Outsider (7 page)

Her eyes blazed. “That is none of your business,” she said hotly.

“Anyone who comes into the building is my business, especially now.” He stood up. “We've got drug smugglers running around here with automatic weapons,” he said.

“Yes, I heard about the shoot-out,” she replied. “Miss Clayburn saved your life.” She didn't add that her heart had almost stopped beating when she realized he could have died before she even knew he was here. All those years of pain and heartache, and she couldn't stop worrying about him.

“Mine and Hunter's and Cobb's,” he agreed. “If they're in the right sort of mood, drug smugglers will take out anything moving—including a child.”

She knew more about that than he realized. “I hardly think they're likely to attack the canteen,” she pointed out.

“A week ago, I might have agreed with you.” He moved close to her suddenly, and she gazed up at him, too surprised to react.

He stared down at her with angry dark eyes, memory haunting him as he recalled how she'd looked that one night, with her long blond hair around her head on the pillow, her brown eyes shocked as he touched her intimately, her gasp of pleasure followed by a moan so graphic…!

He groaned under his breath as he saw the helpless attraction on her face. Amazing, he thought, after what he'd done to her.

His right hand went hesitantly to her soft, flushed cheek and rested there gently. His dark eyes were full of shadows. “I've made a hell of a lot of mistakes in my life,” he said quietly. “I guess I didn't think about the damage I did.”

She stared back at him, a little unnerved by the contact, but too helplessly enthralled to move away from it. His touch still had the power to make her hungry. “You and Maureen left a trail of broken lives behind you and never looked back,” she accused huskily. “It's a little late for an attack of conscience.”

“What do you mean, broken lives?” he asked curiously.

Her face closed up. “Maybe you'll find out one day,” she said. Her voice shook as his thumb smoothed gently over her lower lip.

He watched her reaction with almost clinical curiosity. “I drank like a fish,” he said unexpectedly. “I got into fights. I lost jobs. I ended up as close to the bottom as a man can get without dying. Then my best friend's girl got me into therapy and I began to realize that I was self-destructive. Even so, it took a long time for me to get my life back together. I was obsessed with Maureen.”

She drew away from the pressure of his hand. Maureen, again. It was always Maureen. Why did it still hurt, after all those years? “Perhaps if you'd stayed sober, you'd still be with her.”

His voice was thick with pain when he said, “She didn't want my children. She didn't approve of racial mixing.”

She almost bit her tongue trying not to react to that statement.

“So I suppose it was just as well that I was sterile,” he concluded heavily. “My lifestyle wasn't conducive to fatherhood, anyway.”

“Lots of kids grow up in the military without major problems,” she pointed out.

He hesitated. His eyes narrowed. “Sarina, I wasn't exactly in the military.”

She blinked. “But you were, when you were guarding my father. You were in military intelligence…”

“That was my cover story. Actually I was working for the CIA,” he interrupted, “as a specialist in counterterrorism, private security and hostage negotiation. Hunter and I worked together for the Company for a few years, just after I met you.”

She stared at him, trying to reconcile what he was saying with what she thought she knew about him. “You were a…spy?”

He shrugged. “In a manner of speaking. Your father had clandestine ties to a foreign government and threats had been made. We were called in.”

She was speechless. She hadn't known that.

“Afterward,” he continued quietly, “I was in a…conflict overseas, helping support a small African government against a potential military coup when I got drunk, got careless and lost my arm.” He didn't mention that he'd worked in Africa as a mercenary. He didn't want her to know everything about his past. Not yet.

She leaned against the door facing. “Bernadette saw it,” she said uneasily. “I didn't realize at the time that it was you. But she saw it happen. She told me about it the first day you were here.”

“Yes,” he replied, searching her eyes. “And she'd never seen me in her life. So my question is this—how did she know such an intimate thing about a total stranger?”

S
ARINA WASN
'
T TOUCHING
that question. Bernadette had a solid link to Colby and she didn't dare elaborate on why. “I don't know,” she said evasively.

“Has she done this before?” he persisted.

She hesitated. She didn't want to tell him how proficient Bernadette was at reading the future. She remembered that Colby's father had the same gift, and that Colby must certainly know about it. She didn't dare risk having Colby know so much about the child. “She did dream that her grandfather was going to die,” she said, downplaying her daughter's amazing gift.

“Your father?”

“No. Her…father's father.”

He scowled. “You knew him?”

She turned away. “It's none of your business now,” she said. “My private life is just that—private.”

“Why couldn't he find Bernadette's father, then?” he demanded.

“Because his son hated him,” she returned, glaring at him over her shoulder. “They'd had no contact for years.”

He understood that situation. He and his own father hadn't spoken for years before the older man's death. He searched her face, noticing the lines, the dark circles under her eyes. She looked older than her years. He recalled what Hunter had said about the life she'd had.

“Everybody turned against you,” he said softly, frowning. “You were a sweet, loving woman. You never deserved such treatment.”

Her expression was unreadable. “What was it you used to say? That whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger? I got stronger.”

His gaze slid down her body. She was just as desirable as she'd been when he first knew her. But he'd cheated her. He couldn't blame her for hating him. He drew in a long breath. “Of all my mistakes,” he murmured, “you're my biggest. I should never have touched you.”

“I never understood why you did,” she added coldly.

He couldn't admit that he'd been feverishly hungry for her, despite their forced nuptials. Even the anger hadn't stopped him. He hated knowing that he'd hurt her that badly. His face hardened. “Know what the psychologist said? She said that Maureen wasn't my problem…my problem was you. What I did to you drove me right into a downward spin. I thought you were experienced. I do have some memory of the things I said to you when I left you.”

So did she. She couldn't manage to meet his eyes when she recalled them.

“Maureen was just an excuse I gave myself for drinking,” he said heavily, “because it hurt too much to dig deeper into my past.”

She wanted to believe him. She couldn't. His passion for Maureen had been too much a part of their lives. And apparently he still didn't know what Maureen had done to get Colby. She turned away.

“You don't believe it.”

She shook her head. “I was never more than a footnote in your life. We both know that. Anyway, it doesn't matter now. Move on, Colby,” she said with a trace of humor in her voice. “I have.”

He actually winced as she walked away from him.

 

T
HE QUESTION OF HOW
Bernadette knew about his arm haunted him. His behavior toward the child did, too. She had spirit. He couldn't forget those black eyes spitting fire when she called him a man-killer. She was no coward. She was back in the canteen the next day, but Colby was careful not to go near it. He didn't want to upset her again. It had hurt him that she cried. She seemed to be a tough, intelligent child. It wouldn't do to hurt her proud spirit. He'd been very much like her at her age.

Things had progressed in the drug smuggling case. Colby and Hunter were privy to a piece of tape on which Cara Dominguez met with an associate in a retro coffeehouse called The Beat, courtesy of DEA agent Alexander Cobb's friend, Jodie Clayburn. It turned out that Cara did know something about the missing shipment of drugs, but she was careful not to tell her associate very much. Perhaps she suspected that Jodie's presence in the coffeehouse wasn't totally innocent. She'd been out of jail on bail on drug smuggling charges, but she suddenly skipped town and vanished. Cobb subsequently fired one of his agents, a man named Kennedy, for passing information to the smugglers. Kennedy had been arrested, along with the warehouse security guard. Cobb knew that was one of the leaks he'd been searching for. But Cy Parks had said that there were a couple of leaks among government sources. Colby knew that Cobb wasn't dead certain that Cara didn't have any more “moles” in his office, so he kept a lot of information from Colby and even from Hunter.

Colby and Hunter were still looking for that shipment of drugs, certain that they were somewhere in Ritter's warehouse. But they couldn't find them, not even when they had drug-sniffing dogs brought in covertly by a member of Cobb's drug task force. The dogs walked around the rows and rows of boxes on pallets, but they didn't give any signal at all. One of them nosed the wall a time or two, but Colby figured out why easily—some male dog had managed to get into the place and hiked his leg on it. If one dog left a urine trail, every other male dog who came along would add his scent to it. The drugs had to be in one of the higher boxes, but it would require a lot of lifting and a lot of examination to find anything at all. Considering the size of the warehouse, it would have given several employees job security for half a year. Ritter couldn't spare the manpower or the time to go through every box on the place.

“I know the drugs are here, damn it!” Hunter muttered late Friday.

“We'll find them,” Colby assured him.

“Think so?” He glanced at his watch and grimaced. “I've got to leave.”

“It's half an hour until quitting time,” Colby pointed out.

“Nikki's in a play tonight at her school,” the other man replied. “She and Bernadette have major parts in a play for the Harvest Festival.”

“Ritter said that they go to the same school.”

Hunter nodded, his expression wry. “She and Bernadette are best friends. Nikki likes the school a lot. So do we and Sarina.”

They passed by the canteen, where Bernadette was busy drawing.

“She's really good with an art pencil,” Colby said with reluctant praise.

“And not only with pencil and paper,” Hunter replied. “You should hear her sing. She has the voice of an angel.”

It was odd, Colby thought, that he should feel pride in the child, when he'd given her nothing more than hostility. There was a disturbing link between them. Few knew about his private life; he seldom shared it. But the child was, somehow, right inside it.

“Is she singing tonight?”

Hunter glanced at him curiously. “As a matter of fact, she has a solo.”

Colby shifted his weight restlessly. “Where is this school?” he asked. “And can anyone go to see the program, or do you have to be a parent?”

Hunter smiled to himself. “You can go with Jennifer and me if you'd like to.”

Colby hesitated. He didn't know how Sarina or the child would react to his presence. But he was curious. Very curious. “Yes,” he said after a minute. “I would.”

“I'm going home early because we've got plumbers coming. Jennifer has to drop Nicole off at five, to get ready for the program. Come over to the house about six and we can go together. That suit you?”

Colby nodded. “I'll be there.” He turned back toward his office. He didn't look at the older man. “Thanks.”

“No problem.”

Colby went back to his office and opened the lower drawer. There was a bag in it from a local art supply store. It was an impulse purchase he'd made, one that he didn't really understand. Before he could talk himself out of it, he took out the bag and walked back to the canteen.

The child looked up when he entered. Her big, brown eyes were eloquent. She stilled at once, her expression uncertain and apprehensive, as if she expected a new frontal attack.

Colby put the bag down on the table in front of her. He pushed it toward her. Then he just stood there.

Bernadette reached out with a small hand, curious, and opened it. Inside were a real artist's sketch pad, several charcoal pencils, a professional eraser, and a whole big metal container of pastel pencils. There was even a book on preliminary sketching.

“Wow,” she said softly. She looked up at him quizzically. “They're for me?”

He nodded.

She smiled shyly. It brightened her whole face. Her dark eyes glowed as she met his. “Thank you.”

He shrugged. “You have real talent.”

The smile grew. Then it faded. She looked guilty. “I'm sorry.”

He frowned. “For what?”

She shrugged. “That picture I drew. It wasn't a nice thing to do.”

He moved a little closer, his expression curious. “How did you know about that place…about what happened there?”

Her dark eyes were troubled. “I don't really know,” she said honestly. “I've always had it. I see things. I dream things that come true. I saw that happen to you,” she added, pointing toward his left arm. She grimaced. “It was…it was terrible.”

He swallowed. “Yes.”

“My granddaddy said it was a gift, and that I shouldn't be afraid of it, but I am,” she confessed, her eyes lowering to the art supply bag. “I don't want to know bad things.”

“Is it only bad things?”

She nodded. “There's a new one. I can't talk about it. I can't tell Mommy.”

He frowned. “Tell her what?”

She looked up with pain in her small face. “Something bad is going to happen to her,” she said.

He had a curious sinking sensation in his stomach. “Do you know what it is?”

“No, I don't,” she told him. “But Mommy's going to get hurt. I don't know what to do. I can't stop things from happening, I just know about them sometimes.”

The thought of something happening to Sarina was disturbing. He moved closer and knelt beside her chair. He was so tall that his eyes were on a level with hers. “Where is it going to happen?” he asked softly.

Her dark eyes met his. They were bright with worry and fear. “In a big place with boxes,” she said. “At night.”

He frowned. The only place he knew that had boxes was the warehouse. But Sarina had no business that would take her in there, at night or any other time.

“You work with Nikki's daddy,” she said. “Taking care of people who work here.”

He nodded.

“Can you take care of my mommy, too?” she asked. “So that she doesn't get hurt?”

He searched her eyes. “Yes, I can. I won't let anything happen to your mother,” he assured her in a calm, confident tone. “I promise.”

She swallowed. “Thanks,” she said shyly, laying a soft hand tentatively on his broad shoulder.

Her touch made him feel odd inside. He shrugged. “You're welcome.”

“You don't like me,” Bernadette said suddenly.

He felt guilty all over again. He frowned. “It isn't that,” he said hesitantly. “I'm not used to kids. And besides that, I don't…share my life with people,” he tried to explain.

She nodded, as if she actually understood. “Me, neither,” she said, sounding much more adult than her six years would allow. “The other kids think I'm spooky. Or they pick on me on account of I'm…” She hesitated, remembering that she wasn't supposed to tell him she was Apache. “Different,” she added after a short pause.

“Even the Chicanos?” he asked with a smile.

She smiled back. “No. Not them. They get picked on, too, just like me.”

He knew how she felt. He had no special gifts, but he'd been an outsider all his life, in one way or another. First from his people, then from his father, then from society itself. Maureen had taught him never to trust a woman. The world had taught him never to trust people. He was locked up inside himself. He couldn't get out.

“Hunter says that you sing,” he said after an awkward silence.

She nodded. “I'm going to sing tonight at our play.”

“I'm coming to the play with Hunter and Jennifer,” he said.

“You are?” Her eyes were wide and soft, and she reminded him suddenly of his own mother, whom he remembered with love and sadness. It was something about the expression…

She made him uncomfortable. In many ways, she was a potent reminder of all that he'd missed out on in life, of his flaws, his inadequacies. He got to his feet, vaguely uneasy, aware of an odd sensation, as if he were being watched.

He turned, and there was Sarina in the doorway, her face troubled and curious.

Discovered, she wiped the expression from her face and tried not to show how much Colby's tenderness with her child had disturbed her.

“Time to go, pumpkin,” she told her daughter with a warm smile.

“Okay, Mommy. Look what he got me!” she exclaimed, opening the bag.