"Besides," she continued despite the fact that his gaze was locked on her chest, "That car's been there since yesterday morning. Hasn't moved. I don't know how a forensic scientist can be so unobservant. Or colorblind."
"You left with Striker."
"I went to the post office to mail a letter after the party. I presume Ian went home. I have not seen him since we said good night in the parking lot and drove off in different directions."
He wondered if they'd kissed. The thought infuriated him, but not as much as he'd infuriate Caroline if he asked. Mick lowered his head and tried to sound properly repentant. "I owe you an apology. I'm sorry." He looked up with the grin that had never failed him before. Not so this time.
"Apology accepted." She crossed the room, passing close enough that he caught the fresh scent of soap mingled with jasmine and bath powder. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his slacks to keep from snatching her wrist. Caroline strode to the front door, gripped the handle, and turned to him. "It's late. Please go home." Mick intended to leave, but his wounded pride stopped him. He'd stay until she confessed that she would rather have left with him. Feet firmly planted inside the threshold, he said, "It's not too late for a wee brandy. Might help you sleep."
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She shook her head. "I have no trouble sleeping, and you've had too much to drink already." He leaned against the doorway, his spirits buoyed. She hadn't shouted, "Get out!" yet.
"Some coffee then?" His right hand had somehow meandered out of his pocket and rested on her forearm. She didn't swat it.
"Sorry, don't have any."
He saw her watching his hand, but not pulling back. In fact, he felt goosebumps rising beneath his fingertips.
"Tea?" Boldly, he slid his hand to her shoulder and traced the outline of her jaw with his forefinger.
"Nope." The hint of a shiver belied her negative response. Neither said anything. Mick had never seen lips so inviting, so ready to be kissed. He brushed her lower lip with his thumb. She was holding her breath, and her lids were lowering. Saints be praised, she wanted to be kissed as much as he wanted to kiss her.
Cradling her face tenderly, he lowered his mouth toward hers. Bliss was inches away. KABOOM. Caroline pushed his hands away and propelled him backward until he slammed into the doorframe.
"Mick Mahoney, you are a piece of work," she cried. "You smell like a brewery and you're acting like an oaf." Flamin' hell, she'd been testing him, to see how far he'd go.
"I don't have any soda, either." She pointed to his door.
"Go home!"
He tried one last boyishly charming grin. "Fruit juice?" 95
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"Oh for heaven's sake!" She spun on her heels and headed for the kitchen. She returned in a second, carrying a quartsized jug of orange juice that she smashed into his belly. "Get out!"
You win some, you lose some. But at least he hadn't lost to Striker Foy. "You're right, I'm sorry." He held the orange juice between them. "Sleep tight, lass," he said as she pushed him farther into the hallway. "Don't let the bed bugs bite." His good wishes were lost. She slammed and locked the door behind him.
* * * *
BZZZZT. BZZZZT. BZZZZT.
Caroline's eyelids flew open. Still disoriented from a heavy sleep, she didn't recognize her surroundings at first or the annoying sound filtering into her bedroom.
Bzzt-bzzt-bzzt. Bzzzzt!
Someone was ringing a doorbell. Her doorbell. She flopped back down on her pillow and covered her eyes with the palm of her hand. "It's Saturday," she said in a voice somewhere between a groan and a whine. "It's only seven o'clock."
Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzt!
"Knock it off, would you?" She threw back the covers and slipped her feet into a pair of shower thongs. "I'm coming, I'm coming." She swept the hair back from her face and savagely yanked on the doorknob. "WHAT DO YOU WANT?!" No one was there.
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She saw that Mick's apartment door stood open wide with carefully arranged breakfast treats spanning the distance between their two flats.
She stooped and picked up the wicker basket nearest her door. She unwrapped the loosely tied, bright green linen napkin inside it. The fragrance of freshly baked cranberry muffins wafted up at her before she parted the pleats. Next, she found a carton of chilled fresh eggs and in front of that, a silver tray with a matching sugar bowl and creamer. A tray of jams and preserves stood an inch or two outside his doorway, and inside, a pitcher of orange juice she suspected might belong to her.
Oh ... my ... gosh. A road to breakfast. So taken by the charming gesture, she didn't register the footsteps quietly climbing the stairs. She felt a pair of warm, strong hands on her shoulders and realized Mick stood behind her. As he bent close, she felt his breath on a wisp of hair that curled around her ear and hoped he didn't sense the shivers racing through her.
"Good mornin', darlin'," he drawled and waved a little white flag on a stick. "It's not much in the way of reparations, but if you'll forgive me for last night, I'll cook you the best breakfast you've ever had."
While he spoke, he pulled her closer, or maybe she'd wantonly moved back against him. Little separated them, only the thin cotton of her nightshirt and the rough denim of his jeans. Caroline covered her heart with her hand afraid he might hear it thumping in double time.
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Since last night, when he'd cradled her cheek with his palm and run his thumb tenderly across her mouth, she knew she wanted to stand like this, exploring the length of him with her body.
Until the practical part of her mind started waving a flag, too, one ten times the size of Mick's and as red as a strawberry at harvest. Get out, get out now! it warned her. This man could be your brother!
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Chapter Eight
ONE MOMENT CAROLINE leaned against Mick, pliant and warm, her hair seductively tousled like she'd just risen from a night of lovemaking. The next, she went rigid and jumped away from him so quickly, he nearly teetered forward.
"What ... what's wrong?" Was she still angry about last night? "I know I acted like a fool." She shook her head no but thrust out both hands in a gesture meant to stop him from taking another step closer.
"Caroline, if I've done something to offend you, I'm—"
"Oh, no, Mick, it's not you." A blush crawled up that lovely dancer's neck. Caroline looked everywhere, except into his eyes then she rubbed her forearms as if a chill had coursed through her, although the hallway was warm from the summer morning. "I thought of something I'd forgotten to take care of," she said at last.
"You don't have time for breakfast?" He watched her closely, seeing indecision and hesitation. Then as quickly as if a hypnotist had snapped his fingers and released her from a trance, she relaxed and gave him a dazzling smile. "To heck with what I had to do," she said with a rich laugh. "Of course I have time for breakfast." Surprising him even more, she took both of his hands in hers. "In fact, I have all day."
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mouth. He knew he had to move slowly. If an invitation to breakfast caused her such indecision, he'd likely never see her again if he gave in to his fondest desire.
"Terrific. Coffee's ready, right this way."
"Not like this." She slipped her hands out of his. "Give me twenty minutes."
"I'll be waiting.
* * * *
"ONCE INSIDE HER apartment, Caroline closed the door, leaned her head against it, and wondered how much longer she could tempt fate without crossing the line. She'd never been so d
rawn to another man as she was to Mick. Last night, he'd almost kissed her. She knew it, and she'd wanted him to, although the frightening undercurrent that they might be related made her push him away.
She ran a hand through her tangled hair wondering how she'd ever resist the magnetism between them. It was so strong that she'd rushed to him the night he'd cried out for help. They'd known each other less than twenty-four hours, but she'd shot out of bed and knew exactly what to do. He'd clung to her, not as a lover, but as someone desperately seeking an anchor. That night, she was his anchor. It frightened her right down to her toes, as much as it thrilled her. Now she had to know, and could not forget why she'd accepted the assignment at ZyQyx in the first place. This was her journey of discovery. So far she'd stumbled on a tangled web of accusations for which she found no basis, a deep and abiding dislike and distrust between two of the principal 100
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players in this quasi-game—Mick and Ian—and a family that held such a natural attraction to her, she wanted to prove their kinship as much as she wanted to deny it.
"Heaven help me," she murmured. "I've got to find the answers and put my fears to rest. I've got to do it now." Before she and Mick did something unspeakable that went beyond forgiveness.
* * * *
IN LESS THAN half an hour, a renewed Caroline breezed across the hall. She was dressed in khaki jeans and a white oxford shirt open to the second button. She had to go into the office at some point today and wanted to look reasonably businesslike if she saw any of her colleagues. She wore two of her favorite gold chains around her neck, and one of the large novelty watches Travis had given her for Christmas. She completed the outfit with a pair of gold Native American earrings.
"Hello. Am I too early?" she called before stepping inside.
"Right on time." Mick answered from the kitchen. "Come on in. The maestro is almost ready to serve." Mick's apartment was similar to hers only bigger, and far more sparsely furnished. She remembered his description of his sisters' handiwork; frou-frou and frills. Like Ian's office, Mick decorated with a starkness that belied his playfulness. He had chosen heavy oak, hand-carved and polished to a high gloss, an opposition to Ian's choice of teak.
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The floors were made with oak planks, well maintained. In fact, Caroline noted, the entire apartment was far neater than she would have expected of any man. It wasn't close to the mess her brother made simply walking through a room. A narrow hallway led from the door to the living room, which was separated from the kitchen by a breakfast bar. Beyond the kitchen, built into the curve of a bay window, she saw a small breakfast table, only big enough for two. The window faced the mountains, and what she guessed was the ocean beyond. This morning, the table was covered with neatly stacked newspapers and file folders. Cheerful mats and cloth napkins were set side-by-side at the breakfast bar with plates and mugs of heavy crockery. The work of a skilled potter, and hand painted. She watched him, amazed. He should have awakened with the mother of all hangovers, not making a run at Martha Stewart.
Caroline groaned. She couldn't remember the last time she'd dragged out "the good stuff."
"We're still a minute or two away," Mick said. "Have a look around."
This is almost too easy. "Thanks." She turned her attention to the living room walls. To her left, she saw that three of the walls were lined with bookshelves filled with hardbound books, paperbacks, CDs, and DVDs The remaining wall was covered floor to ceiling with photographs. They drew her like kittens to milk.
"Are you a photographer, too? Or a collector?" Mick stood with his back to her, stirring something on the stove. "A little of both."
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He'd changed from jeans to a pair of tan shorts and a green pullover. She remembered from their meeting in the hallway that he wore jogging shoes and white athletic socks, although now the lower half of his body was hidden by the countertop. Muscles bulged in his forearms as he stirred and shook the contents in the pan. Whatever he was cooking smelled wonderful, but not nearly as wonderful as he looked from this angle.
Stop it! Not until you've solved the puzzle. She returned her attention to the wall. She had no trouble picking out photographs of the youngster Mick, or of Brian. From facial similarities, posture and stance, she picked out their brother, Gabe, and twin sisters, Gabby and Mikey. She recognized Tony DeSantis, too, in a wedding photograph where he'd stood beaming while he held the hand of his lovely bride—Mick's mother—who carried a glorious bouquet of white calla lilies.
The Mahoney siblings lined up on either side of the wedding couple. Mick, tall and lanky stood next to his mother, then Gabe. Both tall for their ages, the boys had faces that showed they were still quite young, no more than eight or nine. Gabe smiled from ear to ear under a puddin' bowl haircut, but Mick scowled into the camera, displeased. On the other side of the groom, Mick's twin sisters, dressed identically, held hands. They were no more than four or five. Sitting in a stroller in front of the bride and groom was a pudgy toddler who could only be Brian.
"What a sourpuss." Caroline pointed at the pouting Mick.
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Mick didn't laugh. In a low, tight voice he said, "Not my finest hour."
Did she dare pursue it? Would he think her too curious and wonder why? Or had he given her a natural opening? She had to throw caution aside, or she'd never learn anything. Luckily, her gaze fell on a photo of Mick as an older teen. He stood with his arm around Tony, both of them laughing at something likely long forgotten. Caroline saw genuine warmth and love in the way Mick looked at the older man. "Your stepfather seems like a very nice man from these pictures."
"Tony? He's the best," Mick said. "Brian was only a couple of days old when our dad died. Tony raised him like his own. In fact, he raised all of us." Then, with a tinge of bitterness in his voice, added, "Even before my dad died." Oops. Maybe I've stumbled onto something more than I want to know. "Brian was such a little cutie," she said, glad she could find neutral ground again.
"Yeah, and a real pain in the butt." This time she heard affection in his voice. "Ready? I'm dishing out." That gave Caroline about sixty seconds to zip through the fifty-odd photographs that remained, and remember them until she had time to compare what she saw to the faces in her postcard. She was glancing swiftly from one side of the wall to the other when she happened on the picture of a teenaged girl that grabbed her and wouldn't let go. In the five-by-seven colored glossy, the girl looked back at her, her eyes challenging, her lips curved in a mischievous smile. She wore little make-up, but her spirit shined through her pale skin and transcended the single dimension of the snapshot. 104
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Bright red hair shooting out in all directions, and like Mick and Caroline, she had the same violet eyes and perfect white teeth. There was something so viscerally familiar about her, Caroline felt the breath seep out of her.
"That's Annie," Mick said.
Startled, Caroline stepped back from the wall. He'd snuck up behind her again.
"Jumpy, aren't you?"
She ignored the remark. "Who's Annie?"
"Sister Anne," he said. "She was eighteen in that picture, the day before she left for the convent."
"She was lovely."
"Still is. She's my best friend." Caroline couldn't tell the age of the photograph. "Did you grow up together?"
He shook his head. "I was ten when she left. I cursed God for months afterward." He grinned. "Good thing she was praying for me, eh?"
Caroline looked at him. He was staring at the photograph, but even his crooked smile could not hide the sadness and the loss he'd known so many years before.
"Is she part of your family?" Caroline sp
oke quietly. He sighed and clucked his tongue, like someone recalling a joke. "Yes and no. Mum and dad brought her back from Ireland after their honeymoon. She was six. I grew up thinking she was my sister. Sometimes Gabe and I called her our cousin, and sometimes our aunt. We've heard a dozen different stories about who she really is and how Sheila and 105
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Michael found her, but it doesn't make any difference. She's a Mahoney. That's all that matters."
Caroline rested her hand on Mick's arm. Her eyes misted and her heart ached to be a part of a family so wondrously close and dear. "You're very lucky, Mick. I always wanted a big family, but there's only my brother Travis and me." Mick covered her hand with his. "Family is everything. I'd lay down my life for any of them."A HALF AN HOUR later, Caroline placed her knife and fork on the edge of her plate and groaned. "I'm stuffed." But not too stuffed to finish the last bits of one of the most delicious cranberry muffins she'd ever eaten. She looked Mick square in the eye and said, "Is there anything you don't do well?"
Mick threw his head back and laughed. "Ask a couple of my clients. They'll be glad to chant a litany of my shortcomings."
"As a matter of fact, what do you do? I've seen all the letters after your name, but I'm not familiar with some of them."
"You're a Texan. Surely you've heard of Red Adair?"
"You don't have to be a Texan to know about a living legend. He's the preeminent expert on suppressing oil well fires and capping wild wells."
"Very good. You get an A in petroleum history."
"You're not going to tell me you're challenging Red Adair." He laughed again before scraping up the last of the muffin crumbs. "'Fraid not. I'm the guy who comes in after the fact to figure out what happened in the first place." She cocked her head to one side. "Really?" 106
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"My family has been in demolitions since a stray spark blew the first hole in one of our ancestors' caves. At the time my father died, the family had crews all over the world. After his ... after he died, they scaled back." How far would he take the story? To the curse?
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