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.

The only time Catherine could ever remember her mother weeping had been the day her father's casket had arrived at the airport. With a gentleness and a sweetness that impressed Catherine still, her mother had walked over to the flag-draped casket, rested her gloved hand at the head and brokenly whispered, "Welcome home, my love." Then she'd slumped to her knees and sobbed until she'd released a ten-year reservoir of submerged emotions.

Catherine had cried with her mother that day. But in death, as he had been in life, Andrew Warren Fredrickson remained a stranger.

In choosing to become a Navy attorney, Catherine had followed both her parents' footsteps. Being a part of the military had brought her as close as she was likely to get to understanding the man who had given her life.

Lulled by her thoughts, Catherine ran the tip of her finger along the top of the gold frame. "I wonder if you ever had to work with someone like Royce Nyland," she said softly.

She did that sometimes. Talked to the photograph as though she honestly expected her father to answer. She didn't, of course, but carrying on a onesided conversation with the man in the picture eased the ache in her heart at never having known him.

Sambo meowed loudly, announcing it was well past dinnertime, and Catherine had best do something quickly. The black feline waited impatiently in front of his bowl while Catherine brought out the pouch of soft cat food.

"Enjoy," she muttered, wincing as she bent over to fill the food dish. Holding her hand at the small of her back, Catherine cautiously straightened. Her pride had cost her more than she'd first realized.

"But, Dad, I've just got to have that jacket," Kelly announced as she carried her dinner plate over to the sink. She rinsed it off and set it in the dishwasher, a chore that went above and beyond her normal duties. As far as Royce was concerned, she was going to have to do a whole lot more than stack a few dishes to change his mind.

"You have a very nice jacket now," he reminded her, standing to pour himself a cup of coffee. He supposed he should be grateful she'd chosen to overlook the fact he was forty minutes later than he'd told her he would be. After her initial protest she'd been suspiciously forgiving. Now he knew why.

"But my jacket's from last year and it's really old and the sleeve has a little tear in it and no one is wearing fluorescent green anymore. I'll be the laughing stock of the entire school if I wear that old thing."

"That 'old thing' as you put it, will do nicely. The subject is closed, Kelly Lynn." Royce was determined not to give in this time. He was walking a fine line with his daughter as it was, and loomed dangerously close to overindulging her. It was easy to do. She was a sweet child, unselfish and gentle. Actually it was something of a wonder that Kelly should turn out to be such a considerate child. The ten-year-old had been raised by a succession of baby-sitters. From the time she was only a few weeks old, Kelly had been lackadaisically palmed off on others.

Sandy had only agreed to have one child, and she'd done so reluctantly six years into their marriage. Her career as a fashion buyer had dominated her life, so much so that Royce doubted that his wife had possessed a single mothering instinct. When she'd been killed in a freak auto accident, Royce had grieved for her loss, but their relationship had been dead for several years.

If Kelly had been shortchanged in the mother department, Royce wasn't convinced she'd done much better with him as a father. Heaven knew Royce's reputation was that of a hard-nosed bastard. But he was fair and everyone knew it. He did the best he could, but often wondered if that was good enough.

He loved Kelly and he wanted to do right by her.

"All the other girls in school have new jackets," she mumbled under her breath.

Royce ignored the comment and between sips of coffee placed the leftovers inside the refrigerator.

"I've already saved $6.53 from my allowance?" She made the statement into a question, seeking a response.

Royce returned the carton of milk to the shelf.

"Missy Gilbert said the jackets were going to be on sale at J. C. Penney and with next week's allowance I'd have almost one fourth of the total cost. I'm trying real hard on my arithmetic this year, you know."

"Good girl." The two of them had suffered through more than one go-round with fractions.

Kelly turned her big baby blues full force on him. "What about the jacket, Dad?"

Royce could feel himself giving in. This wasn't good. He should be a pillar of strength, a wall of granite. He'd already told her once the subject was closed. The jacket she had now was good enough. He remembered when they'd bought it last year. Royce had been appalled at the outrageous shade of putrid green, but Kelly had assured him it was perfect and she would wear it two or three years.

"Dad?" she asked ever so sweetly, the way she always did when she sensed he was weakening.

"I'll think about it."

"Thanks, Dad," she cried, rushing across the room and hugging his waist. "You're the greatest."

An odd sense of self-consciousness attacked Catherine when she went down to the track the following evening. As she suspected, Royce was there ahead of her, running laps, as were several other men.

Royce hadn't said more than a handful of words to her all day, which wasn't unusual. He was as polite and as cool as always. When he came into the office that morning, he'd glanced her way, and Catherine could have sworn he was looking straight through her. His hard blue eyes had passed over her without so much as a flicker of friendliness. If she were to take the time to analyze his look, she suspected it had been one of cool indifference. It wasn't that Catherine expected him to throw his arms around her and greet her like a long lost friend. On second thought, maybe that was the problem.