Make Mine a Marine

by Julie Miller

  "I believe so. You know, around the time of King Arthur."

  The dark-haired girl tipped her head back. "The real K-King Arthur lived in the s-s-sixth cent-tury. My Aunt Jasmine saw where he and G-Guinevere are buried in G-Glastonbury, England."

  "Yes, of course, dear."

  Drew felt himself sitting up a little straighter, worrying for the little girl stuttering through her explanation. He silently applauded her for sticking to her guns in the face of the guide's sugary condescension. She might have stumbled over some of the big words, but she knew her stuff. Smart kid.

  "Kerry." A woman's voice, soft and throaty, sounded beside him, and a figure in a navy blue suit walked past to join the students. "You can ask more questions later. We need to move along before the next class comes through."

  "O-k-kay, Mom."

  "Thank you, Mrs. Ramsey."

  Drew hunkered back down on his bench, watching the cool way Mrs. Ramsey ignored the tour guide's fawning. Drew listened as she talked to her daughter, and he found himself drawn to her voice. It was seductive. Not that it was lewdly overdone like a woman making a come-on. She still sounded like a mother, all right. He just liked the sound of it. A lot.

  The woman joined three other parents to herd the thirty or so students through the doors at the opposite end of the room. Drew enjoyed the view. Now she was something that could truly distract him. He adjusted his glasses, peering through the narrow-framed lenses to get the best view possible. The woman had legs.

  Great legs that ran all the way up to her tight little bottom. A picture made even more appealing by the fact she tried to camouflage her sleek curves beneath the sensible cut of a navy pinstripe business suit.

  Everything about her spoke of sensibility. She was taller than most women, almost his height, in fact, though she wore low-heeled pumps to try to play it down. Dark, rich waves of hair that must feel like soft silk to the touch were pulled back by a clip at her nape.

  She had money. He could tell by the expensive leather purse she carried. But she didn't advertise it in any other way. No artful fingernails. No fancy jewelry. Just a plain gold wedding band with a diamond solitaire on her left hand.

  Moving nearer, Drew leaned back against a stone pillar and watched unobtrusively until she vanished into the next room. She was nice. Very nice. But not his type. Definitely not his type. The whole air of the woman, in addition to the Grace Kelly figure, said wholesome suburbia. Class. Culture. Respectability.

  Pure trouble for a guy like him. Not that he didn't enjoy playing out of his league every once in a while. There was a perverse satisfaction in knocking one of those class-acts out of her Ferragamos. He felt occasionally obligated to wake them up to reality, proving that he wasn't so far beneath them on the social register as they might think. Or as close to the seedy world of the streets as he might feel.

  But he drew the line at married women.

  Look, but don't touch.

  The sign near the room's entrance mocked him. "As if you need the reminder, Gallagher."

  Drew sighed and rolled his neck to loosen the muscles cramping there. He'd enjoyed the show while it lasted. Mother Pinstripe would never know how closely he'd scrutinized her. It was time to get back to work.

  "That place on his boot is shiny because all the boys and girls rub it for good luck."

  Drew turned at the high-pitched tenor of a man's voice. He'd slipped. A man in a brown tweed overcoat with its collar turned up to his ears had moved into the room without being spotted. The man's face remained hidden, but Drew's hackles shot up, and a time-tested sixth sense that alerted him to danger pushed him to his feet.

  Kerry. The name stuck in his head as something familiar. Mother Pinstripe had used it. Kerry, the intelligent little girl with the stutter, had slipped away from her class to study the armor more closely. Mr. Tweed Coat sauntered in her direction, speaking calmly, knowledgeably.

  "Upstairs, the museum has tapestries that were made in the Middle Ages. One of them portrays the legend of Arthur and the Round Table. Would you like to see them?"

  Though she sidled a few steps away, Drew crept up close enough to see Kerry turn her big blue eyes on the man. "My Mom says I shouldn't t-talk to s-strangers."

  * * *

  "Kerry?"

  Of all the dark heads scattered throughout the miniatures room, none belonged to her daughter. Emma choked down the swell of panic. A second survey of the room confirmed her worry. No Kerry.

  Emma quickly retraced her steps toward the main concourse. Her daughter had led the way in, while she'd brought up the rear. But then she'd gotten to talking with Mrs. Simmons about arrangements for the class's Valentine's Day party, and she'd lost track of her daughter.

  Calm in a crisis. Emma Ramsey had earned that reputation running the administrative side of LadyTech, a software communications corporation she owned with her two closest friends.

  She'd be damned if she'd lose her composure now just because her little girl had wandered off. Kerry was bright. Curious. And Emma worried about her only child way too much. She trusted the girl to be sensible. To stay safe.

  It was all the other bozos and maniacs in the world she didn't trust.

  The armor room had several patrons milling about inside. But it was empty of the one person who counted.

  And that man.

  She'd felt his presence when she'd entered the hall earlier, felt the cool weight of his eyes on her.

  Blond, she remembered. Longish hair, with a lock that fell beside his temple. Glasses. An artist, perhaps. No? Too much danger, too much mystery. Despite his golden good looks, darkness hung around him like a cloak.

  A chill raced along her spine, knowing he’d watched her. A chill matched only by the heart-numbing fear of knowing he'd now disappeared, along with her daughter.

  She alerted the security guard at the entrance, giving him a succinct description of Kerry. While he radioed his staff, Emma walked back to the main concourse in Kirkwood Hall, turned in a slow 360-degree arc, then waited for some instinct to tell her where to look.

  She imagined a tap on her shoulder, nudging her feet into motion. She started walking, searching for either the blond man or her daughter. The museum had two large wings, three floors and a basement. A lot of square feet for a little girl to get lost in—or for a dangerous man to lurk in.

  The sculpture garden would be closed because of the snow, so she didn't bother to look there. Something urged her up the stairs to the west.

  Fear hastened her steps. Her world had shattered five years ago when her husband, Jonathan, disappeared. Lost on a mission, she'd been told. MIA. The authorities had given her no body to bury. No culprit to blame. He was just gone.

  She'd rebuilt her life and heart around her only tangible link to Jonathan—their daughter.

  She couldn't survive losing Kerry, too.

  * * *

  "Th-th-this isn't the way to the t-tapest-try room."

  Drew hurried down the deserted marble hallway, following the little girl's halting voice. He coached her beneath his breath. "That's it, kid. Tell him off. Make a scene."

  It was his duty to save the girl. Despite the D.A.'s instructions to simply observe, he intended to take Begosian downtown. But if Drew showed himself too soon, the dirt bag would bolt—maybe escape. And the knowledge that he'd be free to molest some other child, especially if they were all as gullible as this one, burned in every chivalric bone in Drew's body.

  Where were the damned security guards who swarmed all over the first floor? He unzipped his jacket and unfastened the catch on his holster before stepping into the Modern Art wing. Large paintings of stripes and geometric figures and cans of soup lined the walls, and unfortunately placed partitions blocked his view through the center of the room.

  "Are y-you real?"

  The girl had stopped in front of a strikingly lifelike figure of a patron staring at one of the murals. Drew had read of this famous sculpture, and how startled visitors often apologized
for getting in its way before realizing it was one of the artworks on display.

  Drew rounded a partition and walked straight over to the girl. Begosian jumped in his shoes, alarmed as if Drew himself was a statue come to life.

  "Put your hands where I can see 'em, Stan." He pulled out his wallet and flashed his ID at the little girl without taking his eyes off his prey. "I'm here to help you. Get over here behind me."

  Instead of obeying, the little girl stopped beside Drew and reached for his hand. Startled by the unexpected touch, he glanced down. The brief distraction was enough to send her stocky abductor running toward the far exit. Drew's instinct to pursue jolted through his legs, but the girl's trusting grip around his fingers anchored him in place.

  He bent his knees and hunched down to the girl's level. "You need to find a security guard," he said softly. "Tell him you're lost and you have to find your mother. He can call her name over the intercom."

  Drew straightened, took a step. But Kerry tugged at his hand. He glanced over his shoulder, saw Begosian near the archway. He turned back.

  "Are you a g-good guy?" The little girl batted her eyelashes, her curious blue eyes watching him.

  He shifted impatiently on his feet. "I try to be, kid."

  "Faith t-told me I'd meet a g-good guy today."

  Drew squatted down, took the girl gently by the shoulders, and fought to comprehend how a child's mind worked. "Is Faith your mom?"

  Her sable curls bobbed around her cheeks as she shook her head. "She's my friend. Mom can't t-talk to her because she d-doesn't b-believe she's real."

  Drew frowned and looked at the exit. Begosian had vanished. Recalling the presence of his pint-sized companion, Drew swallowed his curse. An invisible friend? What the hell would his psychologist tell him about such childish fantasies? Well, this girl had been kidnapped and rescued—both by strangers. That should be enough stress to trigger a busload of imaginary friends. Drew lifted his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He was way out of his league with children.

  "Are you oh-k-kay, mister?"

  Drew nodded. He even dredged up a rusty smile for the girl. "Let's go find your mom."

  "Oh-k-kay."

  "Let go of her!" A Louis Vuitton purse loaded with bricks slammed into Drew's arm, knocking him off balance. "You stay away from her!"

  Falling to one knee, he felt the girl snatched from his grasp. He reached for his gun, but the brick bag struck him in the face, sending his glasses flying.

  "Help! Security!"

  Fortunately, his astigmatism didn't prevent him from seeing the bag hurtling his way for a third time. He deflected it with his arm, twisted the straps around his wrist, and yanked the offending weapon toward him.

  Ms. Navy Blue Pinstripe came with it. They tumbled backward, crashing onto the marble floor, her long legs twisting with his. There was no time to enjoy the fantasy that sprang to mind. In a split second she shifted, and Drew guessed the direction her knee was headed.

  "Damn it, lady, I'm on your side!"

  He rolled over, pinning her to the floor beneath him. She struggled valiantly, a sinuous, writhing, dangerous opponent whom he dared not release if he intended to be physically able to chase down Begosian.

  "Mom! He's the g-good guy I told you about. He s-saved me from the bad man! He's a policeman."

  The girl's words stilled her mother's struggles. With wary precision, Drew shifted the lower half of his body off hers and knelt beside the woman. He helped her to a sitting position, but she quickly jerked from his grasp, adjusting her clothes as she scooted away from him.

  "Show me your badge." Her throaty voice contained more venom than sex appeal at the moment, and Drew judiciously obliged.

  "I'm not a cop. I'm a private investigator working for the district attorney's office," he explained. He pulled his wallet from his pocket and opened it so she could match the picture on his I.D. to his face.

  All at once, Drew's world stood still. Face to face, up close, he looked into eyes of deep smoky blue. She had porcelain skin dusted with freckles, high cheekbones, and a regally straight nose. Her perfect oval face, framed by dark brown hair, looked familiar. Felt familiar

  "Have we met before?" He heard his own voice as little more than a rasp in his throat.

  Her eyes narrowed. She studied his photo, then looked at him. She scanned him from head to knee, from the crown of his shaggy blond hair to the faded threads where his jeans had worn thin.

  Then her gaze met his, guarded and dismissive. "I don't think so, Mr. Gallagher."

  She curled her legs beneath her. Drew stood and extended his hand to help her up. Once on her feet, she pulled away as if his touch might transfer some horrible disease. She circled her arm around her daughter, the ewe drawing her lamb into the fold. "Thank you for helping Kerry."

  Drew choked back his annoyance. As verbally polite as leggy Ms. Priss might be, she'd relegated him to the status of that Begosian creep. What had he wanted, really, an invitation to dinner?

  "Sure. You'd better have a talk with her about strangers, though."

  The woman released the girl and squatted in front of her. "How many times have we talked about trusting people you don't know?"

  Kerry shrugged. "Faith said it was oh-k-kay."

  Her mother bristled. Her deep, controlling breath made Drew wonder what she might have said if he wasn't standing there. "Sweetie, you shouldn't listen to Faith if she tells you things you know are wrong. Use your common sense."

  "Faith s-said she'd protect me." The girl grew agitated in her defense, and her struggling speech became almost incoherent.

  "Kerry! She's not real. Angels don't…" The rest of the reprimand disappeared behind a cool mask of control that slipped onto her face as though it had been there all along.

  She stood and faced Drew, a woman of backbone and grit. With a quivering chin. That acknowledgment of her emotion was fleeting, and quickly hidden with an arrogant thrust of her jaw. "Sometimes my daughter's imagination gets the better of her."

  Drew wondered why she fought the display of weakness. Most moms would be sobbing with relief or cussing up a storm by now. But not this one. Maybe her detachment had nothing to do with him, after all. Maybe she'd keep all her feelings locked up no matter who she was with, whether it was a smooth talker in a three-piece suit or a cynical bum like himself.

  "No problem. Just glad I was here."

  The woman's expression softened a bit. "I'm Emma Ramsey. Do you need me to file a report?" Even in this clipped, businesslike demeanor, her voice had a sexy undertone.

  He fought the nagging feeling of recognition. Where would a no-name like himself run into a class act like her? Only in his dreams. He shook off his confusion. "I'll take care of it. I'd better see if he's still on the premises."

  Emma nodded. "Thanks again."

  "You'll need these t-to c-catch the bad guy." Drew looked down and found Kerry offering up his glasses.

  "Thanks." Acting on an unusual impulse, Drew reached out and cupped the girl's cheek. Her soft skin reminded him of home. At least, it reminded him of the kind of place he wished he could call home. The gentle touch earned him a shy smile that warmed him despite her mother's frosty dismissal. "You listen to your mom, you hear?"

  "Oh-k-kay."

  Drew put on his glasses and gave a mock salute to Mrs. Ramsey. She clutched her daughter in front of her. He turned and walked toward the exit where Begosian had disappeared. This do-gooder stuff wasn't exactly his thing. The reluctant gratitude shining in that mother's eyes and the wide-eyed trust placed in him by that little girl were undeserved. And unwanted.

  He came out at the top of a back stairwell. Begosian was a cockroach kind of criminal. He'd keep to the dark, try to blend in unnoticed if people were around. Drew pulled out his gun and slipped down the stairs, noiselessly closing in on his prey. The cockroach might not have escaped yet. He had probably moved slowly, not wanting to draw attention to himself. Drew had no intention —

&n
bsp; "Freeze! Drop your weapon!"

  A door swung open and a security team swarmed in. Surrounded, Drew slowly lowered his gun to the floor, keeping his free hand raised in surrender. "Easy, guys, I'm with the D.A.'s office. I have a permit. I was cleared when I came into the building."

  One of the guards thumped him on the back, forcing him to the floor. "Face down and stay put!"

  The clock ticked away as Drew seethed with indignant frustration. Several guards frisked him. One found his wallet and identified him.

  But Drew's opportunity had passed. The guards returning his gun and i.d., dusting off his jacket, and apologizing repeatedly did little to reverse Drew's darkening mood. Begosian was long gone, and by now the trail would be cold. He'd botched what should have been a textbook assignment for a seasoned pro like himself.

  Nope. This was definitely not a good day. Sweet little girls and sensible mothers weren't just out of his league. They were bad luck, pure and simple. They'd never mix with a man like Drew Gallagher.

  * * *

  Emma waited for the school bus to pull away before hurrying across the parking lot to her customized van. After talking to the police, it had taken a considerable degree of willpower to let Kerry get on the bus with her classmates. What she really wanted to do was bundle the girl up in her arms, take her home, lock the doors, and stand watch over her.

  But Kerry had begged to finish the day with her friends, and Mrs. Arnold, her teacher, had assured Emma that maintaining a normal routine would be beneficial to her wayward daughter. So Emma had waved good-bye and buried her fears deep inside.

  She concentrated on reviewing the rules of self-defense that Jonathan had taught her, and she made a mental note to reinforce those same precautions with Kerry. She had her keys ready as she approached her van, and casually scanned the area, alert to spots that offered hiding places for the kind of man who would steal a child from her mother. Or detain a woman with bad come-on lines.

  Have we met before? She allowed herself one, short laugh. She'd heard all the lines—good and bad—and had turned them all down. She was a married woman, after all. Although her heart might be gathering dust on a shelf, it still belonged to her husband.