The Street Where She Lives (2 page)

Ben lifted his head and covered the mouthpiece with one hand. “Did you just get this?” he asked Maria in Spanish.

She nodded her head and looked at him from guarded black eyes.

Fear clawed Ben's belly. “Asada.”

Maria paled at the name.

“Radio the authorities,” he said, still speaking Spanish. “Make sure he was extradited to the States as planned.”

She nodded and turned away.

As helplessness coursed through him, Emily continued to chatter in his ear. “You won't be sorry, Dad! We can all be together. You know, like a family.”

Oh, boy. He'd have to deal with that later. For now, he had bigger issues. Asada had once sworn revenge, and now somehow appeared to be free to carry out his threats.

Five weeks free, if the postmark meant anything.

For the first time he could remember, he only half listened to his daughter's monologue about all the things they could do if he was there. Under other circumstances he'd be amused and a little intimidated by Emily's plans to make them a cozy nuclear family.

Maria came back, speaking in rapid-fire Spanish, shocking Ben, both because she was actually speaking unprompted, and by the words coming out of her mouth.

Five weeks ago, Asada had escaped in the middle of extradition to the States, adding the murder of two guards to his rap sheet in the process, and was thought to be somewhere between North and South America.

Christ. “Emily,” he said hoarsely, gripping the phone. “Tell me about your mom's accident.”

“She was hit by a car.”

“When?”

“A month or so ago, you've been unreachable until now—”

“I know. Who hit her?”

“I don't know. The police haven't caught anyone.”

Ben dragged in a steady breath. “Okay, listen to me. I don't want you to open the door or talk to any strangers, do you understand?”

“Daddy.” She laughed. “I'm twelve, not four.”

“Yes, but—”

“You gave me this talk years ago, remember? Don't worry.”

“Emily—”

“Just say you'll come back here to be with us while Mom gets better.” She hesitated, then went for the kill. “I love you, you know.”

Ah, hell. He was such a goner.

And he was going to South Village, California.

“I love you, too, baby. With all my heart. Now stay safe.”
Please, God.
“I'll be there fast as I can catch a plane.”

E
VEN AT THE
tender age of five, Rachel knew what moving day meant. A new room, a new nanny, all of her toys in new places. She didn't want to go, not again, neither did her sissie, but what they wanted didn't matter.

“Goddamn it girl, suck it up.” This from her father. “Go find your mother if you're going to snivel.”

Her mother waved her nearly empty glass of that stuff that looked like water but smelled bad—it would be years before Rachel came to know vodka was her mother's drink of choice—and said, “Don't look at me, there's nothing I can do.”

A common refrain, one Rachel had learned to live by. With no more control over this move than the last one, or the one before that, she sat on the step, hugged her doll close and waited for the movers.

“Rachel.”

She tried to blink the porch into focus, but suddenly she wasn't five years old anymore, it'd all been just another dream. She'd had a lot of those lately. As it had for the past month, the creeping, insidious pain joined by a nauseous claustrophobia jerked her fully awake. Logically, she knew the claustrophobia was from being trussed up like a mummy. But even worse was the sweat-inducing panic she felt from her complete lack of control over anything, including her own body.

“Oh, good, you're awake.”

She grimaced at the deceptively kind voice of the nurse who carried needles, and used them often. “You couldn't possibly need more blood.”

“Oh, just a little.”

“No way.”

Unperturbed, the nurse sat by Rachel and took out her blood kit.

“I mean it. Don't even think about it.” But even Rachel had to let out a laugh, though it shot a bullet of sharp pain right through her. Most of her was still covered in either soft bandages or plaster casting. She hadn't been able to move on her own since she'd crossed the street a month ago, heading toward Café Delight to have lunch with her agent, Gwen Ariani, and instead had been mistaken for a roadblock by a speeding car.

Among other physical problems she had, her brain seemed to have the hiccups, making coordinating movement a circus event. Her doctor told her that would probably be temporary. Probably. Good God. Forget the fact she needed fine motor skills to maintain her comic strip
Gracie;
things weren't looking real good for the rest of her nice, cozy life. “I am not a pincushion.”

“Spunk.” The short, dark-haired nurse named Sandy nodded approvingly. “Give 'em hell, girl.” She swabbed Rachel's arm, but had the good grace to look apologetic as she wielded the needle. When she was done, she patted Rachel's hand—bandaged to the tips of her still healing fingers. “Oh, and hey, good news. Most of the bandages come off today. Dr. Thompson will be here this morning.”

“And how about the casts?” Rachel found herself coming to life for the first time that day. That
month.

“You're going to go from plaster to air casts.”

“What's the difference?”

“You'll be more mobile and lightweight. It's a good thing.” Sandy headed for the door. “Now, don't you worry your pretty little head over any of the details. I'll be back with the doctor in a few.”

Rachel studied the ceiling, her new hobby. There were eighty-four ceiling tiles in the room. She'd worry her pretty little head all right—the “pretty” part no longer applying, of course. She'd worry because she
knew.
They would release her, maybe as early as the end of the week, but it didn't mean freedom.

For at least a couple of months she needed help, a fate worse than death as far as she was concerned. She'd learned her love of control from her overly controlled, overly authoritative, overly guarded childhood. That she would need someone to help dress her, help her move around, help her in every way, was extremely…frightening.

What she really needed right now was a powerful, virile husband.

Ha!

To get a husband, she'd have to seriously date someone. To do that she'd actually have to let that someone into her life. And to let someone into her life, especially a
male
someone, she'd have to… Well, she'd have to do a whole hell of a lot, including honing up on the social skills she'd let get so rusty.

Since that wasn't about to happen, Rachel had no choice, no choice at all. A nurse. A
temporary
nurse. Either a huge, beefy woman or a male, it didn't really matter at this point. She had so little pride left.

Just as long as she and Emily got to be at home, together, nothing else truly mattered.

Which brought to the surface her greatest worry. How
was she going to manage without being a burden on her teenage alien—er, daughter?

Her hospital room door opened again, and she heard the voice of Sandy, coming back with Dr. Thompson.

Closing her eyes, she feigned sleep. It was unlike her to pretend anything, but in this case, where everyone persisted in talking to her as if she'd suffered permanent brain damage, eavesdropping had become a necessity.

She wanted to know their plans for her, because no way was she accepting anything but release papers. No convalescent care, no way. Forcing her taut muscles to relax wasn't easy. Over a month after the accident she couldn't yet quite remember, and every inch of her still ached.

Even her hair.

And she
itched.
Beneath the cast on her arm and lower leg. Beneath the multitude of healing lacerations. Beneath the stubbly hair growing back after the buzz cut she'd required for surgery to ease the swelling of her brain.

If it didn't hurt to smile, she might have let out a wry one. All her life she'd cultivated her long, blond tresses—only to lose them in one twist of fate.

At least she still had her…what? She didn't have her health, she didn't have her life as she knew it, she couldn't draw, couldn't even hug Emily—as if her daughter even wanted to be hugged.

“If she doesn't hire help, Sandy, she's not going to heal properly.” This from her doctor.

“Well…her daughter was talking to Outpatient Services earlier,” Sandy told him. “She signed up for home care, I believe.”

Rachel stopped breathing. Emily had already arranged for an at-home nurse? Melanie had obviously helped, but
that seemed completely out of character, because though Rachel's sister had come through for her after the accident, it wasn't Mel's usual habit to think ahead for herself, much less someone else.

For years Mel had complained that Rachel didn't need her enough, but the truth was, when Rachel
did
need Mel, when she tried to confide something that was really bothering her, Mel often shrugged it off as not important. That, or she went overboard in her response.

A perfect example had been when Rachel and Ben had split. Feeling like a basket case, she had attempted to talk to Mel about him. But in her exuberant need to protect her baby sister, Mel had taken it as an opening to talk bad about Ben every single time the subject came up. Thirteen years later she was still doing it.

Rachel had learned to keep her problems to herself.

Besides, Mel had already gone above the call of duty, using vacation time from her job in order to take care of Emily while Rachel had been in the hospital, handling the house and all the responsibilities that went with that. Handling everything.

Rachel knew how much Melanie needed to get back to her own life, especially her independence. She and Emily would manage. With—oh, joy—a hired nurse. Having someone in their home, living with them, would make her terribly uncomfortable, but—and this was the good part—she
was
going home.

After a distressingly nomadic childhood, and after being woken at all hours of the day and night to be poked and prodded at for a month, her own bed would be heaven. Quiet, calm, tranquil heaven.

 

E
MILY BOUNCED
into Rachel's hospital room, a barely contained bundle of energy. She wore a tank top, baggy
jeans too loose on her hips and clunky sandals. Her face was completely void of makeup, as she hadn't yet found that particular vice, but she had two silver hoops in each ear. Her bright-green eyes were shining through her too-long blond bangs.

Her ever present laptop was tucked beneath her arm.

In spite of her exhaustion from a brutal physical therapy session, Rachel's heart swelled at the sight of her greatest joy. In having a child, Rachel had learned to share herself, to receive love as well as give it. It was because of Emily that she felt whole.

Whole being relative at the moment.

Given the shift of the shadows on the walls from the gently dancing pines outside, hours had passed since Dr. Thompson had removed some of the bandages. She was now a new person. Granted, a new person with little to no hair, fresh new air casts on one arm and leg, and a healing broken pelvis. A new person who still hurt…but she felt marginally better nevertheless.

Or at least lighter. The bandages on her multitude of abrasions—which had covered part of her face, her torso and good arm—were gone. Because she could, she bent her right arm, watching with relief when the still-scabbed limb did what it should. And if she ignored the wild trembling that indicated it was weak as a baby's—something her physical therapist promised to fix “in no time”—things were good. “Emily…look at me go.”

Emily looked suitably impressed. “Nice. Before you know it, you'll be drawing again.”

At the moment, she couldn't even lift a pencil, much less think with the wit required for
Gracie,
—a character who was brave, brassy and bold, everything Rachel wasn't—but she'd get there.

God, please, let me get there.

To hide the fear from the girl who saw everything, she forced a smile. “Did you come with Aunt Mel?”

“Yeah.” Emily plopped into the bedside chair, her pixie-blond hair once again swinging into her expressive eyes. She set down her laptop. “She's busy flirting with your doctor again, but as my supposedly mature aunt, she didn't want me to know, so she sent me in here.”

Melanie had a long history with men. Very long.

“She thinks I don't know about the birds and the bees.” A quick cheeky grin flashed, reminding Rachel that before the accident, she and Emily had been on shaky ground due to Emily's certainty she knew everything, which naturally meant Rachel knew nothing.

“I bet I know more than she does,” Emily added.

A sexually aware preteen—every parent's nightmare. “Emily—”

“Oh, Mom, I'm just kidding.”

Uh-huh. But no way was she going to start a grudge match today. “You really doing okay?” She wished she could reach up and touch Emily's face, her hair. She missed their closeness, missed everything. “Tell me the truth.”

“Well, I'm better than you. The nurse told me they took out all your stitches. And most of the bandages, too.” Leaning in, Emily scrutinized every inch of her face until Rachel wanted to squirm. She could only imagine how she must look. The bruises had to be fading along with the swelling, but they were probably still putrid yellow and puke green. And her hair, her glorious hair… “They haven't brought me a mirror, so…” She managed a weak laugh, but Emily leaned even closer, still serious, still inspecting.

Rachel turned away and fought the burning behind her
eyes. “I probably look fit for Halloween, even though that's months off yet.”

“Oh, Mom.” At the soft, choked-up voice, Rachel turned back, shocked to find love on Emily's face.
Love.

“Don't you know?” she whispered. “You look beautiful.” Her eyes were shining like two brilliant stars. “So beautiful, Mom.”

Rachel managed a smile past the huge lump in her throat. “Which means you're beautiful, too.”

“Yeah.” But it was Emily's turn to look away now. “But I know who I really look like….”

When she trailed off with no clear intent to finish, Rachel sighed.
Not a coward,
she reminded herself.
Never a coward.
“Like your dad.”

They stared at each other awkwardly while Rachel's heart sank. No, she wasn't a coward, and hadn't been in a long time, but bringing up the subject of Ben Asher with Emily was usually trouble.

He was the one person Rachel and Emily never agreed on.

How could they? Her daughter saw him as a hero, larger than life. A man who put others' needs before his own. A man who brought justice to people who couldn't get it for themselves.

He
was
that, Rachel admitted to herself, and more. So much more.

 

S
HE'D CHANGED SCHOOLS
again, halfway through senior year this time. On her first day, a boy sauntered into her English Lit class late. With a slow, lazy smile and even lazier gait, he strode down the center aisle with a devil-may-care attitude that had wild whispers falling in his path.

“Did you know he's from The Tracks?” one cheer
leader hissed to another, just behind Rachel. “Lives in a foster home with eight other kids.”

“He's still hot,” came a hushed reply.

“Hot, yeah. But dirt poor.”

“Such a waste.”

Rachel couldn't help but notice no one else in the classroom gave him the time of day. Given his laid-back air and languid stroll, he could care less. He wore Levi's with a hole over one knee, a dark T-shirt with a frayed hem and ripped sleeve and had an ancient Canon camera slung over his shoulder. His hair was wavy and long, past his collar at the back, the front tumbling over his forehead. He tossed it back with a lift of his head.

His gaze focused in on Rachel.

She wasn't used to that. She was invisible. It's what happened when you were always the new kid, and she was good at it. But he saw her, with eyes that were sparkling and full of trouble. He took the one empty seat in the classroom.