“No armed guards at the gate?” Jack asked dryly.
Her eyes gleamed with humor. He liked that, liked that she was able to laugh at herself. “The only communities in Montana with armed guards are survivalist compounds. Even my father drew the line at my living in one of those. Please.” She stepped forward briskly, like a White House tour guide. “Make yourself at home.”
He grimaced. “Right.”
Home had never looked like this.
It wasn’t that the Daltons didn’t have money. Jonathan Dalton may have been a lousy husband and father, but he was a great provider. His wife, Clara, had filled her empty days with shopping, her empty home with velvet sofas and walnut tables and china doodads.
Jack parked his seabag at the bottom of the curving staircase and pivoted slowly, taking in Christina’s wide-open living room: cordovan leather couches and deco lamps, bleached wood floors and rich carpets. Paintings hung like jewels on the high white walls. He didn’t know a whole lot about art, but that one over the fireplace, all curving blues and greens, looked like a Chagall. And he’d bet the ranch it wasn’t a copy.
Oh, yeah. Out of his league and in over his head. He stuck his hands in his pockets.
“I’m sorry if it’s not…” Christina hesitated. “I don’t have time to spend on housekeeping. And my cleaning service won’t be in until Monday.”
She wasn’t serious. Was she? What did she think—that he was going to order her to stand inspection?
“I left the white gloves behind with the uniform, princess. But if you’re looking for compliments, you’ve got a really nice place here. Classy. You want me to take off my shoes?”
She tipped her chin up. “Of course not. I…the phone’s in the kitchen,” she said, and escaped across the Oriental carpet.
The red sun bled through the tall windows on either side of the fireplace. Jack glanced out on a tumble of rocks and plants. Plenty of cover for a sniper there. He wondered if her glass was bulletproof.
“Can I get you something to drink?” she asked.
“Yeah. Thanks.”
“Whiskey? Wine? Tea?”
He cradled the receiver between his neck and shoulder, fishing in his wallet for his father’s number. “Got any beer?”
“I’m sorry. No.”
For a princess, she sure was quick to apologize. He shook his head. “Never mind. Water is fine.”
He listened to the phone ring on the other end of the line.
And ring. Jonathan Dalton wasn’t home. Well, that figured. For sixteen years, the old man had never been around when Jack wanted him. Of course, a couple of months after Jack’s mother died, the major had decided to take a stab at fatherhood, and that had been even worse.
Jack depressed the phone hook and dialed again, aware of Christina pulling glasses from the cupboard behind him.
“Global Enterprises,” the receptionist chirped. “How may I direct your call?”
“Jonathan Dalton, please.”
“May I tell him who’s calling?”
“Jack Dalton.”
“Who?”
He heard his teeth snap together. “His son.”
Christina put his water on the counter by his hand. Her warm fingers left imprints on the cold glass. He nodded thanks and picked it up as a different female voice came on the line.
“Mr. Dalton? This is Elizabeth Landry, your father’s executive assistant. He’s not available to take your call right now. May I help you?”
Jack put the water down untasted. “No. Thanks. Tell him he can reach me at this number, please.” He rattled off the number on Christina’s phone. “Got that? Yeah. Anytime tonight. Thanks.” He hung up the phone and found Christina watching him, her mermaid hair and wide blue eyes like something out of a sailor’s fantasy.
His fantasies. Smooth, dark water around long, pale thighs…
Don’t go there, Flash.
“I can’t reach the old man. Looks like we’ll have to wait for him to call us.”
“Do you know when he’ll be back?”
“No.” He couldn’t decipher the faint question in her eyes. Surprise? Disapproval? “We’re not exactly close,” he said.
“Why is that?”
He didn’t want to go into it. Not ever, and especially not with Princess Perfect here. But given that he’d just been drooling over the illustrated story of her life, it seemed only fair to give her a quick and dirty rundown on The Daltons: the Dysfunctional Years.
“When my father decided he’d finally had enough of selling his services to the highest bidder, I was sixteen years old and full of myself. I was used to being the man of the house. Nobody was going to tell me what to do, especially not some guy I didn’t set eyes on more than once a year. We had a couple of years with him playing the heavy father and me acting like the jerk son before he decided to ship me off to West Point and let the army turn me into an officer and a gentleman.”
She regarded him steadily. Her interest warmed him, made him awkward. “And was your army up for this enormous task?”
He shrugged. “We’ll never know. I ran off and enlisted in the navy.”
“Your father—he was upset?”
“He was a hypocrite. He was enlisted. Went mustang in Korea.”
Her blond brows drew together. “What does that mean? ‘Mustang’?”
“It’s a term for an enlisted man who comes up through the ranks and makes the jump to officer. It doesn’t happen often.”
“And because he did it, you wanted to do the same. You wanted to make him proud of you.”
Jack shrugged uncomfortably. “It wasn’t that. I just didn’t want him using his money, his influence, to get me an officer’s berth. I didn’t want what he could do for me.”
Christina smiled ruefully. “Yes. I understand. Still, to give up your chance for a college education…”
“When I was eighteen, my head so stuffed with big ideas, a college education would have been wasted on me.”
“Learning is never wasted,” she said firmly.
She would think that. She was a microbiologist. Microbial ecologist, he corrected himself. She probably had enough letters after her name to qualify as a government program.
“I went back for it six years later,” he said, surprising them both by his need to explain. “Night school. I had the discipline for it then.”
“You got your degree while you were a SEAL?”
The disbelief in her voice made him wince. He should have kept his trap shut. “It’s not that unusual. When you’re a SEAL, you’ve got to be the best.”
“You make me a little ashamed,” she said softly. “I never had to combine classes with work. All I’ve ever done is study.”
“Well, you must be good at it. Made good grades. Got a good job.”
“Yes.” She gave him a small, twisted smile that sneaked inside him. “I’m a much better scientist than I am a princess.”
Oh, no. He was not going to fall for that poor-little-princess routine. He was not going to fall for her. “What kind of cook are you?”
The