Make love not war was the catch-cry of the 1960's and Caroline was slap bang in the middle of it.
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Make love, not war was the catchcry of the 1960’s. Against a background of anti-war demonstrations, hippies and free love, Caroline’s life is in turmoil. Her soldier brother is on his way to the jungles of Vietnam. She discovers she is pregnant with her wealthy boss’ baby, and her draft dodger friend is on the run and needs help.
Make Love Not War
Bryce Harrington cursed as an anti-war protester shoved a placard through his car window. Unwashed bloody hippies, disrupting a man going about his lawful business. It was 1966, for God’s sake. The government ought to lock up the lot of them.
“No conscripts for Vietnam!” a young woman screamed.
Bryce was tempted to slam his foot on the accelerator and scatter them all in his wake. He was going to be late, and he didn’t like tardiness. It showed a lack of discipline. Arriving at work, he parked the car, climbed out and swore. Some moronic protester had scratched the car door.
In the executive office, another shock awaited; a note from his secretary.
I’m sorry. Joan had written in her neat hand. Have gone home. Felt a migraine coming on.
He slammed the door and marched down the corridor to see Miss Bumpstead, head of the typing pool. What a shocker of a morning it had been. A bloody nightmare.
First, the stray puppy he had been feeding for more than a month had been run over by some creep who didn’t even have the decency to stop and check on the little mutt’s welfare, just left him lying on the road like a piece of garbage. The puppy was so severely injured he had to take the poor little thing to the vet to be put down.
Then he gets caught up in an anti-war demonstration. And now, to top it off, his secretary goes home and leaves him at the mercy of some giggling little girlie from the typing pool.
“Good morning, Miss Bumpstead.” Mustering all the will-power he possessed, he managed to keep the anger out of his voice. No point in getting the old dear offside. “My secretary’s gone home sick and I’ve several urgent letters to dictate, so I’ll need to borrow one of your girls.”
“Certainly.” She jumped to attention like a soldier on parade. “Right away, Mr. Harrington.”
“Thank you.” He forced a smile, hoping it didn’t look like a snarl. She had been employed by the company for years and deserved respect. He had always followed his father’s dictum: “Treat your elders with consideration, they’ve earned it.”
Caroline watched Bryce Harrington as he spoke to Miss Bumpstead. He always looked impressive, tungsten tough. Not pretty-boy handsome, but he had a strong, character-filled, no-nonsense face. His full, sensual mouth looked extremely kissable. What would it feel like being held in those strong arms? Having his hot lips pressed against hers? Butterflies fluttered around in the pit of her stomach. His gray eyes held the slightly jaded world-weariness of a man who worked and played hard.