A Seal's Touch. Tawny Weber

or otherwise. All they’d see was a man in a leather jacket and worn jeans flying by on a tricked-out Harley.

      Taylor loved what he did.

      His life was his career. Being a SEAL was who he was. What he was. All he wanted.

      But sometimes it sucked.

      Fury, pain and misery all balanced on a knife’s edge. If they tilted one way or the other, he knew he’d lose it. And lose it in an ugly way.

      The wind pounding against him loud enough to drown out the sound of his Harley, Taylor raced along SR 75. He barely noticed the beach, the other cars, the time. Instead, he focused on the speed. On the feel of the motor roaring beneath him. On nothing.

      Right now, all he wanted to think about was nothing.

      It might have been an hour later, it might have been five. But by the time the sun was down, the nasty edge was gone. He didn’t care where or when, he just knew he’d left it behind somewhere.

      Without thinking, without questioning it, Taylor got off the highway, downshifting as he maneuvered his way through his old neighborhood. A part of him always expected to ride into a hazy circle of shimmering smoke. The kind that sci-fi movies always showed when someone flew back through time.

      Suburbia, USA, with its tidy, tailored lawns lining rows of tidy tailored houses behind sidewalks that hosted kids on bikes, dogs on leashes and a few power-walking octogenarians. It looked the same now as it had back when Taylor had been one of those biking kids. Sure, the Chos had moved five years back, but the Pereses were still across the street. Mike Barnes had moved to Connecticut but his parents still lived on the corner.

      Taylor pulled his bike into the driveway and cut the engine. On his way to the front door, he lifted his hand to Mr. Blaine when the old man waved from his front porch.

      Home.

      He unlocked the door and stepped inside.

      There was no place like it.

      “Yo,” he called out as the door swung shut behind him. “Ma?”

      He heard a thump then a muffled bang, but no response.

      “Ma?” His long legs ate up the stairs, two by two as he did a quick mental review of his last CPR certification, tried to remember if his mother was on any meds and scanned his brain for the nearest location of her HMO.

      He barreled past his childhood bedroom and skidded into the doorway of his mother’s bedroom. Even as a quick glance assured him it was empty, he heard another thump coming from the hall bathroom. But this one was accompanied by cussing.

      Very female, very un-motherly cussing.

      In a blink his tension dissipated, his worry faded.

      He knew that cussing.

      When the next round included anatomically incorrect suggestions with farm animals, he grinned. Yeah. He knew that cussing really well.

      Hands in the front pockets of his jeans, he sauntered down the hall. Stopping in the bathroom door, he paused for a second to smile in appreciation of the sweetly curved ass encased in denim so worn it was white at the seams and had a hole starting just above the back pocket.

      The legs were about a mile long. The kind of legs that went beyond wrapping around a guy’s waist. Legs that long would reach his shoulders.

      He almost groaned when his eyes reached a pair of black leather boots similar to the ones he wore on duty. Was there anything sexier than legs like that in black boots? Sure, knee-high black boots with a little shine and skinny laces would be hotter, but boots were boots.

      “Hellooo,” he murmured.

      “What?” The hips moved, the back arched and the owner of those sexy legs lifted her head so fast he heard it hit something under the sink. Cussing again, this time with more heat, the body did a quick one-eighty. Sitting on the floor, rubbing her head, the woman glared at him with enough heat to start a fire.

      “Taylor?”

      “Cat?” he said at the same time. He automatically started to reach out and help her to her feet, but at the last second couldn’t. Touching her so soon after that image of her legs wrapped over his shoulders didn’t seem like a smart idea.

      When the hell had Kitty Cat gotten hot?

      Unable to resist, his gaze took a follow-up tour of the front view. Her hair, too gold to be brown, too dark to be blond, was tied back, highlighting a face too strong to be called pretty. Eyes the color of the ocean at sunset stared back under sharply arched brows. The rounded cheeks, a slight upper bite and the scar on her chin were all familiar.

      The way her faded green T cupped her breasts was new, as was the sweetly gentle slide from breast to waist to hip where the T met denim.

      Oh, yeah. Kitty Cat was definitely hot.

      “Hey there, Mr. Wizard,” Cat greeted after checking her fingers to see if her head was bleeding. “How’s Mrs. Powell’s pride and joy?”

      “As good as ever. How about the Kitty Cat? How’re you doing?”

      “Same ole, same ole,” Cat said with a shrug that did interesting things to that T-shirt of hers.

      Things he had no business noticing.

      Locking his eyes on her face, Taylor asked, “Where’s Ma?”

      “She’s with my mother. They’re on another one of their wild trips to Vegas.” Cat tossed the pipe wrench into her toolbox, the loud clang knocking loose the last of Taylor’s odd and inappropriate lust. “Didn’t she tell you?”

      “I’ve been out of the country.”

      “Saving the world again?” Cat teased, getting to her feet. “Did you come home to wash your cape and tights?”

      Taylor grinned.

      There she was, the cute kid across the street again. She’d been making superhero jokes since he’d earned his SEAL trident.

      “Gotta do my part,” he said easily. “But all that superhero stuff works up an appetite. I figured I’d cop a meal from Ma. You know, some home-cooked goodness.”

      As he’d told Irish, all he needed was a little time, a little distance. And home.

      Throw in his buddy Cat and his mom’s cooking and everything in life was just fine.

      * * *

      HE LOOKED SO damned yummy.

      For the first time in her life Cat wished she could cook more than her soup, salad and sandwich trilogy. For Taylor, she might actually consider throwing away her hard-and-fast rule about never playing the little woman.

      Maybe.

      If only for a weekend.

      Thankfully, her lack of kitchen skills meant she didn’t have to face tossing aside her principles. Instead, she could order pizza.

      “You sticking around for a while?”

      “Yeah.” Grinning at the surprise on her face, Taylor reached out to tug at a long strand of hair that’d escaped her braid when she’d been checking her head for damage. “Why not? I’ve got a bed here. I’m sure there’s lasagna in the freezer and Ma has ESPN.”

      “Sure,” she said, laughing. “You’re going to hang here alone, eating leftovers and watching sports instead of hitting the town with a hot date? You know, celebrating yet another successful mission.”

      He shrugged, but Cat saw something flash behind his eyes. Was that pain? Before she could get a closer look, his cell phone chimed.

      “Problem?” Cat asked when he frowned at the message.

      “Maybe.” He stared at his phone for another second then thumbed it off.

      “Can I help?” she offered automatically.