A Texas Soldier's Family

It was too bad he wasn’t in the market for a high-maintenance, high-powered career woman.

“So what do you do for a living?” he asked, after the flight attendant had come by to deliver bowls of warmed nuts and take their drink orders. Milk for her, coffee for him.

She picked out an almond. Then a pecan. “I’m in scandal management.”

Okay, he could see that.

She seemed like the type who could take a highly emotional, probably volatile situation and boil it down to something manageable. “I recently started my own firm.” She reached into a pocket of her carryall and plucked out a business card. Winslow Strategies. Crisis Management by the Very Best. It had her name featured prominently, printed in the same memorable green as her eyes, and a Dallas address.

He started to hand it back. She gestured for him to keep it, so he slipped it into the pocket of his shirt. “Business good?”

She gestured affably, looking reluctant to be too specific. “There’s always someone in trouble.”

I’ll bet. “But to have to hire someone to get yourself out of it?” He couldn’t keep the contempt from his voice.

“People hire lawyers all the time when they find themselves in a tight spot.”

Imagining that line worked on a lot of very wealthy people, he sipped his coffee. “Not the same thing.”

She turned slightly toward him, tilting her head. “It sort of is,” she said, her voice a little too tight. “Words can hurt. Or mislead. Or falsely indict. So can actions.” She paused to sip her milk and let her words sink in, then set her glass down on the tray. “It’s important when in the midst of a potentially life-altering, and especially life-damaging event, to have someone on your side who isn’t emotionally involved, calling the shots and orchestrating everything behind the scenes.”

Her exceptional calmness rankled; he couldn’t say why. “Creating a publicly acceptable narrative,” he reiterated.

She lifted a delicate hand, gesturing amiably. “I prefer to think of it as a compelling explanation that will allow others to empathize with you. And, if not exactly approve of or condone, at least understand.”

“And therefore let your client off the hook,” he said grimly, reflecting on another time. Another situation. And another woman whose actions he resented to this day. “Whether they deserve to be spared any accountability for what they’ve done or not.”

Taken aback, Hope Winslow squinted at him. “Are you speaking personally?”

Hell, yes, it had been personal! Being cheated on and then backed into a corner always was. Not that he regretted protecting the innocent bystanders in the situation. They’d done nothing to deserve having their names dragged through the mud.

“I’m guessing that’s a yes,” she said.

The silence stretched between them, awkward now. She continued to look him up and down, asking finally, “Are you always this black and white in your thinking, Captain Lockhart?”

His turn to shrug. He finished what was left of his coffee. “About some things, yeah.” He set the cup down with a thud. The flight attendant appeared with a refill.

When they were alone again, Hope continued curiously, “Is that why you chose the military as a career?”

It was part of it. The rest was more personal. “Both my grandfathers served our country.” His dad had passed on the opportunity. He and one of his four siblings had not.

“And...?” she prodded.

He exhaled, not above admitting that honor was everything to him. “There’s not a lot of room for error—or gray areas—in the military. It’s either right or it’s wrong.” Simple. Basic. Necessary. Unlike the way he’d grown up.

She stared at him. “And you think what I do is wrong.”

“I wouldn’t have put it that way,” Garrett said.

A delicate pale brow arched. “But you think it, don’t you?”

Wishing she hadn’t put him on the spot, he returned her sharp, assessing gaze. “You’re right. I do.”

“Well, that’s too bad, Captain.” Hope Winslow took a deep breath that lifted her opulent breasts. “Because your mother, Lucille Lockhart, has hired me to represent your entire family, as well as the Lockhart Foundation.”

He took a moment to let the blonde’s announcement sink in. Feeling as if he had just taken a sucker punch to the gut, he grumbled, “So the way you kept checking me out before we boarded, the fact that we’re both seated in first class on this flight, side by side, was no accident.”

“Lucille said you’d be difficult. I needed to talk with you before we landed and I wanted to get started early. And to that end...”

She finished her milk, put her tray away, retrieved her carryall from beneath the seat and took out a computer tablet. She brought up a screen titled Talking Points for Lockhart Foundation Crisis and set it in front of him. “I want you to memorize these.”

One hand on the cup, lest it spill, he stared at her. “You have got to be kidding me.”

The hell of it was, she wasn’t. “There’s a press conference later today,” she informed him crisply, suddenly all business. “We need you to be ready.”

This was like a replay of his past, only in a more formal venue. He hadn’t played those games then, and he certainly wasn’t getting sucked into them now. “No.”

Hope leaned closer, her green eyes narrowing. “You have to be there.” Her tone said the request was nonnegotiable.

His mood had been grim when he got on the plane. It was fire and brimstone now. No wonder his mother hadn’t wanted to be specific when she’d sent out that vague but somewhat hysterical SOS and let him know he was needed in Dallas ASAP.

He worked his jaw back and forth. “Why? I don’t have anything to do with the family charity.”

“You’re on the board of directors.”

Which basically did nothing but meet a couple times a year and green light—by voice vote—everything the CEO and CFO requested. “So are my mother and all my siblings.”

“All of whom have been asked to participate and follow the plan.” Hope paused, even more purposefully. “Your mother needs you to stand beside her.”

Garrett imagined that was so. Lucille had been vulnerable since his dad’s death. Knowing how much his parents had loved each other, that they’d been together for over forty years, he imagined the loss his mom felt was even more palpable than his own.

But there were limits as to what he would do. In this situation or any other. “And I will,” he promised tautly. “Just not like a puppet on a string. And certainly not in any scripted way in front of any microphones.”

* * *

ONE LOOK AT the dark expression on Garrett’s face told Hope there was no convincing him otherwise. Not while they were on the plane, anyway.

So she remained quiet during the descent. Thinking.

Strategizing.

By the time the aircraft landed in Dallas, she knew what she had to do.

She waited for him to catch up after they’d left the Jetway and walked out into the terminal, dragging her overnight bag behind her. “Your mother is sending a limo for us.”

He slung his duffel over one brawny shoulder. “Thanks. I’ll find my own way home.” He turned in the direction of the rental cars.

Hope rushed to catch up, her long strides no match for his. “She’s expecting us at the foundation office downtown.”