When Danger Calls (Blackthorne, Inc.)

by Terry Odell

  "Oh, dear."

  "Yeah. Oh, dear. Oh, motherfucking dear."

  The back door to the kitchen slammed shut. "Hi Mommy. Hi, Mr. Man. Do I get another dollar?" The kid barreled in, clutching Mr. Snuggles and wheeling a pink and blue overnight case.

  His face hot, Ryan reached for his wallet. "Good morning."

  The kitchen lights flashed off and on. He looked up at Frankie.

  "Lets Meg know she's inside," Frankie said. "Did you have fun, Molly?"

  "Mrs. Winthrop said to ask if I can go to the merry-go-round in Missoula. She said I was a good sleepover guest. I need to get a jacket because we're going to do a picnic. I promise I won't go close to any river. Is it okay? I told Mr. Snuggles he has to be good."

  "Let me call her first." Frankie bent to kiss her daughter, then went to the phone.

  The child stood at Ryan's side, and he handed her a dollar.

  "Thank you," she said, then peered under the table. "Is Wolf here?"

  "No," Ryan said. "He's at home taking care of my father today."

  "Okay." She went to her mother and leaned against her leg. Frankie's hand lowered and stroked the child's hair. An unexpected longing coursed through Ryan's chest. His throat tightened. He couldn't be getting Frankie's cold already. When he'd become a SEAL, he'd pushed aside all things domestic. Working for Blackthorne had intensified the need for detachment. Until now, he never thought he'd been lonely.

  Frankie kept her voice low, and Ryan shuffled through the papers. Moments later, she hung up and crouched to look her daughter in the eye. "It's okay for you to go. But I want you to try something for me, okay?" She grasped the child's hands.

  From the serious expression on the child's face, Ryan guessed this was another of their rituals. Frankie's tone, while not threatening, clearly said, You might not like this, but you're going to do it anyway.

  "I want you to have fun with Susie. But Mr. Snuggles has to stay home this time."

  The kid was quiet for a moment. She clutched the dog to her chest. Ryan braced himself for tears, or a tantrum. At the very least, he expected Frankie to reach for the timer.

  Raising the dog to eye level, the child said, "You have to stay here, Mr. Snuggles," her tone a perfect imitation of her mother's. "Like when I go to school. I'll come back and tell you all about the merry-go-round."

  She trotted over to the table and flopped the dog next to him. "You can borrow him if you want. I'm going on a picnic." Clunking her case behind her, she dashed from the room.

  Ryan realized he'd been holding his breath. Over a kid and a stuffed dog, for God's sake. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing out loud.

  "Did you brush your teeth after breakfast?" Frankie called toward Molly.

  "Yes," came the reply, uttered with five-year-old indignation.

  Frankie grinned and shook her head. "Can't help it. I'm a mom."

  Her words ratcheted through his insides. She sure as hell was. And he did not get involved with moms. Moms came with kids. Kids created problems. He pushed back from the table and refilled his coffee cup, disregarding the acid buildup in his belly.

  Frankie manipulated the papers in front of her. He took his seat and waited.

  "I think I'll have to talk to Mom," she said. "I don't know what she's told this guy. Maybe she can back out. You've got some time left, right?"

  "Yeah. A few weeks."

  "You said your father couldn't afford to buy the property. Could he handle paying a little more each month? Maybe some extra cash would be enough to make Mom change her mind."

  Her words neutralized some of the acid. "You think she would go for that?"

  "I have no idea. Until you showed up, I didn't even know she owned the land. But I can give it a try."

  In another whirlwind, the kid whooshed back, minus suitcase, dragging her jacket. She kissed Frankie, then darted around the table, stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek.

  "Bye, Mommy. Bye, Mr. Man." The door slammed again, and silence descended over the kitchen as if someone had pushed the mute button on the universe.

  Ryan sat, staring at the door. He touched his cheek, damp from the child's lips. Such innocence, to be so happy. So alive. Inwardly, he cursed at how fleeting that life could be. He blinked, keeping his face averted from Frankie.

  Chapter 12

  Frankie watched pain and misery replace the surprise and confusion that had flashed across Ryan's face when Molly kissed him. She wondered what it would take to make him relax. Everything about him was tight, brittle, as if he'd shatter if anything poked him.

  For a moment, back at his cabin, he'd let his guard down, but only for an instant. In that wink of time, she'd glimpsed the man she believed he was—strong, but not cold. Caring and unselfish. But when he put his defense wall back up, he reinforced it with steel and put barbed wire across the top. Electrified it too.

  He wasn't the sort of man she could tease out of his troubles. Was it because Dalton left? Or was it his father's predicament? She slid her chair back and walked around the table, stopping behind him. His head was lowered, as if there was something vital hidden in the scratches of the old kitchen table. If he noticed her behind him, he gave no indication.

  When she placed her hands on his shoulders, he stiffened, but didn't turn around. She kneaded the knots she found bunched up across his back. She moved her fingers up to his neck, pushing aside the hair to get at his skin. The silken strands contrasted with the tight muscles in his neck. He shuddered, but she merely increased the pressure. When she felt some of the tension ease, she worked her way back down to his shoulders.

  "Relax," she said. "Tensing up won't make things happen any faster. When Mom gets back, we'll find out what's going on."

  "Stop." His hand reached up and covered hers. "It's not…just stop, okay?"

  "Who are you, Ryan Harper? I think you owe me that much."

  She waited out his silence.

  "I…I don't know anymore." His words were barely a whisper.

  "Something bad happened to you. More than a car accident."

  "I have to go," he said. He scribbled his number on the margin of one of the pieces of paper in front of her. "Call me when you talk to your mom." He shoved his chair back, making her jump out of the way. But he didn't rise.

  She continued working her fingers into his shoulders. "You can't keep running away from whatever it is. Not if you want your life to be meaningful."

  "Sorry, Frankie, but some things can't be solved by setting a timer for ten minutes."

  "Who said anything about solving problems in ten minutes?" She heard the indignation in her tone, but didn't tamp it back. "You need to stop dwelling on the misery so your brain can find the answers. If you're wallowing in self-pity, you can't see them."

  "Sometimes there aren't answers, Frankie." His tone matched hers.

  She stepped in front of him. Gazing into his eyes, she saw something besides misery. There was heat. Need. In that instant, she knew her own eyes reflected the same. She lowered her head. Grazed his lips with hers.

  Their softness surprised her. She felt his warm breath, scented with coffee.

  He let her lips linger for a moment, then rose to his feet. "I can't."

  She shook her head. "You won't. Why?"

  His eyes flashed anger now. "Because I'm a man, dammit, and not a very noble one. Because I know there's a line here, one I shouldn't cross." His voice softened. "You're making that line very hard to see. It's not fair to you."

  "Who ever said life was fair?"

  "I've hurt too many people, Frankie. I won't allow you to be on that list."

  "Isn't that my decision? How dare you assume that because I offered a kiss in comfort that I wanted to climb into the sack? I don't know what made me think you were different from any of the others."

  "Maybe I'm not." Before her eyes, he retreated behind his wall.

  "Get the hell out of there," she commanded. "Come back from your safe little mental fortress and let peopl
e help you, dammit!"

  His eyebrows shot up and he actually grinned, dimple and all.

  "What?" she said, refusing to succumb to his amusement. "You think I don't use those words? I use them. I happen to prefer to save them for important things."

  "Saving me from myself isn't worth it." The grin was gone, but so was a lot of the pain.

  "Not your call."

  "Not yours, either. You and the kid deserve more than I can give."

  With that, her control snapped. "Say her name."

  "What?" He looked genuinely confused.

  "Molly. She has a name, and it's Molly, not kid."

  "Of course she does. Molly."

  "Why don't you use it when you talk about her? When you think of her, what do you call her in your head? The kid? The obstacle?"

  "What are you talking about?"

  Frankie couldn't stanch the flow of angered words. "I've met your type. Pretend the kid doesn't exist, not as a person anyway. Put it to bed, farm it off with a sitter, get it the hell out of the way so you can get to Mommy."

  "Frankie, slow down. It's—"

  "It's what? Not that? Okay, so you'd be one of those who brings a stupid, totally inappropriate present for her, thinking it'll impress me that you like my daughter. Only you don't. The present is nothing but toll on the road to the bedroom."

  "Shit, Frankie, I told you that's exactly why I wouldn't let you kiss me."

  "No—you assumed there's no reason for a kiss unless it's a prelude to sex. You can't allow yourself a female friend, can you?"

  "I could," he said softly. "But I'm not sure we're on the same page here. You want to be my friend. I'm not sure it can be same for me."

  Unable to respond over the twisting in her gut, she marched toward the den. After so many years of disuse, her female instincts must have atrophied. Flipping on the TV, she told herself it wasn't because she thought anything remotely resembling a relationship could possibly be in the cards for her and Ryan, but that she thought he needed help rediscovering his humanity.

  Long moments later, he approached. She sensed him standing in the doorway before he entered the room and sat beside her.

  "Indiana Jones? I prefer the last one, myself. With Sean Connery." His voice was hesitant, but she heard the apology in its tone.

  "I watched that one yesterday."

  "I'm not in a good place now, Frankie. Not for me, and certainly not for anyone around me."

  "Bottling it up doesn't help," she said.

  He gave a wry laugh. "You sound like Pop."

  "Maybe you should listen to your father."

  "Listening's never been my strong suit."

  "Mom always says I never give anyone a chance to talk."

  He put his hand on her knee, and a warm tingle spread through her. A fullness in her breasts. Heat between her legs. Familiar, yet distant memories of feelings she wasn't ready to accept.

  "Carmelita," he said. The word came out as if it took every bit of strength to get it past his lips.

  "What?"

  "You asked me what I thought when I thought of Molly. Why I didn't use her name."

  "She reminds you of someone named Carmelita?" She tried to reconcile how someone named Carmelita, who she immediately envisioned bearing dark Hispanic features, could possible remind Ryan of her strawberry-blonde, fair, Molly.

  Afraid to look at him and break the spell, she covered his hand with hers. "Tell me."

  "She was Molly's age. Maybe a little younger."

  At the use of the past tense, a fist clutched her heart. "Your daughter?" she whispered. She knew nothing of this man, she realized. Nothing beyond his pain, and that there was inherent good inside him, no matter what he thought. In her peripheral vision, she saw his head shake.

  His hand tensed under hers. "She had big, round eyes. Brown, not blue, but innocent and trusting, like Molly. I couldn't save her."

  "I'm so sorry. I know you did everything you could."

  "Everything's not always good enough." Anger, barely controlled, filled his voice. She squeezed his hand.

  In one swift move, his hands were behind her head, pulling her toward him. His lips found hers, pressed against them, hot and demanding. His teeth scraped her lower lip. Startled by the abruptness, she gasped, and his tongue probed the depths of her mouth.

  There was nothing gentle in the kiss. Its frenzy spoke of anguish, of despair, of need. She sensed he expected her to pull away. Wanted her to pull away. Instead, she matched his heat. Her tongue met his. Danced. Prodded. Entwined.

  He moaned, a sound from deep within, plaintive and urgent.

  Her hands clutched his hair, refusing to let him break away. He was not going to intimidate her with his dominance. If this was the way through Ryan's wall, she would accept whatever opening he granted.

  Slowly, the frenzy faded. He withdrew, planting gentle kisses on her lips, her nose, her forehead.

  "That was uncalled for," he whispered beneath her ear. "I'm sorry."

  His eyes held unbearable sadness. "Don't apologize for needing help," she said. She released her grip on his hair and ran her fingers down his cheek. "Do you feel better?"

  A corner of his mouth lifted. "Don't tell Molly, but I like this better than Mr. Snuggles."

  "I hope it was worth it," she said. At his questioning look, she said, "You'll probably get my cold."

  *****

  Embarrassed and ashamed, Ryan drove his fingers through his hair. Never had he forced himself on a woman like that. And instead of pulling away, instead of slapping him, instead of swearing as he now knew she could, Frankie had returned his heated need. Not because of pity. Because she knew that's what it was. Need.

  "If I do, I deserve it," he whispered.

  "Who are you?" She repeated her question. The tenderness in her voice belied the frenzy of her kiss.

  "You don't want to know, Frankie. I told you, I'm not a nice person."

  "And I told you I don't think you know who you are."

  He glanced around the room, seeing scattered evidence of family life—books, a doll, a pair of slippers. Typical daily life clutter. Sweeping his arm in a broad circle, he said, "What would you do if I said to clear this room?"

  She looked at him, then followed his arm. Shrugged. "Put the toys away, I guess. Straighten the magazines on the coffee table. Take the mugs to the kitchen. Why? You don't like my housekeeping?"

  He took a breath, gathered himself. "I used to be a Navy SEAL. When I got out, I went to work for a private company that does a lot of the same kind of stuff. And a lot of hostage rescue." He turned to face her so that he was staring into her eyes. Why hadn't he noticed how blue they were? Or how they always seemed to care. He grasped her wrists. Too hard, perhaps, because those eyes widened, but she didn't pull away. He relaxed his hold but didn't release her. "In my job, if I clear a room, it means I go in shooting, and when I'm done, people are dead. I kill people, Frankie."

  She didn't say anything for what seemed like an eternity, and he bowed his head, afraid to see what those blue eyes would reflect.

  "What happened to Carmelita?" she whispered.

  "She died. In my arms. In Colombia. Along with her brother, her mother and father."

  "Did you kill the people who did it?"

  "I did."

  "I think—I think if someone tried to hurt Molly, I could hurt them."

  When he looked up, a tear trickled down her cheek. He refused his own, though they stung behind his eyes and hung like a fireball at the back of his throat. The required visits to the shrink after the incidents had warned him that his feelings were likely to be near the surface. Some crap about repressed emotions. He'd discovered the diagnosis was correct, but that didn't mean he had to accept it. To him, all it meant was extra effort to maintain his detachment. And along came Frankie, and if he didn't get out of here in the next few minutes, he was going to come apart.

  The phone rang, and he thanked God for the interruption. Frankie wiped her eyes, then got
up to answer.

  "I've got to go," he said. He held his hand to his ear, thumb and pinkie outstretched, and mimed calling before he retreated.

  "Coward," he mumbled when he sat behind the wheel of Pop's pickup. In his life, everyone had an alternate agenda. Not Frankie. With her, what you saw was what you got, and she had a way of making everything he'd buried rise to the surface. If he couldn't face himself, how could he let anyone else see him for what he was? A failure, going through the motions.

  Maybe Frankie had the right philosophy. Self-pity didn't solve problems. Time to see if the old Ryan Harper was still around. He cranked the ignition and glanced at the house. Through the sheer draperies, Frankie's shadow paced, still on the phone.

  As he drove, he tried to sort things. Answers had to be in his files; he simply hadn't found them yet. Where to start? The Forcada's? Panama? The Mustang exploding? And did the Phantom have anything to do with it? The man had an uncanny ability to show up at drug busts and arms deals, helping himself to the merchandise and disappearing without a trace. Not always on Blackthorne jobs, but often enough to make Ryan wonder if there was some sort of a leak. And if there was a leak to the Phantom, could it be related to the leak that had nearly gotten him killed—twice?

  Well, Googling "Phantom" wasn't going to get him anywhere, that was for sure. No, if there were answers, he needed to get his laptop back from the ranch and go to Josh's.

  He parked behind the ranch house and opened the service porch door, greeted by the aroma of cooking. Onions, garlic, and cooking oil. He stepped into the kitchen and found Rosa browning what had to be her pot roast. Potatoes and carrots perched by the sink, waiting to be peeled. Before he reached the stove, Rosa turned and wiped her hands on her blue-striped apron, giving him a white-toothed smile.

  "Master Ryan. Your papa said you were back." She shook her head in disapproval. "Too long you've been away."

  Ryan bent to give her a hug, lifting all five-foot-one of her off the floor. Gray hairs replaced much of the jet-black he remembered. New wrinkles creased her mahogany face. But her brown eyes still twinkled with life.