Forget Me Not (31 page)

The doorbell rang, startling her from her bleak thoughts. Who would that be? Reggie wasn't allowed to come over while Mom was at work. The dog started barking shrilly. Mallory stepped from the bathroom to investigate.

Peeking through the narrow window by the door, she was surprised to find a policeman standing outside. Her mother had warned her many times not to open the door for strangers, but this was a policeman. By the look on his face, he had something important to share with her. What if Gabe had been hurt or... or killed, Mallory thought, reaching for the lock. She grabbed the dog's collar, holding Priscilla as she cracked the door.

"Mallory Troy?" the officer asked, his eyes obscured by dark sunglasses.

"Yes?"

"I'm Officer Clemens," he introduced himself. "You need to come with me."

At her hip, Priscilla growled. "Why?" Mallory asked. "Is there something wrong?"

The officer frowned at her impertinence. "I think you know," he said with disapproval. "Are you going to walk out of here or do I need to cuff you?"

The blood slipped from Mallory's face. Somehow the cops had found out about Reggie and the marijuana. God, she was in for it now! "Are you going to call my mom?" she asked, frightened in a way she'd never been before.

"Absolutely. Let's go."

Mallory glanced down at the dog, who continued to growl at the officer, her fur bristling. "I'll walk you later, Pris," she promised, giving the dog a farewell pat. With that, she let herself out, locked the door behind her, and followed the officer stoically down the steps toward his waiting vehicle.

"Hello?" Gabe reached for Master Chief's telephone, thinking that it might be Hannah Geary.

"Gabe, it's Helen."

Just the sound of her voice caused his heart to leap from despondency, but then her urgency registered. He'd just been thinking about her, wondering if he shouldn't call and check up on his family. "What's wrong?" he asked, sitting up straighten

"It's Mallory. I haven't seen her since this morning when I went to work."

Gabe looked around Master Chief's empty house as if he might find Mallory lurking behind the heavy furniture. There was only Petty Officer Rodriguez, sitting across from him engrossed in a
National Geographic.
"Have you tried Reggie's?" Gabe asked.

"He says he called her around four and no one answered the phone. Something's wrong, Gabe. The dog had an accident in the house which means she hadn't been walked. Mallory's never forgotten to walk the dog."

The petty officer lowered his magazine to look at Gabe inquiringly. Sebastian had ordered him to babysit while he was out taking Leila on a date.

"How about the Rec Center on base?"

"No, I called there, too. No one's seen her." Her voice seemed to rise on a wave of panic.

"Okay, listen," Gabe soothed, getting up and pacing to the kitchen where Rodriguez wasn't as likely to overhear his private conversation. "She's probably just having a rebellious moment. She's been pretty glum over the phone."

"Yeah, no kidding."

"Maybe she's just acting out. It's my fault." He shook his head. "I should have talked to her some more, made her realize this was about me and not about her at all."

"What do I do?"

She sounded so distraught he wanted to leap through the phone line and pull her close. If Rodriguez had a vehicle, he could borrow it and be over there in a flash. Then he thought of Master Chief's Falcon, sitting in the carport outside. Sebastian was borrowing Westy's car to take Leila on a date.

"I'll be right over," he promised.

"Are you sure? I could come pick you up."

"No, you need to stay by the phone. I'll be fine."

"Okay," she agreed and hung up.

Gabe scoured the house for Sebastian's keys, but he couldn't find them.

"Sir, you're not supposed to go anywhere," Rodriguez reminded him, barring the exit.

"Step aside, PO3," Gabe snapped impatiently. "My wife needs me."

"Then I'll go with you," the young man offered. "I have the keys to Master Chief's car." He dug into his pocket and produced them.

Gabe snatched the keys out of the young man's hands. "No, thanks. This is family business. I'll deal with it." He pushed past the younger man, who trailed him to the door.

"But Master Chief said. I needed to stay with you!"

Gabe raced outside and jumped into Sebastian's old car, locking it before Rodriguez could claim shotgun. The last thing he needed was some young SEAL spreading rumors about Jaguar's personal life. With nearly all his memories intact, the chance to return to active duty was fast approaching. He couldn't afford family-related issues to slow him down.

At the same time, family came first, not the team. He berated himself for not predicting Mallory's reaction to his absence. He should have made it clear that no matter what his state of mind, he'd always be her father. As a matter of fact, he'd innitiated the process just this morning to have her legally adopted. Wouldn't it be the most awful irony if something happened to her before he could make that dream come true?

Sebastian despised the dress Leila was wearing. He would have thought it the dead-last item she would own, let alone wear, on a first date.

Sitting in the passenger seat beside him, she looked like a nun cloistered in a habit. The black dress went from her ankles to her neck, disguising every inch of her slim, elegant body, except for her arms. It was sleeveless. He supposed he ought to be grateful for that small consolation, but right now her arms were folded across her torso like a shield, which he did not take to be a good sign.

She wore her hair up. Silver earrings shimmered on her earlobes and at least ten assorted silver bracelets jangled on her wrists. She wore slim black sandals that railed to disguise the scarlet toenail polish on her elegant, little toes. Over all, she looked ready to attend a formal cocktail party.

Boy, was she in for a surprise.

His navy Bermuda shirt and light slacks ought to have tipped her off. She made no comment, however, as he pointed Westy's car toward the ocean, driving it just over the speed limit. It was a gorgeous evening, just cool enough to hint of the fall weather to come, but warm enough to sit on the beach and watch the sun go down.

When he pulled into Back Bay Wildlife Refuge, Leila still said nothing, though a quick peek at her revealed a puzzled slant to her eyebrows.

"We're here," he said, flashing her a grin as he zipped into one of the many parking spaces. The refuge was rarely advertised to tourists. Its goal was to offer a sanctuary to sea grasses, wild ponies, and rare birds, not to take in the revenue brought to the beach by its annual visitors. In fact, the only other cars in the parking lot were a Park Ranger SUV and a police car.

Sebastian rounded the vehicle to do his gentlemanly duties, but Leila had already pushed open the door and was stepping out under her own steam.

He turned toward the back of the car to retrieve the picnic paraphernalia he'd packed, while beseeching the Virgin Mary to warm the blood in Leila's veins.

She was his future after retirement. He had to convince her of that; otherwise, what was the point of retiring?

She took the blanket out of his arms without being asked.

"I can carry it," he protested. He had the loaded basket in his other hand and he still needed to close the hatch on the ZX.

"Don't be a chauvinist," she said, her black eyes goading him.

He slammed the car shut with more force than necessary. But he abstained from rising to her taunts, because he sensed that they would fight the same way that they made love— heatedly. And he didn't want to fight with her tonight. No, tonight he would give her no excuse to deny him her heart.

They walked toward the beach in silence. The wind molded Leila's ridiculous dress to her body, making it seem less of a sackcloth than it had first appeared. Sebastian caught a glimpse of bright red silk through one of the dress's armholes. The vision threw his thoughts into a spin.
Madre de Dios,
was she wearing a scarlet bra and matching panties?

His palms, suddenly sweaty, caused his grip on the basket to slip. In that instant his goal for the evening shifted from convincing Leila to risk her heart to him—although that was still the long-range plan—to convincing Leila to take off that hideous dress.

They would need to talk, first. He would need to be soft-spoken and unthreatening to attain his goal. "Let's go into the dunes," he said, pointing inland.

She complied with surprising acquiescence. He realized the wind was playing havoc with her silky black hair.

They came up on a pristine valley surrounded by mounds of white sand and sea grass, which kept the wind at bay. The unblemished bowl felt soft beneath Sebastian's loafers. He kicked his shoes off and turned to take the blanket from Leila's hands, brushing his fingers over hers intentionally. She jerked away from his touch. He took it for a good sign.

With the enormous blanket quilting their nest, he set the basket down in the center and gestured for Leila to sit. He sat beside her, the basket at their knees. He could see her reluctant curiosity as he lifted the lid.

The bottle of wine was the first thing to come out. To his gratification, it was still chilled. Corkscrew and glasses followed. Not plastic cups, mind, but genuine crystal inherited from his grandmother. That was what had made the basket so heavy.

Leila fingered the heavy goblet he passed to her, her eyes reflecting wonder. He filled her glass nearly to the rim.

Let her drink until her blood warms,
he thought.

He opened a Tupperware of sliced celery and carrots, complete with dip, and set it between them. Then he lay back on one elbow and sipped his wine, content to gaze at the object of his desire while she nibbled daintily on a celery stalk.

Crunch.
Her sharp little teeth bit into the stick and she chewed, repeating the action until the celery was gone. She took a sip of the wine, and her eyes widened. Her gaze flew to his, and she sniffed the aroma just to be sure.

"This is Columbia Crest Chardonnay," she exclaimed.

It was the second thing she'd said to him all evening, other than calling him a chauvinist.

"Yes," Sebastian said, immensely relieved that she'd spoken again—and impressed that she knew her wines.

"You like good coffee, too," she added, bringing up the other morning.

Recalling his embarrassment that day, he felt himself blush and was grateful to his Mexican ancestors for his swarthy skin. "I do," he said evenly. "I am particular about my food."

Leila frowned. "Me too," she admitted, taking another sip.

He saw his opening and jumped straight in. "Then we have something in common," he replied.

"You think so?" Her tone was suddenly as chilly as the glass in his hand.

"How can you deny it?" He took a pull on his drink, needing its courage quickly. The subject of their future together had come up faster than he was ready: "You know we are good together." Jesus, the men would die laughing if they heard him.

Leila narrowed her eyes at him. "You promised we would eat dinner together, nothing more."

"Ah, you're hungry," he said, glad for the reprieve.

He set his glass and hers securely in the sand, and then he began pulling out their dinner: grilled chicken breasts, potato salad, and barbecued baked beans. Leila was subtly inspecting the fare. "You made this yourself?" she asked, coming to the correct conclusion.

"I like to cook," he said with a shrug. "And you?"

She shrugged as if to pretend she could take it or leave it, but he suspected the former. With a smug smile, Sebastian reached for the food and began dishing out the meal.

"Was your husband a chauvinist?" he asked, still rankling from her earlier accusation.

She picked up her plate and stabbed a fork at her potato salad. "He was Turkish," she said abruptly. "The culture is male-centered."

"But you're Turkish, too," he pointed out. "So you knew what to expect."

Her eyes flashed at him. "I'm an American," she said. "I was born and raised in Virginia."

"I'm Mexican," he added, raising a spoonful of beans to his mouth. "I was born and raised in Puerto Vallarta."

"That's another male-centered culture," Leila muttered.

Sebastian shrugged, not the least offended. "My father died when I was twelve. My mother raised all eight of us alone after that. It wasn't easy for her. A man can be a partner in life."

She put her fork down slowly. "I'm sorry your father died," she said, proving she did have a heart after all. Long lashes hid her eyes as she toyed with her chicken.

"And your parents?" he asked. "Where do they live?"

"They went back to their homeland, to the clear waters of the Mediterranean."

"Any siblings?" he prodded.

"I have a brother who lives in California. I see him once a year."

Her answer drove home the depth of her isolation. While he didn't live near his brothers and sisters, all of whom lived in Texas, he made a point to visit them and call them often, provided he was not at sea or on a mission.

He wanted to ask about her husband, who had apparently abandoned her, but he sensed that subject was still taboo, given the limited time they'd known each other.

"Listen," she suddenly said, confirming his speculations. "I didn't come out with you tonight to get to know you better."

He gave her a grim little smile. "Why did you come out with me?" he asked, playing along.

"To apologize." She took a quick sip of her wine. "I had no right to withhold my name from you that... that night." Her olive complexion could not quite disguise the pretty pink color that suffused her face. "Even though men do it all the time, that doesn't make it right. I ought to have told you my name."

He'd asked her. Plenty of times.
Call me whatever you
like,
she'd said in her throaty voice. It had turned him on at first that she could be anything he wanted. He'd surmised for a while that she was a hooker. Why else would she be reluctant to give her name? But later that night, when he'd found her surprisingly self-conscious, he'd known she wasn't a woman of the night. She was a good girl going off the deep end. And then he'd been desperate to know her name, only she wouldn't give it to him.