Brooding Angel

by Marie Ferrarella

  That his joy didn’t match hers bothered her a little. But this was Mitch. Joy wasn’t in his repertoire. “Yes, I did. I wanted to.” Setting the plates on the table, she indicated the casserole dish in the center. “They don’t make decent take-out chicken tetrazzini.”

  Clancy had spent twice as long as usual preparing the meal. Part of the problem had been the lack of two ingredients. She’d solved that by calling a local supermarket she had frequented before the accident. Being Clancy, she’d gotten friendly with the personnel who worked there. The woman who answered the telephone had recognized her name and arranged for home delivery.

  When she’d finally placed the casserole in the oven, Clancy had felt as if she’d just scaled a mountain.

  Teamwork, she thought with pride. Everything could be done with teamwork. She only had to look at herself and Mitch. Without him, she wouldn’t have accomplished nearly as much. At least, not as quickly. He’d pushed her until she had wanted to try again.

  Mitch surveyed the table. There was the casserole, warm rolls on the side and a bowl of steamed vegetables. “You did all this?”

  She was literally beaming, just the way she used to, he thought. “Yes.”

  He still couldn’t get over it. She’d made a vast improvement and could stand unassisted now for a moment or so. But she still couldn’t walk. “Alone?”

  “Well,” Clancy said, gesturing toward the table, “God made the chicken, but I did the rest.”

  He was at her side, taking her hand to help her into the chair. He noticed that she didn’t have to hold on as tightly. More progress. Each step took her a little farther away from him.

  “I guess I should eat it then.”

  She wasn’t quite certain if he was teasing her or not. She liked to think he was. It seemed intimate somehow. As if he belonged to her. “After what I went through, it’s either eat it or wear it.”

  He brought the other chair over and sat down beside her. “Temperamental.”

  She pointed toward the casserole dish, urging him to help himself. “All the best chefs are.” Holding her breath, Clancy watched Mitch’s face as he took a bite.

  He nodded as the flavor spread on his tongue. “Good.”

  Mitch had never been verbose. This was high praise as far as he was concerned. Moving her shoulders slightly, Clancy shrugged off the tension that had had her in its grip.

  “Well, since you haven’t keeled over, I guess I can have some,” she said. Mitch stopped eating and began to spoon out a serving for her. She leaned forward to push his hands away. “I can do it myself.”

  Mitch continued cutting. “There’s no harm in letting someone do things for you once in a while.” He placed the section he’d cut before her. He knew all too well the way she thought. “The only part of you that’s an invalid is your mind.”

  She raised her chin as she positioned the plate closer. “My mind works just fine.”

  He spared her a look, silently telling her that he agreed. “Then you’re okay.”

  She’d let some of her edginess out. Clancy looked at him apologetically. He didn’t deserve to have her snapping at him. “Yeah, I’m okay.” She settled back in the chair and, eyes shining mischievously, indicated the bowl of vegetables. “Pass the vegetables, please.”

  “Just don’t get too comfortable with this,” he said, handing her the dish.

  “Oh, I don’t know. Now that I think of it, being served does have its merits.” She placed the dish beside her and looked at him. Bantering was fun, but she wanted to discuss something of substance that didn’t revolve around her and her therapy. “Mitch, why don’t you ever talk about work?”

  The question caught him unaware and he didn’t answer immediately.

  He never talked about his work, and it had started to concern Clancy. Didn’t policemen need to unload? “What do you do in that world you go out into every day?”

  Mitch didn’t want to go into it. That world was separate from the one that existed here. He shrugged. “Make a difference sometimes.”

  “I bet you do.” Her mouth curved. He certainly had in her case. Both times. He’d caught the man who’d broken into her apartment. Most of her things had been recovered. And the second time, he’d saved her life. And then her soul.

  He raised his eyes from his plate and looked at her. “Is that a compliment?”

  She shook her head. “No, you react badly to compliments. That was an observation.” She leaned forward. “So, what kind of a difference did you make today?”

  “It’s not the kind of work someone like you would want to hear about.”

  “Someone like me,” she echoed. Clancy tried not to attach a meaning to his words prematurely. “And that would be?”

  He couldn’t quite read her tone. Was she fishing for a compliment? Or an argument? “You know what you’re like.”

  “I do,” she replied evenly. “But I want to hear your version. The two might not coincide.” Did he think she was a snob at heart, because of her upbringing? It had gotten in her way more than once. She’d overcompensated by being outgoing.

  “Refined.” He took another bite, then found his appetite flagging, despite the fact that the meal was good. “Used to the better elements of life.”

  She didn’t like the image he was painting. She didn’t belong on some shelf. Hadn’t he shown her that? “You proved to me that I’m not bone china, that I don’t break.” She placed her hand on his, sensing that something was wrong. “Tell me, Mitch, I want to know.”

  He shrugged, downplaying the case as he gave her a capsulated version. “Okay. We’re investigating a series of burglaries in Beverly Hills. The thief takes only paintings. High-class works of art. He stole a Monet today.”

  She didn’t think of burglars as being picky, just greedy. “Shouldn’t be too hard to catch him. How many people own expensive paintings?”

  He laughed shortly. Somehow, his father had managed to elude their extra patrols. It was as if he really was a phantom.

  “More than you think. And he’s selective. He knows security systems backward and forward.” Mitch picked up the napkin and wiped his lips, then discarded it. “It’s his hobby.”

  She was intrigued by his conclusion. “How do you know that?” Was it some known thief who they couldn’t track down? “Do you know who it is?”

  His face darkened. “No. That’s an educated guess.” Mitch pushed back his plate. “It’s been a long, hot day. I’m going to take a shower and then we’re going to get to work.”

  She nodded, staring after him. He’d left his plate where it was, which was unusual for him. She’d upset him somehow.

  What had she said to set him off?

  Sloppy, he thought as he stalked into his room for a change of clothes. He was getting sloppy. He would never have let anything slip before. He was a cop by definition, and a cop had to stay sharp or he was no good to anyone.

  He hoped he could pull away from her before it was too late.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Mitch scrubbed himself until his skin felt raw. The tangible residue of a long, hard day mingled with the soapsuds and rinsed off his body. But the deeper layers lingered on. His troubled thoughts didn’t slip down the drain with the water.

  It wasn’t that easy.

  He was still worked up when he slid the shower door open and stepped out. Annoyed with himself, with everything, he yanked the towel from the rack and secured it haphazardly around his hips.

  That was when he realized that she was there, in his room. He paused, silently demanding an accounting for her presence.

  Clancy pushed the wheelchair forward, bringing herself closer to Mitch. They were separated only by the bed.

  “Talk to me,” she said.

  She certainly picked her times. He nodded toward the partially opened closet. “Would you mind if I got dressed first?”

  Though he was magnificent by any definition, it wasn’t his body that interested her at the moment. It was his soul. Unless
she had the one, having the other didn’t matter.

  “I don’t care if you talk to me wearing a suit of armor or a fig leaf. As long as you talk to me.”

  Clancy shifted her chair back to prevent Mitch from walking into her as he crossed to the closet. It vaguely registered in the back of her mind that she was getting very good at maneuvering the wheelchair. It was a matter of working with it, not against it.

  That, too, he had shown her, she thought.

  He didn’t like having his space invaded, not when it involved getting into his head. Working to keep his temper in check, Mitch took out a fresh T-shirt and tossed it on the bed beside the torn jeans he always favored.

  She wanted talk? Okay, fine, he’d talk to her. “Think it’ll rain?” He opened a drawer and took out a change of underwear.

  She moved her wheelchair in front of him, blocking him like a guard on a basketball court. He wasn’t going to dodge her this time. Not physically, not verbally.

  Her eyes were very serious. “Talk, Mitch. Real talk, not small talk.”

  He raised a brow and studied her. The spirit that had been all but crushed, the spirit he’d been fighting to restore within her, had been fully resurrected. He had only himself to blame.

  “About?”

  There was a No Trespassing sign burning in his eyes like a twelve-foot-high torch. She ignored it. “I’m not sure.”

  He snorted as he shut the drawer a little too hard. The bureau vibrated with his anger. “Well, that narrows it down.”

  A month ago she would have withdrawn. A month ago she wouldn’t have cared. Now it was different. She did now. “Talk to me about what’s bothering you.”

  “Not being able to get dressed and dripping on the rug.” His temper rose another notch, dangerously near the breaking point. She was trying to pin him down. He didn’t stand a chance in a verbal confrontation with her. Clancy had no business messing with his mind. She was always searching, probing, trying to find out why he acted the way he did. He didn’t even know why, and he didn’t want to explore the subject.

  The flippant remarks wouldn’t work. “You’re shutting me out, Mitch.”

  He glared at her. Why couldn’t she just let things alone? Why did she have to push? He waved an angry hand at the bedroom door. “If that were true, the door would have been locked.”

  “That’s not what I mean.” Gripping the armrest, she managed to push herself up, out of the chair. Balancing on one hand, she touched his chest with the other before she fell back on the seat. “In there, in your heart. You’re shutting me out in there.”

  Mitch said nothing. The anger in his eyes dissipated, to be replaced with sadness. If he had been able to efficiently shut her out the way she claimed, he wouldn’t still be here. He wouldn’t have been here to begin with.

  There was no point in telling her that.

  He ran a hand through his wet hair and tried to gather his thoughts. “I think it’s about time we contact your office and get you something to work on. You’re obviously going stir-crazy and it’s making you hallucinate. A project with a deadline will probably turn that right around for you.”

  Clancy refused to be diverted, refused to rise to the bait he was waving before her. “That’s probably the most you’ve ever said to me at one time. And yes, a project with a deadline would be nice. It would make me feel productive again. But we’re not dealing with my problem right now, are we?”

  Taking another towel, he casually rubbed his head, then draped it around his neck. His hair stood on end and he combed it again with his fingers. “We’re not?”

  “No, we’re not.” Her gaze remained steady on his. “We’re dealing with yours.”

  The muscles tightened along his jaw. “I don’t have a problem.”

  Oh, yes, you do.

  She raised her chin, ready to go the whole ten rounds if necessary. “Then why did you clam up at dinner? And why did you abruptly leave the table to take a shower?”

  He didn’t want to talk about this. “I was dirty.”

  Her eyes narrowed into tiny slits, pinning him. “You were avoiding the subject.”

  His temper erupted. Incensed, Mitch pulled the towel from his shoulders and threw it on the floor. “What the hell are you talking about? What subject?” His voice vibrated around the room like thunder looking for an outlet.

  She wasn’t going to be intimidated. She’d been through too much to shrink back now. It was almost as if they were sliding down the same path again toward dissolution. It seemed that the better she became, the more he slipped away from her. Except this time around, she’d seen a side of him that she hadn’t before, a gentle, kinder, nurturing side. And she wasn’t about to let him slip away from her again. Not without knowing the real reason why.

  “I can shout, too, Mitch.” Her voice rose, gaining breadth and volume. “I can shout as loud as you.”

  When he reached for his T-shirt, she blocked his way with the chair. “I’m not the only potential invalid in the room.”

  His head snapped up as he looked at her. His eyes warned her not to go on.

  “You wouldn’t let me hide behind that label,” she continued relentlessly. “Well, I won’t let you do it, either.”

  He took a breath, then released it. A tiny fragment of calm returned. And with it, distance. “You’re getting yourself worked up over nothing. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  The hell he didn’t. She had to get through to him. He wasn’t leaving this room until she made some sort of headway.

  “Legs aren’t all that can be paralyzed, Mitch. Something’s frozen inside of you, something you won’t talk about. What did I say at the table that got to you?”

  She’d been over and over it in her mind as she’d waited for him to get out of the shower. None of it made any sense. “What is it about the burglaries that bothers you?”

  His expression was cold, removed. She hardly knew him. “Not solving them.”

  He hadn’t backed off when she had lashed out at him and told him to leave. She wasn’t about to back off now. She could be every bit as tenacious as he was.

  “It’s more than that.” Slowly, it came together for her. At least part of it did. “When I asked you if you knew who it was, there was a strange look on your face.” She stopped. It didn’t seem possible. Was he protecting someone? Mitch? “Do you know who it is?”

  Mitch said nothing.

  For a moment, Clancy felt as if her heart had stopped. This just didn’t make sense. Mitch was the most honest person who had ever walked the face of the earth. “You do, don’t you?”

  Suddenly, there seemed to be no sense in shadowboxing with her any longer. The will was drained from him. Mitch sat down on the edge of the bed. The towel hitched up on his thigh, dampness darkening it in sections.

  “No.” He shook his head. “I’m not sure.”

  She studied his face, waiting for an expression she could read. “But you suspect.”

  His eyes shifted toward hers. God, there was so much she didn’t know. So much he didn’t want her to know. “Yeah.”

  Could he actually be protecting someone? Could everything she believed to be true about him be a lie? No, she would have known. In her heart, she would have known. There had to be another explanation.

  “Who?”

  He knew her. She wasn’t going to give up until he told her. She might as well know, he thought. Maybe then she’d understand why there was no future for them. Maybe then she’d understand exactly who it was she was dealing with. Someone who ultimately wasn’t worthy of her. Someone whose father was a thief. Since he knew what his father had done and had never brought him to justice, that made him just as guilty as Sam—more, since he professed to be an officer of the law. His life was a lie. He was a hypocrite who wasn’t deserving of someone like Clancy.

  “Sam Mitchell.” He saw the question rising in her eyes. “My father.”

  She could only stare at him, dumbstruck. If she weren’t bound by the
wheelchair, she would have sunk down onto something, certain that her legs couldn’t have supported her. “What?”

  “My father,” he repeated. The word felt odd on his tongue, foreign. He hadn’t had much occasion to use it over the years.

  “You’re kidding.”

  His laugh was short, self-deprecating and entirely without humor. “Do I look as if I’m kidding?”

  Restless, he wanted to stand, to move. But he wanted to look her in the eyes, for perhaps the last time, and it was easier to do that sitting down.

  “Sam Mitchell’s the reason I became a cop. I always believed in a system of checks and balances.” He had no idea where that had come from. His mother, probably. “My father was a thief, so I had to be on the other side of the law to make up for it.” And he was still trying. Very, very hard.

  It seemed too incredible to believe. He’d never told her about his parents. She’d just assumed they were both dead and that the relationship hadn’t been too good while they’d been alive. She’d never guessed the reason for it.

  “And you think he’s the one stealing the paintings?”

  Mitch had wrestled with the problem as far as he could go. All the evidence pointed toward his father. “Yes.”

  She knew only as much as she’d read in the newspapers about the case. She hadn’t paid particular attention to it because she had had no idea that Mitch was investigating the crimes, much less that his father was involved.

  Even now he wasn’t elaborating. “Why? Did you find his fingerprints?”

  That would have put it to rest. And spared him some of the agonizing he’d gone through. “No, but something just as damning.”

  Mitch looked out the window. It was still light outside. Why did it feel so black? It was because the past kept trying to catch up to him. A past he’d had no hand in forging, but one that had forged him.

  “When he wasn’t involved in a con, my father liked to dabble in artwork. He had two consuming passions in his life—electronics and expensive paintings. The one paid for the other.”