He liked her voice, too. It was rich and sweetly feminine. Female. Hell, Royce mused, he was beginning to sound like a romantic poet.
Now that thought was enough to produce a hearty laugh. There wasn't a romantic bone left in his body. His wife had squeezed every ounce of love and joy out of him long before she went to the grave.
Royce didn't want to think about Sandy. Abruptly he turned and walked toward his car, his strides hurried, as if he could outdistance the memory of his dead wife.
He climbed inside his Porsche and started the engine. His house was on the base, and he'd be home within five minutes.
Before long, however, it was Catherine who dominated his thoughts again. He wasn't overly thrilled with the subject matter, but he was too damn tired to fight himself over it. When he arrived home, his ten-year-old daughter, Kelly, would keep him occupied. For once he was going to indulge himself and let his thoughts wander where they would. Besides, he was curious to analyze his complex reaction to Catherine Fredrickson.
Not that it was important. Not that he needed to know anything more about her than he already did. He was simply inquisitive. He supposed when it came right down to it, he didn't feel one way or the other about her.
No, that wasn't true, either. She intrigued him. He didn't like it. He didn't understand it. He wished he could put his finger on exactly what it was about her that fascinated him so much. Until that afternoon, he hadn't even been aware of it.
She wasn't that much different than the other Navy women he'd worked with over the years. Not true, he contradicted himself. She had a scrubbed-clean look about her, a gentleness, a gracefulness of heart and manner that piqued him.
Another thing he'd learned about her this evening. By heaven that woman was builheaded. He'd never seen anyone run with cursed stubbornness the way she had. It wasn't until it had started to rain that Royce recognized the unspoken challenge she'd issued. Absorbed in his thoughts, he hadn't noticed she was on the track until she'd zoomed past him and then smugly tossed a look over her shoulder as if to announce she'd won. Hell, he hadn't even realized they were in a race.
As if that wasn't enough, she wouldn't stop. They both had reached their physical limits, and still that little spitfire continued and would have, Royce was convinced, until she dropped.
He pulled into the driveway and cut the engine. His hands remained on the steering wheel as a slow smile spread across his features. Woman, he mused, thy name is pride.
The drape parted in the living room, Kelly's head peeked out. Just the way the drape was tossed back into place told him the ten-year-old was angry. Damn, Royce wondered, what the hell had he done this time?
Kelly usually ran outside to greet him. Not tonight. Whatever it was must have been a doozy. His daughter could be more stubborn than a Tennessee mule. This must be his day for clashing with obstinate women.
Chapter Two
Fresh from the shower, Catherine dressed in a warm robe, and wrapped her hair in a thick towel. She sat in the living room, her feet propped against the coffee table with Sambo nestled contentedly in her lap.
Sipping from a cup of herbal tea, Catherine mulled over the events of the day. A reluctant smile slowly eased its way across her face. Her dislike for Royce Nyland didn't go quite as deep as it had before their small confrontation on the racetrack. The man wasn't ever going to win any personality awards, that was for sure, but she felt a grudging respect for him.
Sambo purred and stretched his furry legs, his claws digging deep into the thick robe. Catherine stroked her pet, letting the long black tail slip through her fingers as she continued to mull over the time she and Royce had shared the track. The realization that she actually enjoyed their silent battle of wills warmed her from the inside out. For some unknown reason, she'd managed to amuse him. Because of the dark, Catherine hadn't been able to witness his stern features relax into a smile. She would have liked to have seen that, taken a picture to remind her that the man could smile.
Her stomach growled, and Catherine briefly wondered what was stashed in her freezer. Hopefully something would magically appear that she could toss in the microwave. She definitely wasn't in the mood to cook.
On her way into the kitchen, she paused in front of the photograph that rested on the fireplace mantel. The man staring back at her had deep brown eyes that were alive with warmth, wit and character.
Catherine's eyes.
He was handsome, so handsome that she often stared at the picture, regretting the fact she had never been given the chance to know him. She'd been only three when her father had been shipped to Vietnam, five when he'd been listed as Missing in Action. Often she'd reached back as far as her memory would take her to snatch hold of something that would help her remember him, but each time she was left to deal with frustration and disappointment.
The man in the photo was young, far too young to have his life snuffed out. No one would ever know how he'd died or even when. All Catherine's family had been told was that his Navy jet had gone down over a Vietcong infested jungle. They never were to know if he survived the crash or had been taken prisoner. Those, like so many other details of his life and death, had been left to her imagination.
Catherine's mother, a corporate attorney, had never remarried. Marilyn Fredrickson wasn't bitter, nor was she angry. She was far too practical to allow such negative emotions to taint her life.
Like a true Navy wife, she'd silently endured the long years of the cruel unknowns, refusing to be defeated by the helplessness of frustration. When her husband's remains had been returned to the States, she'd stood proud and strong as he was laid to rest with full military honors.