Outsider (4 page)

He'd had a rushed assignment overseas before he and Maureen could get married. When he came back, she told him that she forged his name on the papers and the annulment had been granted, so they could get married right away. She had a friend who was a minister and he was willing to marry them. She had the license and everything. All he had to do was say the right words. Odd, that ceremony, he recalled. Maureen even kept the license. He hadn't seen it since. He assumed that she'd used it to get her own divorce. He'd signed some sort of papers, on tacky legal stationery. He didn't remember much of it. He'd been drinking back then, too.

He and Maureen had a feverish wedding night after their quickie wedding. She'd kept him at a distance all the time they were dating. The abstinence had been one reason he'd fallen on Sarina like a starving wolf, he recalled with shame. But Maureen had been an obsession. Once she was truly his, he'd had to leave her behind in Washington, D.C., for several months because he'd been given a new assignment overseas. Sarina's father had pulled strings to get him out of town. Right after that, he'd left military intelligence and gone to work with a group of mercenaries. The money had been fantastic, and he'd loved the adrenaline rushes. But that was over now.

He felt regret about Sarina. It must have taken a great deal of courage for her to risk intimacy with a man again, he thought. He hated the memory of what he'd done to that gentle young woman whose only crime had been to love him. None of what happened had really been her fault, even if he'd blamed her for it. The fault had been his own, for having too much to drink at the party they'd both attended, and letting them be discovered by her father and his associates in a compromising situation. He'd blamed her for that, but he shouldn't have.

She was still as attractive as ever, he mused. She was more mature, more independent, more spirited than the woman he'd once known who was owned by her rich father. He was surprised that she was working for a living. Her father had been worth twenty million dollars, and she was his only heir. He'd heard that Carrington had died six years earlier. He hadn't grieved, but he'd thought about Sarina finally being out from under his thumb, and with money of her own. He frowned, remembering how she dressed, how her daughter dressed. If there was money now, it didn't show in their clothing, or in the lowly position, probably poorly paid, that she held now.

The microwave buzzed and he pulled the instant dinner out of it. He had a small store of dinnerware and silverware that he'd brought from his apartment in D.C. He still lived like a Spartan. Old habits died hard. He didn't have possessions. A man who was constantly on the move couldn't afford to lug a houseful of stuff around with him.

Hunter had been, like himself, in the CIA, and then in freelance covert ops before he settled into security work. It had surprised him to find Hunter married and with a child. His wife was a knockout—a gorgeous blond geologist named Jennifer who was a cousin to the wife of old man Ritter's son, Cabe. The way Hunter and Jennifer felt about one another was obvious to a blind man. They'd been married for years, but the passion hadn't burned out, not by a long shot. Perhaps, he considered, some marriages did work out.

He thought about his own two failed marriages and winced. He'd chosen badly. Maureen had nothing in common with him and she hadn't loved him. She'd loved what he could give her materially. Theirs had been an obsessive physical relationship that burned out a year down the road. He'd been determined to hold on, but in the end, he had to let her go. Admitting failure had cut up his pride. Maureen had been an obsession, but he'd learned that obsessive desire was no substitute for love. Sarina had loved him with all her heart, and he'd pushed her away brutally. Perhaps, he thought philosophically, he deserved the misery he'd endured. Certainly it had paid him back for the hurt he'd caused Sarina.

He finished his supper, had a shower, and went to bed early. In his youth, he could go night and day. Now, with his war wounds hurting like hell in the darkness, he had to take advantage of any drowsiness he was lucky enough to get. None of his comrades would recognize this worn-out soldier who made his living by protecting an oil company from thieves and drug smugglers. He felt far older than his years. Perhaps he should be grateful that he was still alive. Many of his friends no longer were.

 

J
UST BEFORE LUNCH
, Colby was walking by Sarina's office when he saw her in earnest conversation with the Hispanic man, Rodrigo Ramirez. Funny, they were obviously close but they didn't act like lovers. There was nothing like physical attraction in her regard, and her body language was interesting—she folded her arms tight around her chest and her expression was completely businesslike. If she was involved with the man, she was good at keeping things discreet.

Rodrigo was a puzzle as well. Colby had asked Hunter about him, only to be told that the man, a Mexican national, worked as a liaison between Eugene and an equipment company owned by Eugene's son, Cabe Ritter. It seemed a thin sort of connection, and an odd sort of job. For some reason, he didn't see Rodrigo at a desk job. He had the strangest feeling that he'd run across the man somewhere.

Sarina passed a file to Rodrigo and stood up. “That's all I've got so far,” she said, her voice carrying in the deserted offices—it was lunchtime and most everyone else was already gone.

“I have more. I'll put it on a CD for you,” Rodrigo replied in softly accented deep tones. “On a more personal note, you need to consider a move. Bernadette's too conspicuous a target.”

“I can take care of Bernadette,” she replied quietly. “I can't move. You know why.”

“I could help you,” he began.

She held up a hand. “Bernadette and I will manage. It's better now, anyway.”

“Why can't I ever convince you to do the safe thing?” the Latin asked, his accent growing more prominent.

“Safe is for old women,” she replied with a laugh. “Besides, this job is more important than any we've ever done.”

“That it is,” he had to agree. “I just don't like having you take point on the firing line.”

“You never do, but it's my choice.”

“You and your independence—” He broke off when he noticed Colby Lane approaching the door. He stood up and lifted an eyebrow. “Can I do something for you, Mr. Lane?” he asked formally, his deep voice faintly accented.

Colby glanced at Sarina. “I had a question for Miss Carrington,” he replied. “Nothing urgent. It can wait.”

“I have to go,” Rodrigo replied, noting the time. “I'll call you,” he told her.

She nodded.

When he left, she looked at Colby icily. “Yes?”

“What did he mean, about your daughter being at risk?” he asked.

Both thin eyebrows went up. “Is my daughter's welfare your business, Mr. Lane?”

“Drop the formal line,” he said coldly. “We were married.”

She laughed mirthlessly. “I've had headaches that lasted longer than our marriage did.”

He stuck his hands in his pockets and stared her down. “What risk?” he repeated.

“We live in government housing,” she said. “There are gangs and last night there was a running gun battle while Bernadette was sitting on the porch. A neighbor boy was shot.”

He scowled. “Why do you live there?”

She didn't share Bernadette's condition with outsiders. She didn't want to think about the night before, when she'd been awakened from a sound sleep and had to rush with Bernadette to the emergency room. It was Colby's fault, but he didn't know it and she wasn't going to tell him. “My daughter doesn't exactly blend in a white community,” she said instead.

One eye narrowed dangerously. “Why are you living in such a place?” he persisted. “Your father was worth millions when he died, six years or so ago, and you were an only child.”

“I'm not worth millions,” she informed him.

“He must have left you something.”

She just stared at him.

“Your child's father should be paying child support,” he said, changing tacks.

“Chance would be a fine thing,” she replied.

“Hunter said he was Hispanic,” he persisted. “He must have relatives, or even friends. It shouldn't be hard to track him down.”

God bless Hunter for that white lie, she was thinking. “Why don't you just do your job, Mr. Lane, and leave me alone to do mine?” she suggested, sitting back down.

“How did the child know about my arm?” he asked out of the blue, hoping to shock her into an answer. What Hunter had told him hadn't made sense.

She frowned. “What about your arm?” she asked, diverted.

She didn't know? He straightened. “She knew I was…wounded,” he prevaricated.

“Oh.” She studied his face curiously, but it gave away nothing. “I don't know,” she lied. “Maybe somebody mentioned it to her.”

Colby wondered who might know about his injury besides Hunter, but he let it slide. “Why can't you get something in a better section of town?”

“Bernadette's had enough prejudice already,” she said reluctantly. “She's accepted in the Chicano community.”

“Are you?” he chided.

“Surely you know that Chicanos can be fair as well as dark?” she taunted. “Besides, I fit in quite nicely. I'm literate in Spanish.”

“You can read and write it as well as speak it?” he asked.

She nodded.

No wonder the child was fluent in that language. He was thinking about what she'd said, about prejudice. He'd hidden his ancestry most of his life to avoid it. Sarina didn't try to hide Bernadette's. But she was protective of the child, and obviously loved her. Why would she live in so dangerous a place?

“I'm sure Hunter could help you find a better apartment,” he said.

“We're happy where we are. Or are you going to assure me that guns are only found in the minority communities?” she chided.

“They're not as likely to be used in a better neighborhood.”

“Ha!” She turned on her computer.

“You're avoiding the issue.”

She looked up at him, trying not to let her mind wander back to happier times. “You have no right to make it an issue,” she said quietly.

He drew in a breath. “Fair enough.”

She turned her attention back to the computer.

“Why did they send you here from Tucson, instead of just getting someone from Houston to fill in?”

“Are we doing an interview?” she asked, exasperated.

“Your daughter likes the Mexican. What's his name? Ramirez?”

She smiled deliberately. “I like Rodrigo, too,” she said. “We've been friends for over three years. He's been good to us.”

He didn't like that. He didn't know why. Perhaps he still had a faint sense of possession about Sarina. They had been married once, if only for a day and a night.

“You were in college,” he said, remembering. “Didn't you finish?”

She had, but she wasn't telling him. “I dropped out,” she lied.

“So this was the only job you could get, I suppose.”

She nodded, glad that he couldn't read minds.

“You were your father's only child,” he said, frowning. “I still don't understand why you're living like this.”

“My father had emphatic ideas about what he wanted to do with his money,” she said without resentment. She'd long since accepted her fate. “I don't mind working for a living.”

He folded his arms across his chest. “I suppose you knew that Maureen and I divorced two years ago.”

She looked up with a carefully blank expression. “How would I know that?”

“Hunter knew.” He saw the faint flush in her cheeks. “He was my friend from childhood. I can't believe he never mentioned my name to you.”

She didn't like remembering the shock the first time she'd heard Phillip mention his old friend Colby, when she and Jennifer were taking natural childbirth classes together. She'd admitted that she knew him, but she'd managed to keep their connection a secret. Phillip only knew that they'd dated and that Colby had provided security for her father. She'd asked Jennifer to tell Phillip not to mention Bernadette's real heritage to Colby, but she hadn't said why. Hunter was intelligent. He probably knew the truth.

Her eyes were even and cold. “He mentioned it only once. You were the one subject that the Hunters knew never to mention in front of me.”

His eyelids flickered. That shouldn't have come as a surprise. But it did. “Point to you, Miss Carrington,” he said quietly.

“This seems an odd sort of place for you to be working,” she said suddenly, lifting her eyes. “It's a far cry from the military, isn't it?”

The past few years flashed before his eyes. He saw his wounds, his conflicts with political counterparts, his disillusionment with his life. “I don't like hospitals,” he said, compromising with the truth.