Give Him the Slip (21 page)

Okay, babe. What's the decision here?
He
wanted to start tapping his foot. Instead, he sat beside her once again. Closer
this time. He couldn't stop himself.

"Although, I have to tell you, Luke, this conversation feels
a bit like a negotiation, and that has solicitation overtones."

Conversation, negotiation... "Solicitation! Oh, for crying out
loud. I'm not soliciting you for sex. I'm trying to communicate, to make sure
we have no misunderstandings. I'm asking just how friendly you feel like
being."

This time the sound of her laughter flowed through him like warm,
intoxicating whisky. "Pretty friendly," she said. "Except, of
course, that I'm in no shape to demonstrate. My ribs..."

Oh, hell. He'd forgotten.
God, I'm a pig.
"I'd like to
dig Jerry Grevas up and kill him again." When she shot him a stern look,
he added, "Jesus, I was speaking figuratively."

"I knew that."

"Besides, I couldn't dig him up. He's laid out like a salmon
in the morgue."

"Okay. Right. Well, okay."

"Okay, what?"

"Okay, privileges granted. Now, how about we seal our
friendship with a kiss?"

She didn't have to ask twice. He caught her hair in his hand and
pulled her toward him. Her lips were hot and clever, and when her tongue made a
lazy sweep into his mouth, he felt a strong jolt of pure, primal lust.

He'd kissed a lot of women in his time, but this time, this woman,
was different. Scare-the-hell-out-of-a-man different.

Luke wasn't stupid. He knew this wasn't just lust. It was
something else. Something too frightening to admit.

They both were breathing heavily when they finally broke apart.
Luke moved away from her, scrambling for air, fumbling for words. "I, uh,
whoa. I guess we'd better... I'd better... I need to go get my truck."

"Where is it?"

"Up at the lake. Lovers' Point."

"I hear it's beautiful up there. I've never been."

Luke trailed a finger down her petal-soft cheek. "I'll take
you sometime."

She closed her eyes and drew a deep breath that called his
attention to her breasts. His mouth literally watered.

"Tomorrow," she said. "How about we go tomorrow? At
sunset. I'll drive you up to get your truck tomorrow night. You can use my van
in the meantime."

That stopped him. "Your van? Your minivan? I'm not driving a
minivan!"

She turned her face and nipped at his finger. "Lovers' Point
seems like a good place to discuss Bala Hissar."

He shuddered. "Give me your keys."

For appearances' sake, Luke slept at his father's house. He
refused, however, to totally destroy his vow and sleep beneath his father's
roof, so he spent the night in a lounge chair beside the pool, dreaming
nightmares of hospitals and blood. He awoke in a sweat to birdsong as the sun
peeked above the trees. His eyes felt gritty, his muscles stiff. He threw his
arm over his eyes and let out a groan that ended abruptly when an intriguing
thought occurred.

Maddie. It's tomorrow.

Suddenly, he felt downright chipper.

Luke rolled off the lounge chair and stripped off his shirt,
eyeing the inviting water of the pool. With his duffel bag in his truck up at
the lake, he had no change of clothes, so he shucked off his shorts and boxers,
too, before diving into the deep end.

As he swam one lap after another, Luke couldn't stop the memories.
He'd spent a lot of hours in this—to quote Matt quoting Jed Clampett—cement
pond. Games of Marco Polo and shark with his brothers. Diving for the lost city
of Atlantis. The traditional greased-watermelon scramble on the Fourth of July.
God, that had been an all-out war.

Because Branch Callahan was Branch Callahan, he hadn't settled for
a normal backyard-sized pool. He'd built an Olympic-sized pool to suit his
Olympic-sized ego. Three times every summer—Memorial Day, Fourth of July, and
Labor Day—he invited every family with kids at Fain Elementary to come for
barbecue and pool games. The money scramble was a hit with the majority of the
guests. Branch divided the children by age groups, then threw a thousand
dollars' worth of nickels, dimes, and quarters into the pool and let the kids
have at it.

Being the rich bastards they were, Luke and his brothers preferred
the watermelon scramble. Once the pool had been stripped of its silver, ol'
Branch brought out the watermelons and the jars of Vaseline. He greased up the
melons and tossed them in the water, and then the battles began. Thrown elbows
and kicks and punches to the gut—every year at least one of the Callahans
scored a black eye in the attempt to be the one to hoist the melon from the
pool and win the sweet summer prize.

Luke's mother claimed to hate the game. She'd fuss over their
bumps and bruises, then cluck her tongue over the smears of Vaseline the pool
cleaners invariably missed. Yet, she was the one who made a special trip out to
Dennis Knautz's watermelon patch to pick out the perfect melons. Good summers,
good times.

Luke plowed through the water, making racing turns at each end of
the pool, pushing his body to clear his mind. Still, the memories came. Mom in
her Katharine Hepburn sunhat, Jackie O sunglasses, and Doris Day swimsuit. His
father doing backflips off the diving board. Matt holding John by the hands,
Mark getting his legs, swinging the youngest Callahan, one, two, three, then
into the deep end. All of them laughing. Laughing.

The laughter died with their mother.

Shit.
Luke dove in the deep end, planted his feet on the bottom, then
used every bit of strength in his legs to shoot himself upward. His head broke
the surface, and he gave it a hard shake, flinging the water out of his eyes
before he reached for the side and hauled himself out of the water.

He stood beside the pool, naked and dripping and grieving, until a
towel hit him from behind and Branch Callahan's gruff voice said, "Put
some clothes on, boy. There's women in the house. You'll give the Garza sisters
heart attacks." Great. Just what he needed.

Luke couldn't help but fall back into the rebellious patterns of
old, taking his own sweet time to dry off. His father waited to speak until
he'd wrapped the bright white towel around his hips and secured it.
"That's an ugly-looking scar on your belly."

The knife wound was three years older than the bullet that had
caught his shoulder in Miami. The South American doctor had done the best he
could in the middle of the jungle, but the results weren't pretty. Luke didn't
respond to his father, instead sauntering slowly over to his pile of clothes.

"Maria is making pecan waffles," Branch said.

Translation,
your favorite.
Luke still didn't speak.

"Since Madeline is in your room, I had Juanita put a shaving
kit in Matt's bathroom for you. Stuff inside is all new. Didn't know if you
used foam or gel when you shave so we gave you both."

The entreaty in his father's voice made Luke uncomfortable. It was
pathetic, really, and were he any other man than Branch Callahan, Luke would
take pity on him. But where his father was concerned, Luke remained fresh out
of pity. That all died in a Balkan mountain village right along with John.

Luke broke his silence with a curt, "Look. Don't be reading
anything into this situation that isn't there. I don't want to be here, and I'm
not staying a minute longer than I have to. Things will go smoother if you just
leave me the hell alone."

"I'd like to talk to you, son."

"Too bad. Talking's five years too late." Not pausing to
pull on his britches, Luke stalked toward the house, emotion churning in his
gut. Helluva way to begin a day.

At least he had "tomorrow" to look forward to.

That thought, along with the aroma of frying bacon and home-cooked
waffles that greeted him when he entered the kitchen, managed to dispel the
early-morning black clouds, and he paused beside the cook to give her a kiss on
the cheek. "Good morning, beautiful."

"Mister Luke!" Juanita Garza swatted his hand with a
spatula when he snagged a piece of cooked bacon from a plate.
"Dios
mio!
If you don't have the nerve! No shirt, no shoes. No
shorts."

"No waffles!" piped up her sister's voice from the
dining room.

Luke fired off some flattery in Spanish, then grabbed a cup of
coffee before heading upstairs to shower, chased by the elderly women's
laughter.

Outside Maddie's doorway, he paused, listening for signs of
stirring. He rapped softly on the door. "Maddie?"

Nothing.

Setting his clothes and coffee cup on a nearby console table, he
turned the doorknob and sneaked a look inside. Sleeping Beauty. Sleeping
Black-and-Blue Beauty, he corrected with a frown.
Damn that Jerry Grevas.

Luke stepped silently into her room, hoping that some of the color
on her face resulted from shadows, not bruises. She let out a little snuffle
and he smiled.

Luke moved to the window and adjusted the curtains, allowing in
just a little more light. Then he approached the bed and sucked in a whistle.
No shadows, those.
Poor thing.

Damn that Jerry Grevas to hell.

Unable to stop himself, Luke reached out and touched her,
smoothing her hair away from a cut just above her right eyebrow. He wished he
could lean down and kiss all those hurts away.

Her lashes flickered; her eyes opened. "Good morning," Luke
said.

She smiled, slowly, sweetly. "It's tomorrow."

"Oh, yeah."

"I'm glad."

"Me, too. Didn't think it'd ever get here."

Her gaze flicked over him. "Nice towel."

"I had a swim. I'm headed for the shower. Wanted to check on
you first."

"I'm—" She went to rise. Gasped a breath.

"Maddie?"

"Oh. Oh. Ow!"

"Maddie? Honey?" He tried to help her as she groaned her
way to a seated position.

"Oh, wow. Oh, shoot." She panted like a tired puppy.
"Jeez-o-pete, I hurt!"

That's when he had his Homer Simpson
D'oh!
moment. Where
the hell had he left his brain? The second day following blunt-force trauma was
always worse than the first. "Did the doc give you any pain meds?"

"I didn't think I'd need them."

"Tough girl." Foolish girl. "You can probably use a
soak in a hot tub. Let me go run the water, then I'll help you to the
bathroom."

He took it as a sign of just how badly she felt that she didn't
argue with him.

As the tub filled with steaming water, Luke made sure any items
she might need were placed within easy reach. His gaze snagged on a stack of
magazines in a basket on the floor.
Hot Rod, Popular Mechanics, Playboy.
He
checked the dates. Current. Then the address label, LUKE CALLAHAN. 3219
AVONDALE. BRAZOS BEND, TX. "He's still renewing my subscriptions?"

For God's sake. The man had too much money and lived in a fantasy
world.

When he returned to the bedroom Maddie was struggling to her feet.
"Hold on, there; I'll help."

"This is humiliating," she said as he slipped a
supporting arm around her. "I wasn't near this sore yesterday."

"Today and tomorrow will be the worst of it. I know from
experience. You'll feel better after your bath, but it'll be a few days before
you feel like your normal self."

"But...
?"

"But what, honey?"

She sounded like a disappointed kid on Christmas morning as she
said, "It's tomorrow!"

Tomorrow. Well, hell. "Yeah, Red. I know." Then, in a
sad attempt to cheer her up, he offered an encouraging smile and crooned,
"But it's only a day away."

She snorted and he winked, then retired to Matt's bedroom, where
he brooded while he showered and dressed. The day that had started off bad hit
bottom when he went downstairs. Juanita Garza had burned the pecan waffles.

That afternoon while seated on the sofa in her living room
surrounded by the flotsam of last night's attack, Maddie was not a happy
camper. "Why did he have to dump all my pictures? I'm particular about my
pictures. It'll take me weeks to get them back in order."

"I know it'll make you mad, but I can't say I'm sorry."
Kathy held up a photograph of Maddie and her parents at the Hollywood Bowl.
"These photos are a treasure trove. Look, there's one with your father and
Keith Richards. These photos should be in a museum. I can't believe you've
never shown them to me before. They're part of history!"

They were family and they were personal. Some things Maddie didn't
want to share with the world. Her eighth birthday party was one of them. The
fact that her old terrorist boyfriend had called twice today was another.