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Carla was as interested in his answer to her parents. “Tonight. I’d like to stay longer, but I’m on duty tomorrow morning.”
“Carla said that you two met in Mazatlán.”
“Yes, the first day she arrived.” Philip looked at Carla, and his dark eyes flickered with barely concealed amusement.
Her eyes widened, silently warning him not to mention how they’d met. Then, flustered, she cleared her throat and said, “Philip helped me out with my Spanish.”
“You speak Spanish?” Joe asked, but his narrowed gaze studied Carla. Her father was too observant not to recognize that there was a lot going unsaid about her meeting with Philip. Fortunately, he decided not to pursue the subject.
Rachel glanced at her gold wristwatch. “Excuse me a minute.”
“Can I help, Mom?” Carla asked, and uncrossed her long legs.
“No, everything’s ready, I just want to check the corn. Your father’s barbecuing chicken tonight.”
“You’re in for a treat,” Carla told Philip proudly. “I’ve been telling Dad for years that when he retires he should open a restaurant. He makes a barbecue sauce that’s out of this world.”
“It’s an old family recipe that’s been handed down for generations.”
“He got it out of a Betty Crocker cookbook,” Carla whispered, grinning. Then, before her father could open his mouth, she stood. “I’ll see what I can do to give Mom a hand.” Although her mother had refused her offer, there was undoubtedly something she could do to help.
Rachel was taking a large bowl of potato salad from the refrigerator when Carla came through the swinging kitchen doors. “I like your young man,” she announced without preamble.
Carla couldn’t hold her mother’s gaze. She should have been surprised; Rachel had disapproved of most of the men Carla dated. Her excuses were usually lame ones—this boy was careless; another boy was lazy. By the time Carla moved out, she had stopped introducing her dates to her parents. Somehow, though, she’d known her mother would approve of Philip.
“He’s clean-cut, polite, and he has a nice smile.”
Carla bit into a sweet pickle from the relish tray. “And his eyes are the most incredible gray. Did you notice that?” Naturally, they wouldn’t discuss any of the important aspects of her relationship with Philip.
“You two make a nice couple.”
“Thank you,” Carla answered with a hint of impatience. She opened the silverware drawer and counted out forks and spoons. “I’ll set the table.”
Philip was holding a beer, watching her father baste the chicken with a thick coating of pungent sauce, when Carla joined them on the sunny patio. He slipped an arm over her shoulders. His thumb made lazy, sensuous forays at the base of her neck.
Annoyed, she shrugged, and Philip dropped his hand to her waist. She didn’t want him to make this kind of blanket statement to her family about their relationship. He was serious about her, but she had yet to deal with her feelings about him. When she stepped free of his hold, Philip firmly but gently cupped her shoulder.
“Philip,” she said in an irritated whisper. “Please don’t.”
His eyes sparkled as he leaned toward her. “I told your father outright that I’m going to marry you.”
“You didn’t!” she cried in angry frustration.
Joe turned aside from the barbecue. “Hand me a spoon, would you, Carla?” he requested, and his gaze followed her as she moved to the picnic table and brought back a spoon. “Problems, Princess?”
“No.” She shook her head, the red curls bouncing with the action. “I’m just sorry that Philip made it look like we’re more serious than we are.”
“He was rather forthright in his feelings.”
Carla swallowed. “I know.”
“But aren’t you sure?”
“I won’t marry a cop.” Years of self-discipline masked any physical reaction from her father.
“I can’t say I blame you for that,” he said after a long moment. Some of the brightness faded from his eyes as he concentrated on his task.
“I love you, Dad, you know that. But I won’t live the life Mom has.”
