Suddenly Daddy and Suddenly Mommy

by Loree Lough

  “No, but thank you, Lieutenant.”

  Grinning, he took her hand, gave it an affectionate pat. “‘Lieutenant?’ Ciara, you’re breakin’ my heart!” He chose his words carefully. “I’ve spent more time with you than your husband has these past seven long months. It wouldn’t be improper for you to call me Chet, would it?”

  She gave it a moment’s thought. “You’re right, of course…Chet.”

  He placed a mental check mark beside Part One of his plan. And now for Part Two:

  “Did you hear something?”

  His tense, slightly crouched posture had the desired effect. Ciara hovered near the wall, cringing, hands clasped under her chin, eyes wide with fright. “No, I—”

  A forefinger over his lips, he warned her to be quiet. “Now, don’t you worry,” he whispered. “Chances are practically nil that Mitch has tipped his hand…and that’s the only way those goons would know how to find you.”

  Assuming the ‘ready, fire’ position, he unholstered his weapon, and as though he really believed a gun-toting bad guy had invaded the second floor, Bradley slowly made his way upstairs, darting into doorways, aiming the Glock at imaginary felons skulking along the hall, as if he truly expected an assassin to pop out and draw a bead on him.

  The moment he ducked into Ciara’s room, he straightened, calmly reholstered his service revolver. Smirking, he reached into his pocket and withdrew a small vial of Homme Jusqu’au Dernier. “Now for Part Three,” he said, his voice echoing quietly in the white-tiled master bathroom. “‘Man to the Last,’” he translated the cologne’s gold foil label. Opening the medicine cabinet, he placed the decanter on a glass shelf and gently closed the door.

  Swaggering toward the hall, he pocketed both hands. It was all he could do to keep from whistling a happy tune. Pericolo was safe behind bars. “One down, one to go,” he singsonged.

  First chance he got, Bradley would pay the newlyweds a little visit. If he knew Mahoney, he wouldn’t be in the house five minutes before the subject of the cologne came up. They’d have words over whose fingerprints were all over pretty Mrs. Mahoney.

  It wouldn’t take much to convince Internal Affairs that the man of the hour had snapped after all those months in Pericolo’s headquarters. Bradley’s story that he’d killed the enraged husband in self-defense would go uncontested.

  “One down, one to go,” he repeated, grinning. “One down, one to go….”

  Mitch spent the first day and a half of his freedom down at headquarters, typing up the detailed report that outlined the case. He’d turned down the chance to be there when they picked Pericolo up; he’d seen enough of the Colombian to last several lifetimes. He glanced at the clock. They’d have him in custody by now.

  He’s probably already complaining about the way his orange jumpsuit clashes with his complexion. His Italian mother had been a fashion designer in Milan; maybe that explained why Pericolo was so focused on outward appearances. Ill-fitting prison garb was Giovanni’s problem, and Giovanni was the U.S. Attorney’s problem from here on out.

  Mitch had troubles of his own, starting with the fact that he’d been away from home a long, long time. He’d known from the start that Bradley had underestimated the amount of time he’d be gone. But seven months?

  The lieutenant had not been in touch once, a fact that had deeply concerned Mitch at first. But he’d been in situations like that before, and knew how to handle himself. It turned out to be a blessing, really, that he hadn’t been able to make a single contact with the outside world once arriving in Philly; he may well have picked a red card from the Pericolo’s slick deck, but the Queen of Hearts hadn’t squelched the man’s suspicions….

  The phone in Mitch’s room had been bugged, and he couldn’t drive to McDonald’s for a burger and fries without spotting a “tail.” Whether brushing his teeth or watching TV or adding up columns in Pericolo’s ledger books, he got the sneaking suspicion that he was being watched. Two-way mirrors…or paranoia?

  Mitch discounted anxiety when, on a warmer-than-usual January day—the kind that gets folks hoping for an earlier-than-usual spring—he made it to a secure phone. He’d dialed FBI Headquarters in Washington, D.C., but Bradley hadn’t been in, so he’d talked to Parker instead. “What’s the weather like down there?”

  “Same as there, I reckon…ice, snow, freezing….”

  Mitch hadn’t wanted to break the connection. He’d been in Philly for over a month by then, and the stress of being on Pericolo’s payroll was beginning to take its toll. He hadn’t been sleeping. Had lost ten pounds. And Ciara was never far from his mind….

  He was about to leave a message for Bradley, when he spotted a black Cadillac rounding the corner. He’d seen that car in the rearview mirror nearly every time he’d climbed behind the wheel of his Ford. Mitch banged the phone into its cradle and quickly blended in with the crowd of people milling around the hot dog vender’s cart. It had been a close call. Too close. And Giovanni must have agreed, because his men pressed in closer still after that.

  Like a babe in the woods, Mitch had no protection in Philadelphia. He had no way to ask for help if he needed it. Didn’t even have a weapon. He couldn’t risk another phone call…until last week, when he finally got hold of Bradley to say he was in the Philadelphia Metro station. “Had to leave the car, the clothes, the laptop behind,” he’d explained, “but I’ve got photocopies like you wouldn’t believe. There’s enough in my wallet to get me back to D.C. on the Amtrak. I’ll call you when I get in.”

  Prayer had helped get him that far. Mitch hoped it would be enough to get him through this phone call.

  “Hello?”

  It felt so good to hear her voice that Mitch found himself swallowing a sob. “Hi, Ciara.”

  He heard her gasp. “Mitch? Is that…is it really you?”

  Thank you, God, he thought, because she sounded genuinely pleased to hear his voice. He hadn’t expected that. Not after the way they’d parted. Not after seven whole months apart. You don’t deserve a woman this understanding, he admitted.

  “I—I thought,” she stammered, “it’s been…you were…I just—” After a slight pause, her voice tightened. “Where have you been?”

  He said it softly, gently, because that’s exactly how he felt. “Sweetie, I wrote you….” At least he’d managed to get that one message through before Philadelphia had swallowed him up. Mitch thanked God again.

  “Give me credit for having some intelligence, Mitch. I admit my behavior that last night was a little out of line, but to punish me this long…”

  “Punish you?” He sat forward in his chair. What on earth is she talking about? He took a calming breath. “I know the letter was vague, but I couldn’t give you any details. It would have been too dan—”

  “What letter, Mitch? I never saw any letter. The only explanation I got about your disappearance was from your father and your brothers. ‘All in the line of duty,’” she singsonged, the quote thick with sarcasm.

  “But…” Now he understood why that sense of dread had loomed over him when he’d handed the envelope to Bradley.

  “But nothing. All I can say is, thank God for Lieutenant Bradley. He stopped by every week to see if I needed anything…and tell me you’d missed another rendezvous. Which told me one of two things—either you were in too much danger to keep the appointments, or you didn’t want to keep them.” There was a long pause before she added, “He never said it outright, but I got the impression he believed it was the latter.”

  “Bradley’s a bald-faced liar,” he blurted out. “I can’t believe he never gave you that letter!”

  Until the pencil he was holding snapped, Mitch hadn’t realized how tense he’d grown. He dropped the pencil halves and ran his hand through his hair. Bradley had put him out there alone, and he’d left Ciara the same way. Burning anger roiled in his gut. He didn’t know what Bradley had to gain by his blatant lies—and he’d obviously told Ciara a pack of them—but he knew this much, he th
ought, balling up a fist, he had better not run into him, because what he would do to him would cost him his badge.

  Mitch gulped down a mouthful of cold black coffee. He would deal with Bradley later. “I can be home by noon.”

  Home. The word reverberated in his mind like gentle rain, defusing his fury.

  “Don’t hurry on my account,” she snapped. “You’ve been away from home,” she said, putting an entirely different emphasis on the word, “for seven long months. What’s another couple of hours?”

  He stared at the buzzing receiver for a moment before hanging up. She had a perfect right to be upset. He only hoped when the time was ripe, God would feed him the words that would make things right.

  He never would have agreed to take the case if he’d known he would be gone so long, but once he’d gone in, one week became two, and before he knew it, months had passed. There had been no turning back then. Not if he’d wanted to survive.

  An icy sense of dread inched up his spine as he recalled the last thing Pericolo had said to him. “I’m fairly certain that the last words of men who dared to betray me were ‘I’m sorry.’” His near black eyes had glittered when he made his hateful promise. “I have a long memory, Mr. Sam Lewis, and an even longer reach. Don’t you become one of the ‘sorry’ ones.”

  Did the Colombian pack enough power to extend that “reach” beyond the walls of his prison cell? The U.S. Attorney didn’t think so. “He’s a has-been,” the man assured Mitch. “Eduardo Chambro has been chomping at the bit to get control. Kovatch told me he said he owes you a debt of gratitude for getting Pericolo out of his way.”

  Mitch could only hope the lawyer had been right…and pray that all of Pericolo’s soldiers were now loyal Chambro followers.

  A moment ago he’d wanted nothing more than to get his hands on Chet Bradley. Now he only wanted to cuddle up with Ciara, close his eyes and let her kiss his worries and fears away, as she’d done on their wedding night, when the horrible dream woke him. Tiny as she was, she’d wrapped him in her arms and made him feel safe and secure and loved.

  He refused to focus on her angry words, chose instead to remember the relief he’d heard when she’d said, “Mitch? Is that you?” The melody of her voice had been enough to raise goose bumps on his flesh. If it had been that good to hear her, Mitch could only imagine how much better would it be to see her. And once they were face-to-face, the misunderstanding would fade away.

  After rushing through the final paragraphs of his report, he filed it, then drove like a madman around the D.C. beltway toward their home in the Baltimore suburbs. He’d spent a total of four nights in their new Cape Cod-style home on Sweet Hours Way before their argument…before going undercover. It would be good, so good, to sleep beside her tonight in their low-ceilinged room at the top of the stairs.

  It wasn’t quite 10:00 a.m. when he pulled into the drive. She wasn’t expecting him till noon. Mitch glanced at the window on the second floor. Their bedroom. Was she up there, getting ready for him, applying mascara, spritzing herself with perfume, brushing her long, lush hair?

  He ached to see her, hold her, kiss her sweet lips.

  Mitch slid the wallet from his back pocket and withdrew the photograph he’d been carrying for nearly a year now, the one his brother Ian had taken during the church-sponsored cruise. Mitch’s big fingertips gently caressed her glossy image—as they’d done thousands of times since he’d left her that cold, bleak night—and smiled tenderly.

  There had been other pictures he might have chosen to carry with him—Ciara, looking like a fairy princess in her wedding gown; Ciara in the pink suit she’d worn after the reception; Ciara in sweats and a baseball cap on the day they’d moved into this house. But this, by far, was his favorite.

  Weeks after his family and hers had walked away from the cruise ship, long after the film was developed, Ian would look at this picture and remark, “Y’know, you two look good together. You’re a perfect fit.”

  Mitch couldn’t deny it then. He couldn’t deny it now.

  Everything about them was different—size and weight and coloring, and the contrasts were good. She was femininity personified, he, man to the bone, and the balance was right.

  He recalled the events leading up to the taking of this picture. They’d been too busy swimming, sight-seeing, playing shuffleboard, to watch the sun set. Once, she’d been sitting in a deck chair, so caught up in her book that she didn’t hear the gaggle of kids headed her way. If he hadn’t scooped her up, they’d have run right into her. “My hero,” she’d said, grinning and fluttering those long, dark lashes of hers.

  That night they scheduled a time to watch the sun set. Arm in arm, they’d positioned themselves at the boat’s bow, waiting to see the blazing fireball slip behind the horizon and disappear. When it finally disappeared, like a coin in slow motion, sliding into a slot, she’d faced him, and in a womanly, wifely way, tucked his windblown necktie back into his jacket. She hadn’t removed her hands once she’d finished. Instead, Ciara had looked up at him and smiled. From the dreamy, wide-eyed expression on her face, he had expected her to say, “It’s such a lovely evening,” or “Isn’t the view spectacular?” Instead she’d grinned mischievously. “My stomach’s growling like an angry bear. What say we hunt ourselves up a snack?”

  “You’re a little nut,” he’d said, gently chucking her chin.

  She’d bobbed her head and launched into her own musical rendition of the once-popular candy bar commercial: “Sometimes I feel like a nut—” her silliness slipped away, like the sun’s fading light “—sometimes I don’t….”

  That quickly the mood shifted, from lighthearted merriment to something he hadn’t been able to identify. He only knew that his heart was thumping and his pulse was pounding as she looked into his eyes.

  They skipped dinner that night, preferring instead to stand at the prow until the earth darkened and the black sky above the cruise ship was haloed by the glow of the midnight moon. The boat rocked gently as it slogged through the inky island waves. She’d pointed toward the horizon. “The water is so bright, so clear blue during the day. Amazing, isn’t it, that now it looks like black velvet.”

  He’d grasped her shoulders, turned her to face him. It was as he gazed into her eyes…eyes as bright and clear blue as the daytime Caribbean, that he knew how to define that look—love. And he’d kissed her, long and hard, as if to seal it between them for all eternity.

  He’d walked her to her cabin, kissed her again in the narrow hall outside the door. “Let’s do this again tomorrow,” he’d whispered.

  “Which,” she’d asked, wiggling her brows suggestively, “the walk around the deck or the kiss?”

  “Both.”

  And so they had. The very next evening, Mitch missed the sunset altogether, because he hadn’t been able to make himself focus on anything but Ciara. After an hour or so of gazing into her eyes, listening as she talked about the kids in her fourth-grade class at Centennial Elementary, as she told him about her golden retriever, Chester, he wrapped her in his arms, pulled her close.

  “Oh, my,” she’d gasped, fanning her face with a delicate hand when the kiss ended. “You’re getting pretty good at that.”

  Grinning like a love-sick schoolboy, he’d placed a hand upon her cheek, and she’d copied his movement.

  That’s when Ian snapped the picture.

  Looking at this photo of them, outlined by the amber-orange sky, had brought him countless hours of comfort, had given him immeasurable peace in Philly, as he crossed the days, the weeks, the months off the calendar pages.

  She was a vision, brighter and more beautiful than any sunset ever photographed. Her hair riffled by the breeze, billowing out behind her like a sunny sail as sun-sparkled waves danced in the background. It was a profile shot, a silhouette almost, with the fire yellow light of evening shimmering around her head like a golden halo.

  He’d worn an ordinary summer suit. Nothing ordinary about Ciara’s outfit! E
ven if he didn’t have the picture to remind him of it, Mitch knew he’d never forget that dress. It was pale blue, and made of a flimsy material that floated around her shapely calves on salty air currents. She’d wrapped a matching gauzy shawl around her narrow shoulders, and with every slight draft, it fluttered behind her like angels’ wings.

  He hadn’t seen his bride in seven long months. Their last evening together had been little more than an accumulation of angry words and misunderstanding, and they hadn’t communicated, in any way since that night…thanks to Chet Bradley. He wanted their reunion to be so much more…the fulfillment of seven months of yearning and loneliness and dreams.

  Would she be his angel still?

  Would he be her hero?

  When he walked into headquarters, that’s exactly what Parker had called him. And so had the TV reporter who’d wanted to interview the man who’d snagged Giovanni Pericolo. Admittedly the case had ended well, with everything falling neatly into place. But Mitch knew he couldn’t have done it without Pericolo’s help.

  Smart as he was, Giovanni had made a stupid mistake: because he’d outwitted the Feds so often, he’d begun to believe himself invincible. Feeling cocky and full of himself, he’d boldly marched down to the Immigration office and applied for U.S. citizenship. And because he’d never been formally charged with any crime, he had as much right to pledge allegiance to the flag as any other immigrant. He greased a few palms, cutting through the usual red tape, and two weeks before Mitch uncovered the final piece of evidence to convict him, Giovanni Pericolo stood among several hundred soon-to-be Americans, raised his right hand and swore to honor his new nation.

  The U.S. Attorney’s office would have had a long, expensive fight on its hands, had Pericolo still been a full-fledged Colombian when the charges hit the fan. But Giovanni’s dream of becoming a U.S. citizen became his nightmare; he would never enjoy the perks of being a free American from his four-by-eight-foot prison cell.

  The praise of Mitch’s comrades and a few extra dollars on his paycheck were worthless if he couldn’t have Ciara. He needed her steady, sure love now more than ever, to help blot the grotesque images of this case from his mind. He remembered how she’d reacted to the scar on his rib cage, to the news of Abe Carlson’s death. It wasn’t likely he’d ever tell her any of the details of the Pericolo case. If it messed up a hardnosed Fed like you this much, he told himself, think what it’ll do to a sweet little thing like Ciara.