Into the Crossfire (11 page)

dipped into the hummus with a slice of home-made bread and hummed with

pleasure. Delicious.

Nicole had learned the hard way the lesson of living moment by moment,

being grateful for even the smallest of pleasures. This was a fabulous meal in the

company of an amazingly sexy man. She had to put her feelings aside and enjoy it.

She hadn't had this nice an evening since she'd learned her father was sick. God

knew when she'd have another evening like it.

"This is fabulous." Nicole refrained from rolling her eyes with delight, and

spooned some tabbouleh onto a torn-off chunk of fried bread.

Sam nodded gravely. "Yes, it is. Bashir and his mother are fantastic cooks."

He pushed a terra-cotta bowl of fatteh toward her. "Are you finished?"

She stopped, another bite halfway to her mouth. They had to leave already?

A pang of sadness shot through her. Wow. That was quick. She'd said she wasn't

available for an affair and he wanted to end the evening as fast as he could.

Nicole tucked the disappointment away. "Finished? With the meal?"

"No. With what you wanted to say to me. Said all you wanted to say?"

Not really. She'd only lived in San Diego for a little over a year and

between Wordsmith and her dad, there'd been no time to make any friends. This

was the closest she'd come to a heart-to-heart talk since her lost carefree life in

Geneva.

She hadn't told him how her heart broke at watching her father die, day by

day, piece by piece. How hard she tried to hold on to him, how horrible it was to

feel him slipping from her grasp.

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She hadn't told Sam how tired she was between caring for her father at

home and the fouteen hours a day and more she put in at work.

She hadn't told him how lonely she felt, sometimes, without a friend to help

relieve the relentless pressure. Or how worried she was about money, wondering

whether her money would hold out to help ease his end.

But he wouldn't want to hear that. Her story was pathetic enough as it was.

"Yes. I think I more or less said what I had to say."

Those dark eyes bored into hers. He raised his hand and brought it to her

face. The fine hairs on the nape of her neck lifted as he ran the back of a long

index finger down her cheek.

"I've never felt skin this soft before." The finger ran lower, over her jaw and

rested on a vein in her neck. Surely he had to feel how her heart pounded?

She was finding it hard to breathe as he ran his finger up and down the

pulse point. He could read her every reaction there, as if her neck were some kind

of lie detector.

He wasn't reacting at all, simply looking at her, touching her. "Did you

even listen to a word I said?"

His mouth tightened. "Oh yeah. Every word. So. Let me get this straight.

You're caring for a sick father, while trying to start up a new business and keep

your head above water financially. Is that about it?"

"Very sick father." How it hurt, every time she said it. "But yes, that's about

it. And what it means is that I don't have the time or the energy for an affair." She

finally found the strength to move her head away from his touch and sopped up

some muhummarrah with a pita triangle and put the whole mess in her mouth.

Hot, spicy, delicious. Pure heaven, tinged with regret. Well, the bitter taste of

regret was one she was used to by now.

Man up, she told herself.

"I'm sorry." Nicole studied the grain of the wooden table for a moment,

then met Sam's eyes again. "I'm trying to be as clear and honest here as possible,

Sam."

"Yeah, I can see that." His jaw muscles clenched. "And I appreciate your

honesty. What I don't get at all is why should any of this should make me desire

you any less?"

She blinked in surprise. "Well, I told you. I don't have time for an affair.

Time or energy. My father is my top priority, and after that comes trying to make a

living. There just isn't anything else in my life. There can't be. So...anything you

might want from me, I can't give you. You'd be better off with someone else,

someone who isn't so wrapped up in problems. Actually, frankly, right now you'd

be crazy to want me."

He was silent a long moment, then picked up his fork. "I think we'd better

eat some more of this meal, otherwise Bashir will have my head."

Nicole put on a wobbly smile. He was right. The food was fabulous, it

would be a huge pity to let it go to waste. Live in the moment, and all that. A sigh

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was in her chest but she refused to let it out. What good would it do?

It felt good to have spelled out the situation to Sam, clearly and coolly.

She'd definitely done the right thing. And if it felt like she'd stabbed herself in the

heart, well, her heart had been taking a pounding for quite some time now.

Her appetite had gone, but she made a real effort to do justice to the

magnificent meal. She was a diplomat's daughter and had attended 17-course state

dinners even when she was ill and had to choke down the food. She knew how to

do this.

Sam was quiet, and so was she. Maybe he was feeling the regrets, too. But

life was like that--good things happened at the wrong time. It was simply fate.

Kismet, Bashir would call it.

The sun was starting to set over the pretty gardens by the time the waiter

came with a small bronze coffeepot with a long wooden handle, the dallah, that

had always somehow reminded her of Aladdin's lamp, and poured a fragrant brew.

The cups were without handles. Smiling, Nicole brought the warm cup to her nose

and sniffed appreciatively. The coffee had been brewed with cardamom and was

dense, sugary, delicious. It set off perfectly the tiny bite-sized pieces of baklava

the waiter slipped on the table. She loved the Lebanese version, made with

rosewater syrup instead of honey.

The room was dramatically lit by the intense glow of the setting sun,

turning everything golden; even Sam Reston's dark, deeply-tanned skin turned

bronze. Right at this moment, he looked almost sinfully attractive. And utterly

beyond reach.

Sam put down his coffee cup, crossed his arms on the table and leaned

forward, face deadly serious. Deep grooves bracketed his strong mouth and his

nostrils were white and pinched, as if from some strong emotion. "Now I have

something to say to you."

Nicole put down her cup, leaning a little forward, too. He'd done her the

courtesy of listening carefully to what she had to say. Now she'd return the favor.

Whatever he had to say wouldn't change the situation, but he deserved a

hearing. Whatever it was he wanted to say wasn't pleasant, though. His face had

taken on such a grave cast.

"Here's the deal. I never talk about my past. It's no one's goddamned

business but my own. But I think there are a few things about me you need to

understand. You know I talked about my brother Mike, and that though we don't

share any blood, we're closer than most brothers?"

Nicole nodded. The cop. The cop who was going to be driving by and

deterring Creepy and Creepier.

"There's a third brother, Harry. He's not in good shape right now. He was

shot up pretty bad in Afghanistan. He's working with me. I'm going to make him a

partner as soon as he's better. Right now he's barely on his feet. That's the three of

us. The reason Harry and Mike and I are so tight is that we spent part of our

growing-up years in the same foster home, run by a brutally cruel couple. We had

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each other's back, always, otherwise I don't think we'd have survived. We've been

looking out for each other ever since."

He stared down at his clasped hands. They were clean, the nails short, but

they looked like they'd been used a lot, and hard. There were scars and nicks and

calluses, the hands of a man who, though a businessman, didn't shy from manual

labor. Completely unlike the hands of any other man she'd ever been out to dinner

with.

Nicole couldn't help herself. She reached out, one hand hovering over his

clasped ones. She hesitated for just a second, then covered his hands with her own.

She wanted him to feel the human connection. He'd known hard times, too.

His hands were warm, radiating heat and strength.

He spoke, looking at their joined hands.

"My mother abandoned me in a Dumpster. Just threw me away, like

garbage." He looked up at her shocked gasp, opened his hands and sandwiched her

hand between his. A wry smile lifted his mouth. "It's okay, honey. The story has a

happy ending. Eventually. I'm here, aren't I?"

"Yes, you are," she murmured. He was here. And how. Huge and strong

and utterly unlike any other man she'd ever met. She tried to suppress the sharp

punch she'd felt when he called her "honey." Stop that, she told herself sternly.

This wasn't going anywhere. Getting her heart involved wasn't going to help

anyone, least of all her.

"Someone had seen her doing it and fished me out. They took me to the

hospital immediately and I was put in an incubator stat. Apparently I was about a

month old and seriously underweight. Hard to believe, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is." Nicole looked him over. Immensely broad and tall, with hardpacked dense muscles. It was impossible to connect him with an undernourished

baby. This tragic story definitely had a happy ending.

"This woman--my mother--was a drunk and a prostitute. She was known in

the area. I have no idea who my father was. I don't think she did, either. The police

tracked her down and she was tried and convicted for attempted homicide and was

sentenced to ten years in jail. She served eight years, then was paroled. She went

looking for me at the orphanage, spouting nonsense about wanting to atone and

start over." He rolled his eyes. "Some nutcase of a social worker believed her and

they simply gave me to her. I was eight years old and I'd never seen the woman

who claimed to be my mother before."

"Oh no," Nicole breathed. The story might have a happy ending but it

sounded like there was to be tragedy before they got there.

"Yeah." His hands tightened on hers. "Her name was Darlene Reston. I

can't think of her as my mother, she was just this...woman I had to live with for a

few years. She drank away the welfare checks and there were drugs going on, too.

One thing I do know is that she sure wasn't buying food and milk and clothes with

what the State sent her. Once I got a bad ear infection that went untreated and I

was left with a weakened eardrum. I squeaked by the physical to get into the Navy

55

but then a mortar round finished the eardrum off. I was almost deaf in one ear, had

to leave the Navy on a medical discharge. I had an operation that restored some of

my hearing. But I can't dive to any depth." He shook his head. "Can't be a SEAL if

you can't dive."

Nicole had a flash of a young, skinny, vulnerable Sam, trapped in the care

of a woman who drank away his food money, who wouldn't get him medical care

when he needed it.

"There were men around, too, lots of them." Sam's deep voice was low and

dispassionate. "Most of them were high and stayed high for days. They barely

noticed me but when they did, I got the shit kicked out of me. For most of my

childhood, I was badly undernourished and weak." His mouth tightened. "The kind

of kid a bully loves to kick around. Makes them feel strong. When I was around

twelve, a teacher finally noticed that something was deeply wrong. So the State

took me out of Darlene's care and put me in a foster home."

"Thank God." Nicole blinked the tears back. The strong, successful man in

front of her was light-years away from the small, abused boy and he wouldn't want

her tears. But her heart ached.

"Not really. The foster home wasn't any better. Old Man Hughes and his

wife took in older, unadoptable kids because they got paid more. The wife gave us

watered-down canned soup and crackers bought in bulk, slapped us upside the

head when the spirit took her, and locked herself in her room when her husband

had his little spells of rage. He could go beserk on a dime. Anything could set him

off. An unmade bed. Cracker crumbs on the table. A look, even. We learned never

to say anything, ever. He hated a lot of things, but mostly he hated what he called

'mouthy' women and kids. He was a big, mean son of a bitch and he loved using

his fists on us."

There was a huge boulder on Nicole's chest, making it hard to breathe. Her

battle against her tears was a losing one. He reached out once more to dry a tear

against her cheek.

How terrible life could be. She'd wept for her dying father and now she

wept for a child who'd never known love, only neglect and violence. She met his

impassive gaze. "Tell me something good happened. Please. Tell me they took you

out of that foster home and put you in another one."

He shook his head. "Nope. Stayed there until I was old enough to enlist.

But a couple of good things did happen. There was a nice elderly lady lived next

door. Mrs. Colley. Strange old coot, but kind-hearted. She was scared to death of

Old Man Hughes but when he wasn't around, she invited me over and stuffed me

full of food. I grew six inches and put on forty pounds in one year. I made sure