The Soldier's Seduction Read online

  He Was Going To Kiss Her.

  Releasing her wrist, he put one finger beneath her chin and lifted her face to his. “Relax and let me…”

  He couldn’t wait any longer and dropped his head to fasten his mouth on hers, kissing her hard and deep, pouring all the longing and frustration of the past two years into the embrace. He felt her hands clench on his shoulders, but she wasn’t pushing him away. Oh, no. He felt the way she melted against him, the way her fingers dug into his flesh and he knew she was going to be his again.

  But this time, Wade promised himself, he wouldn’t leave her without a word.

  ANNE MARIE WINSTON

  The Soldier’s Seduction

  Books by Anne Marie Winston

  Silhouette Desire

  Best Kept Secrets #742

  Island Baby #770

  Chance at a Lifetime #809

  Unlikely Eden #827

  Carolina on My Mind #845

  Substitute Wife #863

  Find Her, Keep Her #887

  Rancher’s Wife #936

  Rancher’s Baby #1031

  Seducing the Proper Miss Miller #1155

  *The Baby Consultant #1191

  *Dedicated to Deirdre #1197

  *The Bride Means Business #1204

  Lovers’ Reunion #1226

  The Pregnant Princess #1268

  Seduction, Cowboy Style #1287

  Rancher’s Proposition #1322

  Tall, Dark & Western #1339

  A Most Desirable M.D. #1371

  Risqué Business #1407

  Billionaire Bachelors: Ryan #1413

  Billionaire Bachelors: Stone #1423

  Billionaire Bachelors: Garrett #1440

  Billionaire Bachelors: Gray #1526

  Born To Be Wild #1538

  The Marriage Ultimatum #1562

  The Enemy’s Daughter #1603

  For Services Rendered #1617

  The Soldier’s Seduction #1722

  Silhouette Books

  Broken Silence

  “Inviting Trouble”

  Family Secrets

  Pyramid of Lies

  Logan’s Legacy

  The Homecoming

  ANNE MARIE WINSTON

  RITA® Award finalist and bestselling author Anne Marie Winston loves babies she can give back when they cry, animals in all shapes and sizes and just about anything that blooms. When she’s not writing, she’s managing a house full of animals and teenagers, reading anything she can find and trying not to eat chocolate. She will dance at the slightest provocation and weeds her garden when she can’t see the sun for the weeds anymore. You can learn more about Anne Marie’s novels by visiting her Web site at www.annemariewinston.com.

  Dedicated to the memory of those animals who perished when they were left behind during Hurricane Katrina and with warmest thanks to every rescuer and animal lover who responded and saved so many others

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  One

  It wasn’t what he’d expected.

  Wade brought the rental car to a halt along the curb and simply absorbed the sight of the modest, cozy home nestled in the small-town neighborhood. Phoebe’s home. Phoebe’s neighborhood.

  He cut the ignition and eased himself from the car, taking in the pretty autumn wreath on the front door, the carved pumpkin on the second of the brick steps leading to the porch, the fall flowers in bright shades of rust, burgundy and gold that brightened up the bare spaces in front of the small bushes along the foundation.

  He’d assumed she would live in an apartment. He didn’t really know why he’d thought that, but every time he’d pictured Phoebe since he’d learned she had moved away, he’d imagined her living in an apartment or a small condo. Nothing so…permanent, as this house appeared to be.

  He’d gotten quite a shock when he’d finally returned home, eagerly anticipating his first sight of her—only to learn that she’d left California months earlier. He didn’t even want to think about the bleak misery that had swept through him, the letdown that had been so overwhelming that he’d just wanted to sit down and cry.

  Not that he ever would. Soldiers didn’t cry. Especially soldiers who had been decorated all to hell and back.

  Living at home had been difficult. Only two short months before he’d been injured, he’d gone home on leave for his mother’s funeral. While he was recuperating, his father made valiant attempts to keep things as normal around the house as possible. But without his mother, there was a big hole nothing could disguise.

  He made casual inquiries about where Phoebe had gone, but no one seemed to know. By the time he was home for a month, he was desperate enough to start digging. The secretary of her high school graduating class had no forwarding address. A light Internet search turned up nothing. He finally thought to call Berkeley, the university she’d attended, but they wouldn’t, or couldn’t, give him any information.

  He was about ready to consider hiring a private investigator when he thought of calling June, the only girl other than Phoebe’s twin sister Melanie who he could really remember Phoebe hanging around with in high school. Geeky little June with her thick glasses and straight As. Someone Melanie wouldn’t have been caught dead hanging out with, but as he recalled, a genuinely sweet kid.

  They really had seemed like kids to his four-years-older eyes back then. But by the time the twins had graduated from high school, those years had no longer seemed to be of much consequence.

  Getting in touch with Phoebe’s old friend was a stroke of luck. June had gotten a Christmas card from Phoebe four months after she’d moved. And God bless her, she’d kept the address.

  That address had been quite a shock. She’d gone from California clear across the country to a small town in rural New York state.

  Ironically, it was a familiar area. Phoebe’s new home was less than an hour from West Point, where he’d spent four long years in a gray uniform chafing for graduation day, when he could finally become a real soldier.

  He wouldn’t have been so impatient for those days to end if he’d known what lay ahead of him.

  He climbed the small set of steps carefully. His doctors were sure he’d make a full recovery—full enough for civilian life, anyway. But the long flight from San Diego to JFK had been more taxing than he’d anticipated. He probably should have gotten a room for the night, looked up Phoebe tomorrow when he was rested.

  But he hadn’t been able to make himself wait a moment longer.

  He knocked on the wooden front door, eyeing the wavy glass diamond pane in the door’s upper portion. Although it was designed to obscure a good view of the home’s occupants, he might be able to see someone coming toward the door. But after a few moments and two more knocks, nobody showed. Phoebe wasn’t home.

  Disappointment swamped him. He leaned his head against the door frame, completely spent. He’d counted on seeing her so badly. But…he glanced at his watch. He hadn’t even considered the time. It was barely four o’clock.

  The last time he’d seen her, she was a year out of college with a degree in elementary education, and she’d been teaching first grade. If she still was a teacher, she might soon be getting home. She probably worked, he decided as relief seeped through him.

  If she wasn’t married, he thought, trying to encourage himself, it stood to reason she’d need income. And June hadn’t heard anything about a husband. If she had married, she hadn’t taken his name, which didn’t really fit with the quiet, traditional girl he’
d known so well. And he knew she hadn’t taken anyone’s name because he’d checked the local phone book and found her there: P. Merriman.

  Fine. He’d wait. He turned and started for his car, but a porch swing piled with pillows caught his attention. He’d just sit there and wait for her.

  If she’d been married, he wouldn’t be here, he assured himself. If she’d been married, he would have left her alone, wouldn’t have attempted to contact her again in this lifetime.

  But he was pretty sure she wasn’t.

  And despite the good reasons he had for staying away from Phoebe Merriman, despite the fact that he’d behaved like a jerk the last time they’d been together, he’d never been able to forget her. Never been able to convince himself that being with her had been a mistake. He’d thought of little else during his long months of recuperation and therapy. He’d nearly reached out to her then, but some part of him had shied away from a phone call or an e-mail.

  He wanted to see her in person when he asked her if there was any chance she’d let him into her life again. Sighing, he dragged one of the pillows up and leaned his head against it. If only things hadn’t gotten so screwed up at the end.

  It had been bad enough that Phoebe’s twin Melanie had died because of him. Indirectly, maybe, but it still had been his fault.

  He’d compounded it in the biggest damn way possible when he’d made love to Phoebe after the funeral. And then he’d run.

  Phoebe Merriman jumped when the mobile phone in her minivan began to play the jazzy tune she’d programmed into it. That phone hardly ever rang. The only reason she had it, really, was so that Bridget’s babysitter could always reach her in case of an emergency.

  Alarmed, she punched the button to take the call. A quick glance at the display had the dread in her stomach lurching uncomfortably. Phoebe had good reason to fear unexpected phone calls. And just as she’d feared, it was her home number. “Hello?”

  “Phoebe?” The babysitter, Angie, sounded breathless.

  “Angie. What’s wrong?”

  “There’s a man sitting on the front porch. In the swing.”

  The news was almost anticlimactic, considering that she’d been fearing a high fever, blood or broken bones.

  “Sitting? And what else?”

  “Nothing else.” Phoebe realized Angie wasn’t breathless; she was whispering. “He came to the door but I didn’t answer, so he sat down on the swing and I thought I’d better call you.” Her voice quavered a little.

  Phoebe remembered how young her sitter was, newly graduated from high school and still living with her parents on the next street over, taking evening classes at a local community college. Phoebe had met Angie’s mother in her Sunday-school class and had felt lucky to find Angie.

  “You did exactly right,” she assured the younger woman. “If all he’s doing is sitting there, just stay inside with the doors closed. I’m only a few blocks from home.”

  She pulled into her driveway a few minutes later, the cell phone’s line still open. There was a gray sedan with a rental tag parked in front of her house. Maybe it belonged to whoever was waiting on her front porch.

  “Okay, Angie,” she said. “I’m home. You stay right where you are until I come inside.”

  She took a deep breath. Should she call the police? Common sense told her whoever was waiting on her porch probably wasn’t a criminal. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be here in the middle of the day, unconcerned about the neighbors taking down his license plate or identifying him. She positioned her keys between her fingers with one key thrust outward, as she’d learned in the self-defense class she’d taken when she’d first started college. Then she pivoted on her heel and headed up her front walk.

  She started up the porch steps, unable to see the swing because of the trellis of roses blooming across the front of the porch. She knew from experience that a person sitting there on the swing could see out much more easily than anyone could see in.

  As she reached the porch, a very large man came into view. Adrenaline rushed through her as he began to rise from the swing. She angled her body to confront him.

  “What are—Wade!”

  As the man’s identity registered, a wave of shock slammed into her. It couldn’t be.

  Wade was dead.

  Her knees felt as if they might buckle and she groped for the railing behind her. The keys fell to the floor with a loud jangle. “You—you’re Wade.” An inane statement. Of course it was Wade.

  He was smiling but his eyes were watchful as he took a step forward. “Yeah. Hi, Phoebe.”

  “B-b-but…”

  His smile faded as she took a step backward. One eyebrow rose in a quirk as familiar to her as her own smile in the mirror. That quizzical expression had been only one of the things she’d loved about Wade Donnelly. “But what?” he asked quietly.

  “I thought you were dead!” She blurted out the words as her legs gave way and she sank to the top step, dropping her head onto her knees as incredulity warred with a strong desire to cry hysterically.

  Footsteps rang out as Wade crossed the porch and then the boards of the top step depressed as he sat down beside her. One large hand touched her back. “My God,” she said, the words muffled. “You really are here, aren’t you?”

  “I’m really here.” It was definitely Wade, his distinctly masculine tone one she would recognize anywhere. He touched her back again, just one small uncertain touch, and she had to fight the urge to throw herself into his arms.

  He never really belonged to me, she reminded herself.

  “I’m sorry it’s such a shock.” His voice was quiet and deep and rang with sincerity. “I was presumed to be dead for a couple of days until I could get back to my unit. But that was months ago.”

  “How long have you been home?” He’d been deployed right after Melanie’s funeral. The memory brought back others she’d tried to forget, as well, and she focused on his answer, trying to ignore the past.

  “About five weeks. I’ve been trying to find you.” He hesitated for a moment. “June gave me your address and she knew I survived. I assumed she—or someone back home—had told you.”

  “No.” She shook her head without lifting it. She’d stopped reading the news from home the day she’d read his obituary. And though she’d sent June a Christmas card this year, they hadn’t exchanged more than signatures since she’d moved.

  Silence fell. She sensed that he didn’t know what to say any more than she did—

  Bridget! Shocked that she could have forgotten her own child for a moment—particularly this moment—Phoebe leaped to her feet, ignoring Wade’s startled exclamation. “Just—ah, just let me put my things inside,” she said. “Then we can talk.”

  Her hands trembled as she turned away from the man she’d loved throughout her adolescent years and into young womanhood. The keys were slippery in her sweaty grasp and she dropped them again. Before she could react, Wade came to her side and stretched down for the keys.

  “Here.”

  “Thank you.” She took the keys carefully, without touching his hand, fumbled the correct one into the lock and opened her front door.

  Reality hit her in the face again. Wade Donnelly was alive and waiting to talk to her. And she had to tell him she’d borne his child.

  Angie rushed forward as Phoebe came through the door and closed it firmly behind herself. Before the sitter could speak, Phoebe put her finger to her lips to indicate silence. She walked through the front rooms toward the back of the little house and dropped her things onto the kitchen table. “Listen,” she said to Angie in a quiet tone, “there’s nothing to worry about. He’s an old friend I haven’t seen in a long time. Can you stay a little longer in case Bridget wakes up?”

  Angie nodded, her eyes wide. “Sure.”

  “We’re going to talk outside. “I don’t—I’m not inviting him in and I don’t particularly want him to know about Bridget, so please don’t come out.”

  Angie nodded, an uncharacte
ristically knowing smile crossing her face. “No problem. I wouldn’t want to cause trouble for you.”

  Phoebe paused in the act of walking back through the living room. “Cause trouble for me?”

  “With people back where you came from.” Angie gestured vaguely. “I mean, I know everybody has babies without getting married these days, but if you don’t want anyone back home to know, that’s your business.”

  Phoebe felt her eyebrows rising practically to her hairline. She opened her mouth, then closed it abruptly before hysterical laughter could bubble out. Dear innocent Angie thought she was hiding Bridget because she was ashamed of having an illegitimate child. If only it were that simple!

  She swallowed as she slipped through the front door again, closing it securely behind her. Wade was standing now, leaning against one of the porch posts, dwarfing the small space. Lord, she’d forgotten how big he really was.

  She drank in his appearance, trying to reconcile the grief she’d carried for the past six months with the reality of seeing him alive and apparently well. His dark, wavy hair was conservatively short compared to the out-of-control locks he’d sported in high school, but quite a bit longer than the last time she’d seen him, when he’d had a high and tight military cut that had stripped every bit of curl away. If he weighed an ounce more than he had then, it wasn’t noticeable; his shoulders were still wide and heavily muscled, his hips narrow and his belly flat, his legs still as powerful looking as they’d been when he’d been a running back for the high school football team. That had been almost a dozen years ago, and she’d been a silly middle-school teen at the time, already pathetically infatuated with her older, totally hot neighbor.

  Then she realized he was watching her stare at him, his gray eyes as clear and piercing as always beneath the black slashes of his eyebrows. She felt her cheeks heat and she crossed her arms over her chest.

  Taking a deep breath, she voiced the question burning in her mind. “Why were you reported dead if they weren’t sure?” Her voice shook with the remembered agony of learning that Wade was gone forever. “I read about your funeral…” The sentence died unfinished as she realized she’d read about the plans for his funeral. In his obituary.