy joint in downtown San Diego. And we’ve been watching each other’s backs ever since.”

      “Greg was involved in a bar fight?” Her brows lifted and her eyes widened. “I can’t imagine it. He’s so sweet and gentle.”

      Were they talking about the same guy? That knockdown drag-out hadn’t been the first for Greg, who became a superhero whenever he’d had too much to drink.

      Brett grinned as the memory surfaced. “Greg saw a couple of the local boys harassing the female bartender and decided to step in and correct the situation.”

      “Now that sounds like the Greg I know.”

      Brett couldn’t help but chuckle. “Yeah, well the lady bartender stood over six feet tall and had forearms the size of Popeye’s. I might have been a bit snockered myself, but her afternoon shadow suggested she—or rather he—could hold his own.”

      “So Greg stepped in?”

      “And about got his head knocked in with a chair, until I jumped in to help. And just as the fight turned into a rip-roaring free-for-all, the bartender pulled a gun and settled it.”

      “Was anyone shot?”

      “Just the ceiling. But Greg and I limped out of there with our share of cuts and bruises. We’ve been buddies ever since.”

      She smiled, then glanced at his bad hand. “Speaking of cuts and bruises, I nearly forgot to fix that bandage for you. I’ll be right back.”

      When she returned with the first-aid kit, she took a seat next to him on the sofa.

      He caught a faint whiff of a tropical breeze, felt the sultry heat as she touched his arm. Was she feeling it, too? The attraction that seemed to grow stronger each time their gazes met?

      As she removed the tape and gauze from his hand, her knee brushed against his thigh, sending a shimmy of heat through his blood. He watched her hair sweep along her shoulder and fought the urge to touch the golden strands, to see if they felt as silky as they looked.

      Instead, as she rewrapped his hand and fastened the tape, he tried to waylay the flicker of desire that taunted his better judgment. “Let me know what the bodywork on your car is going to cost.”

      “I’ll take it in for an estimate, but I still feel as though that accident was my fault.” She looked up from her work, then furrowed her brow when the scrape on his chin caught her eye. She probed around it lightly. Her soft, gentle fingers lingered on his jaw.

      When she looked into his eyes, he was swept into that sea-blue gaze. Her tropical scent swirled around them, making him envision an evening luau for two on a deserted beach.

      Something passed between them, something he suspected she’d felt, too. A need. A hunger.

      He wouldn’t act on it, although it damned near killed him not to. “Thanks.”

      “My pleasure,” she said, her eyes still fixed on his.

      He knew better than to reach out and touch her, but when she looked at him like that, with what seemed like virginal interest, his common sense flew by the wayside. He ran the knuckles of his good hand along the softness of her cheek.

      Had she pulled away, that would have been the end of it. But she didn’t. She merely watched him, her lips parting, tempting him to take things a step further.

      Ah, man. What an idiot. Why’d he have to go and do that? Stir things up. Make things complicated.

      He withdrew his hand, then clicked his tongue. “I’m really sorry about that, Caitlin. I have no idea what got into me. I must have jarred my brains on the pavement.”

      “No, I kind of lost it, too.” She fingered the place on her cheek where his knuckles had stroked. When their gazes met, she quickly looked away, and her hand dropped into her lap.

      Yeah, she’d definitely lost it, too.

      He got to his feet and dragged a hand though his hair. He wasn’t used to women wanting to take the blame for something he should have been able to avoid, like an accident or an inappropriate caress. So he changed the subject. “Thanks for dinner, Caitlin.”

      “You’re welcome.” She followed him to the door to see him out. But something continued to hover between them. Something sensual. Something he ought to avoid, if he hadn’t complicated things by making a promise to her daughter.

      “I was serious about letting Emily visit Fred,” he said. “Your call, of course.”

      “She’s really attached to him.”

      “Okay.” he said, even though he was now feeling as skittish as the psycho cat hiding under the bed. “Maybe tomorrow morning.”

      “That’s fine.” She smiled. “Then I can take you to get that rental car.”

      He nodded, then returned to the dark house alone. If he hadn’t already told Emily she could visit, he’d board up the windows of his place and lock himself inside.

      Away from the woman and kid who promised to be nothing but trouble.

      Chapter Three

      As Caitlin dried the last of the morning dishes, Emily waited in the breakfast nook, feet dangling from her seat, elbows resting on the table, hands propping up her chin.

      “It’s nine-oh-one,” the little girl announced.

      Each day, at roughly nine o’clock, Emily and Caitlin took the neighbor’s dog for a walk. It had become a tradition they both looked forward to, a special time when she and her daughter could chat, get a little exercise and enjoy the fresh air and sunshine.

      And it gave Emily another chance to pretend she had a pet of her own.

      “You’re sure good at telling time, Em. But just give me a minute more. I’m nearly finished.” Caitlin placed the last spoon into the drawer, then folded the damp towel and hung it on the rack to dry.

      “Yea!” Emily climbed from her chair, just as the telephone rang, then paused. “Oh, no.”

      “Sorry, sweetie. I’ll make this quick.” Caitlin snatched the receiver from the hook. “Hello?”

      It was Phyllis McAree, her attorney. “Have you got a minute?”

      Caitlin glanced at her eager daughter, then lifted her index finger, indicating the call would take a moment.

      “Yes, Phyllis. Go ahead.” Caitlin gripped the receiver and held her breath, hoping the competent family law specialist had something positive to report.

      “From what I can gather, Zack’s parole hearing has been set up for the end of the month. And since he hasn’t had any problems while serving his term, there’s a good chance he’ll be released. I spoke to his attorney, and there’s no way they’ll drop the custody suit. Zack wants his child.”