"I resented your mother, Callie," he interrupted, feeling icy-cold inside. "What I felt for you was a lot more complicated than that."
She gave him a surprised little smile. "But, I'm still my mother's daughter, right? Don't they say, look at the mother and you'll see the daughter in twenty years or so?"
His face hardened. "You'll never be like her. Not in your worst nightmares."
She sighed. "I wish I could be sure of that."
He felt like hitting something. "Do you know where she is?"
"Somewhere in Europe with her new husband, I suppose," she said indifferently. "Dad's lawyer heard from her year before last. She wanted a copy of the final divorce decree, because she was getting married again, to some British nobleman, the lawyer said."
He remembered his own mother, a gentle little brown-eyed woman with a ready smile and open arms. She'd died when he was ten, and from that day on, he and his father had been best friends. Until Anna showed up, with her introverted, nervous teenage daughter. The difference between Anna and his own mother was incredible. Anna was selfish, vain, greedy...he could have laid all seven deadly sins at her feet with ease. But Callie was nothing like her, except, perhaps, her exact opposite.
"You're the sort of woman who would love a big family," he murmured thoughtfully.
She laughed. "What do I know about families?" she responded. "I'd be terrified of bringing an innocent child into this sort of world, knowing what I know about the uncertainties of life."
He shoved his hands into his pockets. Children.
He'd never thought about them. But he could picture Callie with a baby in her arms, and it seemed perfectly natural. She'd had some bad breaks, but she'd love her own child. It was sad that she didn't want kids.
"Anyway, marriage is dead last on my list of things to do," she added, uncomfortable because he wasn't saying anything.
"That makes two of us," he murmured. It was the sort of thing he always said, but it didn't feel as comfortable suddenly as it used to. He wondered why.
She turned away from the porthole. "How long will it take us to get to your place?" she asked.
He shrugged. "About twenty more minutes, at this speed," he said, smiling. "I think you'll like it. It's old, and rambling, and it has a history. According to the legend, a local pirate owned it back in the eighteenth century. He kidnapped a highborn Spanish lady and married her out of hand. They had six children together and lived a long and happy life, or so the legend goes." He studied her curiously. "Isn't there Spanish in your ancestry somewhere?”
Her face closed up. "Don't ask me. My mother always said she descended from what they call 'black Irish,' from when the Spanish armada was shipwrecked off the coast of Ireland. I know her hair was jet-black when she was younger, and she has an olive complexion. But I don't really know her well enough to say whether or not it was the truth."
He bit off a comment on her mother's penchant for lying. "Your complexion isn't olive," he remarked quietly. "It's creamy. Soft."
He embarrassed her. She averted her eyes. "I'm just ordinary."
He shook his head. His eyes narrowed on her pretty bow of a mouth. "You always were unique, Callie." He hesitated. "Callie. What's it short for?" he asked, suddenly curious.
She drew in a slow breath. "Colleen," she replied reluctantly. "But nobody ever calls me that. It's been Callie since I was old enough to talk."
"Colleen what?"
"Colleen Mary," she replied.
He smiled. "Yes. That suits you."
He was acting very strangely. In fact, he had been ever since he rescued her. She wondered if he was still trying to take her mind off Lopez. If he was, it wasn't working. The nightmarish memories were too fresh to forget.
She looked at him worriedly. "Lopez will be looking for me," she said suddenly.
He tautened. "Let him look," he said shortly. "If he comes close enough to make a target, I'll solve all his problems. He isn't getting his hands on you again, Callie."
She relaxed a little. He sounded very confident. It made her feel better. She moved back into the center of the room, wrapping her arms around herself. "How can people like that exist in a civilized world?" she wanted to know.
"Because governments still can't fight that kind of wealth," he said bluntly. "Money and power make criminals too formidable. But we've got the Rico statutes which help us take away some of that illegal money," he added, "and we've got dedicated people enforcing the law. We win more than we lose these days."
"You sound like a government agent," she teased.
He chuckled. "I do, don't I? I spent several years being one. It sticks." He moved forward, taking his hands out of his pockets to wrap them gently around her upper arms. "I give you my word that I won't let Lopez get you. In case you were worrying about that."
She grimaced. "Does it show?"
"I don't know. Maybe I can read your mind these days," he added, trying to make light of it.
"You're sure? About Dad being safe, I mean?"
"I'm sure about Dad," he returned at once. "Gator may look dumb, but he's got a mind like a steel trap, and he's quick on the draw. Nobody's going to get past him-certainly nobody's going to get past him and Maddie at the same time."
"You like her a lot, I guess?"
He chuckled. "Yes, I do. She's hell on two legs, and one of the best scroungers I've ever had."
"What does Bojo do?"
He gave her a wary appraisal, and it seemed as if he didn't like the question. "Bojo is a small arms expert," he replied. "He also has relatives in most of the Muslim nations, so he's a great source of information as well. Peter, you met him on the plane, is new with the group. He's a linguist and he's able to pass for an Arab or an Israeli. He's usually undercover in any foreign operation we're hired to undertake. You haven't met Rodrigo yet-he was the pilot of the DC-3 we flew back to Miami. He does undercover work as well. Don, the blond copilot, is a small arms expert. We have another operative, Cord Romero, who does demolition work for us, but he had an accident and he's out of commission for a while."
"What you and your men do-it's dangerous work."
"Living is dangerous work," he said flatly. "I like the job. I don't have any plans to give it up."
Her eyebrows arched and her pale blue eyes twinkled. "My goodness, did I propose marriage just now and get instant amnesia afterward? Excuse me!"
He gaped at her. "Propose marriage...?"
She held up both hands. "Now, don't get ruffled. I understand how men feel about these things. I haven't asked you out, or sent you flowers, or even bought you a nice pair of earrings. Naturally you're miffed because I put the cart before the horse and asked you to give up an exciting job you love for marriage to a boring paralegal."
He blinked. "Callie?" he murmured, obviously fearing for her sanity.
"We'll just forget the proposal," she offered generously.
"You didn't propose!" he gritted.
"See? You've already forgotten. Isn't that just like a man?" she muttered, as she went back to the sofa and sat down. "Now you'll pout for an hour because I rejected you."
He burst out laughing when he realized what she was doing. It took the tension away from their earlier discussion and brought them back to normal. He dropped down into an armchair across from her and folded his arms over his chest.
"Just when I think I've got you figured out, you throw me another curve," he said appreciatively.
"Believe me, if I didn't have a sense of humor, I'd already have smeared Mr. Kemp with honey and locked him in a closet with a grizzly bear."
"Ouch!"
"I thought you lived in Nassau?" She changed the subject.
He shrugged. "I did. This place came on the market three years ago and I bought it. I like the idea of having a defendable property. You'll see what I mean when we get there. It's like a walled city."
"I'll bet there are lots of flowers," she murmured hopefully.
"Millions," he confirmed. "Hibiscus and
orchids and bougainvillea. You'll love it." He smiled gently. "You were always planting things when I lived at home."
"I didn't think you noticed anything I did," she replied before she thought.
He watched her quietly. "Your mother spent most of that time ordering you around," he recalled. "If she wanted a soft drink, or a scarf, or a sandwich, she always sent you after it. I don't recall that she ever touched a vacuum cleaner or a frying pan the whole time she was around."
"I learned to cook in the last foster home I stayed in," she said with a smile. "It was the best of the lot. Mrs. Toms liked me. She had five little kids and she had arthritis real bad. She was so sweet that it was a joy to help her. She was always surprised that anyone would want to do things for her."
"Most giving people are," he replied. "Ironically they're usually the last ones people give to."
"That's true."
"What else did she teach you?" he asked.
"How to crochet," she recalled. She sighed. "I can't make sweaters and stuff, but I taught myself how to make hats. I give them to children and old people in our neighborhood. I work on them when I'm waiting for appointments with Dad. I get through a lot."
It was another reminder that she was taking care of his father, something he should have been doing himself-something he would be doing, if Callie's mother hadn't made it impossible for him to be near his parent.
"You're still bitter about Dad," she said, surprising him. "I can tell. You get this terrible haunted look in your eyes when I talk about him."
It surprised him that at her age she could read him so well, when his own men couldn't. He wasn't sure he liked it.
"I miss him," he confessed gruffly. "I'm sorry he won't let me make peace."
She gaped at him. "Whoever told you that?"
He hesitated. "I haven't tried to talk to him in years. So I phoned him a few days ago, before you were kidnapped. He listened for a minute and hung up without saying a word."
"What day was it?"
"It was Saturday. What difference does that make?"
"What time was it?" she repeated.
"Noon."
She smiled gently. "I go to get groceries at noon on Saturdays, because Mrs. Ruiz, who lives next door, comes home for lunch and makes it for herself and Dad and stays with him while I'm away."
"So?"
"So, Mrs. Ruiz doesn't speak English yet, she's still learning. The telephone inhibits her. She'll answer it, but if it's not me, she'll put it right down again." She smiled. "That's why I asked when you called."
"Then, Dad might talk to me, if I tried again," he said after a minute.
"Micah, he loves you," she said softly. "You're the only child he has. Of course he'll talk to you. He doesn't know what really happened with my mother, no more than I did, until you told me the truth. But he realizes now that if it hadn't been you, it would have been some other younger man. He said that, after the divorce was final, she even told him so."
"He didn't try to get in touch with me."
"He was upset for a long time after it happened. So was I. We blamed you both. But that's in the past. He'd love to hear from you now," she assured him. "He didn't think you'd want to talk to him, after so much time had passed and after what he'd said to you. He feels bad about that."
He leaned forward. "If that's so, when he had the heart attack, why wasn't I told?"
"I called the only number I had for you," she said. "I never got an answer. The hospital said they'd try to track you down, but I guess they didn't."
Could it really be that simple? he wondered. "That was at the old house, in Nassau. It was disconnected three years ago. The number I have now is unlisted."
"Oh."
"Why didn't you ask Eb Scott or Cy Parks?"
"I don't know them," she said hesitantly. "And until very recently, when this Lopez thing made the headlines, I didn't know they were mercenaries." She averted her eyes. "I knew you were acquainted with them, but I certainly didn't know that you were one of them."
He took a slow breath. No, he remembered, she didn't know. He'd never shared that bit of information with either her or Jack Steele.
"I wrote to you, too, about the heart attack, at the last address you left us."
"That would have been forwarded. I never got it."
"I sent it," she said.
"I'm not doubting that you did. I'm telling you that it never got to me."
"I'm really sorry," she told him. "I did try, even if it doesn't look like it. I always hoped that you'd eventually phone someone and I'd be able to contact you. When you didn't, well, I guess Dad and I both figured that you weren't interested in what happened back here. And he did say that he'd been very cruel in what he said to you when you left."
"He was. But I understood," he added.
She smiled sadly. "He loves you. When this is over, you should make peace with him. I think you'll find that he'll more than meet you halfway. He's missed you terribly."
"I've missed him, too." He could have added that he'd missed her as well, but she wasn't likely to believe him.
He started to speak, but he felt the boat slowing. He smiled. "We must be coming up to the pier. Come on. It will be nice to have a comfortable bed to sleep in tonight."
She nodded, and followed him up to the deck.
Her eyes caught sight of the house, on a small rise in the distance, long and low and lighted. She could see arches and flowers, even in the darkness, because of the solar-powered lights that lined the walkway from the pier up to the walled estate. She caught her breath. It was like a house she'd once seen in a magazine and daydreamed about as a child. She had the oddest feeling that she was coming home...
Chapter Six
What do you think?" Micah asked as he helped her onto the ramp that led down to the pier.
"It's beautiful," she said honestly. "I expect it's even more impressive in the daylight."
"It is." He hesitated, turning back toward the men who were still on the boat. "Bojo! Make sure we've got at least two guards on the boat before you come up to the house," he called to his associate, who grinned and replied that he would. "Peter can help you," he added involuntarily.
Callie didn't seem to notice that he'd jettisoned both men who'd been friendly with her. Micah did. He didn't like the idea of his men getting close to her. It wasn't jealousy. Of course it wasn't. He was...protecting her from complications.
She looked around as they went up the wide graveled path to the house, frowning as she became aware of odd noises. "What's that sound?" she asked Micah.
He smiled lazily. "My early warning radar."
"Huh?"
He chuckled. "I keep a flock of geese," he explained, nodding toward a fenced area where a group of big white birds walked around and swam in a huge pool of water. "Believe it or not, they're better than guard dogs."
"Wouldn't a guard dog or two be a better idea?"
"Nope. I've got a Mac inside."
Before she could ask any more questions, the solid wood front door opened and a tall, imposing man in khakis with gray-sprinkled black wavy hair stood in their path. He was holding an automatic weapon in one big hand.
"Welcome home, boss," he said in deep, crisply accented British. He grinned briefly and raised two bushy eyebrows at the sight of Callie. "Got her, did you?"
"Got her, and with no casualties," Micah replied, returning the grin. "How's it going, Mac?"
"No worries. But it'll rain soon." He shifted his weight, grimacing a little.
"At least you're wearing the prosthesis, now," Micah muttered as he herded Callie into the house.
Mac rubbed his hip after he closed the door and followed them. "Damned thing feels funny," he said. "And I can't run." He glowered at Micah as if the whole thing was his fault
"Hey," Micah told him, "didn't I say 'duck'? In fact, didn't I say it twice?"
"You said it, but I had my earphones in. “
"Excuses, excuses. We even took up a collection fo
r your funeral, then you had to go mess everything up by living!" Micah grumbled.
"Oh, sure, after you lot had divided up all my possessions! Bojo's still got my favorite shirt and he won't give it back! And he doesn't even wear shirts!"
"He's using it to polish his gun," Micah explained. "Says it's the best shine he's ever put on it."
Callie was openly gaping at them. Micah's black eyes twinkled. "We're joking," he told her gently. "It's the way we let off steam, so that we don't get bogged down in worry. What we do is hard work, and dangerous. We have to have safety valves."
"I'll blow Bojo's safety valve for him if he doesn't give back my shirt!" Mac assured his boss. "And you haven't even introduced us."
Callie smiled and held out her hand. "Hi! I'm Callie Kirby."
"I'm MacPherson," he replied, shaking it. "I took a mortar hit on our last mission, so I've got KP until I get used to this damned prosthesis," he added, lifting his right leg and grimacing.
"You'd better get used to it pretty soon, or you're going to be permanent in that kitchen," Micah assured him. "Now I'd like to get Callie settled. She's been through a lot."
The other man became somber all at once. "She's not what I expected," Mac said reluctantly as he studied her.
"I can imagine," she said with a sad little smile. "You were expecting a woman who was blond and as good-looking as Micah. I know I don't look like him..."
Before she could add that they weren't related, the older man interrupted her. "That isn't what I meant," Mac replied at once.
Books By Diana Palmer Page 281
