SEALed With a Kiss: Even a Hero Needs Help Sometimes... (15 page)

He
was
entirely too good-looking, but not because he was handsome, exactly. His straight brows, high cheekbones, and long nose combined into something too sharp to qualify as handsome. And yet handing Tyler pats of butter, he was so beautiful he took her breath away. He could have posed for Michelangelo with that perfectly toned and balanced body, but even that wasn't it.

It was something about the man. The memory of his kiss yesterday body-slammed her. It had definitely been more than a peck. Sweeter. More real. His lips looked hard, but had been soft.

Pickett shook off the sudden hunger to put her lips against the strong column of his neck.

He hadn't meant anything by it. Of course not. He had looked at Tyler with such longing.

Was she intervening too much between him and Tyler? Probably. Nothing she could teach Jax in twenty-four hours was going to make much difference. Ultimately, he and Tyler would have to work out their relationship for themselves.

How was he going to integrate the needs of a small child with the demands of the life of a SEAL? He was walking proof of the sacrifices families made to a service career. One thing was sure, he couldn't depend on any help from that ex-mother-in-law of his.
She
wouldn't help him maintain a relationship with his son.

As for herself, she would do well to remember that they would be gone tomorrow.

Pickett flicked the oven controls to
broil
and poured the eggs into the pan when she heard Jax's "Good work, man. We're done."

Jax scraped the plates while Pickett wiped the stove and counters, and Lucy and Patterson snuffled under the table for crumbs. He saw now why she had said not to worry about any food Tyler dropped. He suspected that most of Tyler's toast was being scarfed by the dogs.

Privately, Jax had agreed with Tyler when he said that the whole wheat bread looked dirty and tasted like sawdust. Still, he thought he ought to apologize for his son's rudeness. Pickett had just laughed, though, unoffended. "I know what you mean," she'd giggled. "It takes a strong person to eat whole wheat toast!"

Jax had piled golden fig preserves on his and eaten it. He wasn't swayed by her remark; he just thought he should set a good example. Even Tyler had nibbled the buttery parts before it started "accidentally" falling to the floor. However, large scraps of toast lay on Pickett's plate. Mentally reassembling the pieces, he wondered if she had taken even a bite.

Jax scraped Pickett's toast into a plastic pail to be taken to the duck. "Tyler ate a little of his toast, but I guess you weren't feeling strong enough."

Pickett acknowledged his teasing with a sideways nod and a wry smile. "Guess not."

Jax admired her slender waist, visible between the crop top and low-rider shorts. For all her curvi-ness there wasn't an ounce of excess fat on her. He didn't see why she restricted herself so severely. But some women seemed positively afraid of food.

He could step up behind her, slide a hand across that bare midriff, and drop kisses into the hollows of her collarbones that seemed shaped just right for his mouth.

Too bad he'd decided she was off-limits. "I'm going out to check on the generator."

He snagged the pail of scraps from the counter. "I'll feed the duck while I'm out."

"Fine," Pickett answered from the floor where she was sponging up spots from the heart pine. "And could you make sure Hobo Joe is all right?"

Jax doubted the huge dog would let him come anywhere near it, but in fact as soon as he stepped out on the porch, catching the screen door before the wildly gusting wind could tear it off, Hobo appeared around the west corner of the house. He was as rascally looking as ever and he swayed like a drunken reprobate as he fought to stand on three legs against the wind. But he wasn't as wet as he might have been. He'd obviously found shelter somewhere. When he saw Jax he stopped, keeping a careful six feet between them, and sniffed the air, waving his black snout from side to side.

"You don't trust me, do you?" Jax kept his voice low. "Okay, I don't exactly trust you either. But maybe you'd better stay here and keep an eye on things until I get back." Jax pointed to the door. "Lie down, Hobo. Guard."

What do you know? The dog lowered himself slowly till he lay across the threshold. Maybe there was more to the ugly stray than met the eye. He wouldn't have figured Pickett for the type to fill up her house and yard with strays. Although, come to think of it, he and Tyler had wandered into the yard and Pickett had taken them in. Should he wonder if he was as ugly and reprehensible-looking as Hobo, or hope he had as many redeeming qualities?

Then stinging pellets of rain driven by hurricane-force winds slammed into him and he thought of nothing but forcing his way across the yard, inches deep in water, to the garage doors.

Water had blown under the hanging doors and it looked like a leak had started in one corner. Nothing that looked serious. It was hot in the garage. The air was thick with moisture and the smell of earth and motor oil.

Jax pulled off the dripping nylon parka before inspecting the vehicles. Pickett's five-year-old Civic looked well maintained but it would be fairly useless if they had to evacuate. Jax was glad he had the Cherokee, with its greater road clearance. It could be driven through water without swamping the engine. He inspected the tires, checked battery cables and fluid levels, even though he had done it the evening before. It wasn't likely that they'd need to evacuate. Until the storm passed, they'd be safest to stay at the house no matter what happened. Years of training held sway, however, and no matter how unlikely, if he needed the Jeep, he wanted it to be ready.

Ready. He thought about the endless training and preparation that made up most of the life of a SEAL. Being ready, rehearsing, practicing to move instantly and correctly in any situation was the essence of SEAL training and philosophy.

Being ready. He hadn't been prepared to be a father when Tyler was born, as Pickett had so gently pointed out last night. And he wasn't ready now. But he was sick of feeling like he'd just washed out. And he was tired of watching Pickett save his fumbles with Tyler, while he didn't even know what she had done.

Jax zipped himself back into the clinging, clammy parka, grabbed a can of gas, and headed back into the storm to refill the generator.

Pickett poured what was left of the coffee into a thermos. This would be a good time to check her email. She was through the connecting door to her office, which was set up in what would usually be the dining room, when she stopped. No computer. The generator wasn't strong enough to power more than the refrigerator, the well pump, and a few lights. For once, she was glad she didn't have the money to replace the ancient gas kitchen stove. Cooking wouldn't be a problem. But it was funny how when the power went off, the only things you could think of to do required electricity.

Tyler, making truck noises, played in a corner by the bookcases. The outside door banged and a gust of moisture-laden air swooshed into the room.

From her seat at the desk, Pickett could see Jax standing just inside the kitchen door. Dark hair was plastered against his head, and rivulets ran down the silky-straight hair that covered the defined muscles of his legs. He toed off sodden sneakers without unknotting the wet laces. He used a dish towel left on the counter after breakfast to dry his legs and feet, then swabbed the puddle he had left on the floor.

Time expanded while her awareness contracted to this one man. Masculine, elemental, coming in wet was so much a part of his life that it required no thought. He could live in storm and wildness and wind and water, then methodically tame himself, stripping the wildness till he was once again a creature that could walk about in a house.

An illusive memory tickled the edge of her consciousness. There were myths about sea creatures—
seals,
come to think of it—who from time to time would leave the sea and change into humans. Pickett smiled at the whimsy of the thought.

Jax looked up, caught her looking at him, and smiled a smile of pure masculine satisfaction. He tossed the towel in the mudroom, and walked barefoot into the office.

Pickett reminded herself that those selkies—
that's
what those magic seals were called—liked to mate with humans, but they always wanted to return to the sea.

"How is it out there?"

"Wet. Not as bad as it could be, but you and Tyler don't go out until I give you the all clear."

Pickett tried not to snort. Like she needed him to tell her not to go outside in a hurricane. And if she did lose her mind and decide to go out, she didn't need his permission.

A heavy gust slapped rain against the house so hard it sounded like gravel.

She might not need his permission to go out, but she
would need
his help. She giggled. It would come down to the same thing. "Aye-aye, sir! Are Hobo and Quackers okay?"

"They're fine. Hobo is under the porch, and Quackers apparently has decided to sleep though it."

Tyler hadn't acknowledged his father's entry in any way. He merely continued to drive his toy cars along the window sills, making car noises and, when he drove them over the edge, appropriate crashing sounds. Jax's eyes rested briefly on his son, flickered with pain, then returned to Pickett. Jax gestured with his head to the kitchen. "Are you busy? Can I talk to you for a second?"

"Sure." Pickett got up from the chair, and laying her book aside, walked toward him. "Would you like a cup of coffee? We can go in the kitchen."

Jax took the cup of coffee Pickett had poured him from the thermos and glanced at the door to the living room to make sure it was closed. He leaned against the counter. "I need some advice."

So often when people said they wanted advice, what they really meant was that they wanted someone to solve their problems. Pickett had plenty of experience with that, but her well-honed intuition told her this man was unlikely to ask someone else to do what he perceived as his job. On the other hand her intuition also said this man wanted something from her.

Pickett pulled one of the ladder-back chairs from the table and almost sat before she realized her mistake. It was necessary that she not subordinate herself to this man. His energy already dominated the room. If she sat, he would be in an even more dominating position. She kept one hand on her chair and gestured toward the chair opposite with her other hand. "About ... ?"

"You seem to know what to do with Tyler. How to talk to him. What to expect from him. How do you know these things?"

"Is that what you need advice about?"

"Yes. I've realized that the things that you know are the things I need to learn. I'm square in the middle of a goatfuck here."

"Goatfuck." Though acquainted with earthy language, the expression was new to her. She tried to keep her expression neutral, but could not suppress an inner spurt of humor. "Is that a technical term?"

Jax's lips twisted. "Sorry. It's what we call an operation where everything is going wrong. I'm messing up with Tyler. I want to be his father but I just don't know how. We don't know each other very well, and that's my fault, but I want to fix it. I thought I would just come down here and we would hang out together, and get to know each other, and then I would know what to do with him." Jax gave a snort full of self-disgust. "Pretty naive, huh?" He looked down at the floor, and shoved his hands into the pockets of his khaki shorts. "What bothers me is that he's paying for the fact that I don't, I mean I really don't, know what to do with him. Not like you do." Jax looked up to meet Pickett's eyes. His own were level, intense with desire and determination. "You make it look easy. But I'm willing to learn. So how do I learn?"

Thoughts jostled and elbowed for space in Pickett's brain until she felt a little dizzy and battered. He stood there erect, broad shoulders squared, barefoot, his damp hair furrowed where he had pushed his hands through it, and the image she had was of a man, standing at attention, addressing his commanding officer, admitting to the failure of a mission. Unflinching. No excuses.

Somehow she bet this man had not often had to admit he'd screwed up, and even more rarely, was he forced to admit incompetence. Everything about him spoke of mastery and a self-assurance that bordered on arrogance. Her heart beat harder at the combination of courage and humility it took for him to ask for her help.