One Good Man. Charlotte Douglas

leaned her head to one side and studied him again, as if trying to make up her mind. Her incredible eyes, the irises a brilliant green rimmed with dark brown, didn’t blink. “Some folks say the Marines turned you into a killing machine.”

      “And what do you say?”

      “Did they?”

      “Did I kill anyone?” He threw an internal wall around those grim memories, nightmares that sometimes haunted his sleep, and forced a grin. “That’s classified, ma’am. If I told you—”

      “You’d have to kill me?” She smiled at the tired old joke. “My brother says you’re a good man. And Grant’s usually right.”

      “Well, damn,” Jeff said with an exaggerated drawl, “and here I was, about to ask if you wanted anyone whacked. A decent reputation could ruin my future career as a hit man.”

      Her expression sobered for a second, as if she wondered if she’d misjudged him. Then, recognizing his teasing, she smiled, like the sun coming from behind a cloud. Only his deeply ingrained self-control kept him from laughing with delight at her beauty.

      Her smile vanished as quickly at it had appeared and morphed into a no-nonsense look. “You mentioned a business proposition.”

      Detecting the skittishness beneath her poised facade, Jeff reminded himself to go slow, one phase at a time. “I need a caterer.”

      She shook her head. “I don’t usually—”

      “Grant told me.” Jeff wouldn’t give her time to refuse. “He also said your business has been slow and won’t pick up till Memorial Day weekend.”

      “My brother talks too much.”

      “Cut him some slack,” Jeff said. “He’s a vet who works mainly with cows and horses. He needs interaction with people who can talk back.”

      “He has Merrilee.”

      “Lucky man,” Jeff said with sincerity. “But before you turn me down, at least listen to what I have in mind. It’s really simple.”

      “I’m listening.” But she’d crossed her arms across those perfect breasts and leaned back in her chair, closing him out with her body language.

      “We’re having a dorm raising this weekend.”

      “We?”

      “A group of my former Marine buddies. We’re going to build a timber-frame dormitory for the camp. I need someone to provide food.”

      Jodie shook her head. “Maria Ortega’s the only cook I have, and Saturday’s a busy day at the café.”

      “I don’t need a cook. Just someone to furnish sandwiches, drinks, and enough carbs to keep us going till the job’s done.”

      “A few good men can’t make their own sandwiches?” She raised one eyebrow.

      “They could if I had time to plan and shop for groceries. But I’m up to my neck buying building supplies. I really need your help.”

      He could almost see the wheels turning behind those deep-enough-to-drown-in eyes. “Grant and Merrilee are coming to lend a hand,” he added. “Maybe Merrilee could help you. I’ll pay top dollar.”

      “How many to feed?”

      “Eighteen, counting the framing crew, and they’re all big eaters.”

      She rose and crossed the room, leaned over and removed something from beneath the counter. The movement pulled her green wool slacks taut across her slender hips and small bottom, a delectable sight. His mouth went dry.

      She returned with a pad, pencil and calculator. “I’ll figure on a variety of subs and potato salad. Chili, too, if the weather’s cool. Several dozen cookies—chocolate chip, sugar, peanut butter—and some of Maria’s famous cakes and pies. Iced tea and coffee.”

      “Sounds great.”

      “You haven’t heard the price.” She remained all business.

      He clamped his teeth to keep from admitting that cost didn’t matter. He could probably find someone else to provide food for his friends, but since seeing Jodie again, he wanted her more than ever as part of his special plans.

      Man, that blow to the head in Afghanistan must have scrambled his senses. This was little Jodie Nathan, he reminded himself. Then why was he struggling to breathe, as if he’d just run a twenty-mile obstacle course with full gear?

      “How much?” he forced himself to ask.

      She punched numbers into the calculator and named her price.

      He tensed to keep his jaw from dropping. That much for subs and cookies? She’d obviously jacked up the cost in hopes he’d go elsewhere. But even if he didn’t need her cooperation later, he would have agreed to the rip-off. He wanted Jodie there when his project started, because somehow she had suddenly become an integral part of his dream.

      “It’s a deal.” He whipped out his checkbook, hastily wrote a check, and slid it across the table. He held out his hand to cinch the agreement.

      Jodie blinked in surprise, but she took the check and grasped his hand with obvious reluctance. Hers felt small and delicate in his, but her grip was strong.

      “Add doughnuts for a morning break,” he said before releasing her. “And I’ll need you on-site to serve and clean up.”

      Her eyes widened. “My being there wasn’t part of the deal.”

      “At the price you quoted, you’re well compensated for your time.” He looked her squarely in the eyes. The younger Jodie he’d known had always been honest and trustworthy. A real Girl Scout. She knew she’d overcharged, and he guessed her conscience would force her to honor his conditions.

      As if abruptly realizing he still held her hand, Jodie withdrew hers from his grasp.

      Jeff shoved back from the table and stood. “I’ll see you at eight o’clock Saturday morning at my place.”

      Jodie rose also. Her graceful movement called attention to her stunning figure, and he had to tear his gaze away. He strode to the door, opened it and turned to her.

      “Pleasure doing business with you, ma’am.” He didn’t try to hide his smile. He’d won, and she knew it. He stepped outside and closed the door behind him.

      * * *

      JODIE SANK INTO HER CHAIR before her knees gave way. She rubbed damp palms on her slacks and drew a deep breath in a futile effort to calm her racing pulse. When Jeff had stepped from behind the display shelves, he’d looked like the epitome of every woman’s dream. The perfect image for a Marine recruiting poster: tall, with broad shoulders, riveting gray eyes, neatly trimmed thick dark hair, a chiseled movie-star face marred only by a scar above his right cheekbone and a roguish smile with perfect teeth. And those muscles. Not a trace of flab. Just rock-hard strength. No wonder she hadn’t recognized the lanky teenager from high school who’d always needed a haircut, a shave, clean clothes and a decent meal.

      And that voice. Deep, commanding, mesmerizing. If he’d asked for anything more than catering, she didn’t know if she could have resisted.

      Her hands trembled and she clasped them together on the tabletop. What had he done to her? She hadn’t felt this shaken since Randy Mercer had swaggered into her father’s hardware store fifteen years ago. She groaned at the memory and laid her head on her hands. That time, two weeks later she was pregnant with Brittany.

      God, she had to get a grip. She’d vowed never to let an attractive man overrule her good judgment again, and she’d managed just fine.

      Until today.

      Until Jeff Davidson had blasted in from the past, a gung-ho, kick-ass Marine who’d tossed her to the mat without so much as crooking a finger. She’d been certain that her exorbitant pricing would scare