"Love has nothing to do with marriage."
" Au contraire, love has everything to do with it." She saw his expression turn hard, his lips press into a tight, thin line. "For some people, but not for me." Did she dare press him further? Ask him about the curse?
What would she really gain if she did? "You strike me as a passionate man, Mick. I think you'd fall in love easily." He grinned, and with a slow laugh, said, "Maybe too easily." He put his hand over hers again. "Like you, I travel a lot, Caroline. You know the old saying, 'a girl in every port.'" She cast him a look of disdain and snatched away her hand. "That's where we differ, Mick. In my business, we call folks with guys or gals in every port Road Warriors. It's not a compliment, and we don't let them off with a wink and a friendly elbow to the ribs."
"So Miss Caroline Summer Spring is a prude." She raised her chin higher and straightened her spine.
"Because I don't sleep around? At best, it's foolish. At worst, it's deadly."
He scratched the back of his neck then swatted at a fly but said nothing, although she guessed he could hardly disagree.
"I prefer to think of myself as a traditional woman in an non-traditional work setting."
"Is that why your relationship ended?"
"Part of it. Luke, my fiancé, came from the far side of traditional ... the barefoot, pregnant and subservient side of 120
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wifedom. I want children some day, just not right now. I'd also like big family..."
"...just not right now," he finished for her.
"I'm twenty-nine, Mick, and yes, I hear the clock ticking."
"You're too young to be thinking about clocks, Caroline."
"And what are you, Methuselah?"
"I'm thirty-nine. In another ten years, I'll be in the safe zone."
"The safe zone?" A time he'd declare himself infertile?
What science does he practice?
She read in his eyes that he knew he'd said too much and had given her a peek into a place where she'd need to tread lightly. He pointed to her cup. "Finished? We have an ocean to see before we go home."
And an ocean they saw, and tiny shops and boutiques along the wharf. They savored the taste of fresh walk-away crab and shrimp cocktails, giggled their way through garish souvenir shops, and spoke in hushed tones in elegant galleries. All under sunny skies and clear, heavy breezes that carried the freshness of nature along with the smells and sounds of the sea: the cry of a distant sky hawk, the impatient cawing of gulls awaiting the return of the fishing boats. On the beach, they heard the delighted laughter of small children playing in the sand and watched their awe at finding the perfect seashell. In all, Caroline had to admit this had been a perfect day.
They headed home after five. Mick stopped at a small grocery store on the outskirts of Sebastopol. He threw the gearshift into neutral and left the motor running while he 121
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jumped out of the Jeep. "I'll be back in a minute," he said and disappeared inside the store.
Caroline had barely time to take a drink of water before he came out, two bags of groceries in each arm. He tossed them in back, and without a word of explanation, turned onto the highway and sped toward home.
They'd come back the short way, through Bodega. It was new scenery, yet more of the same—rolling pastureland, gentle hills, grazing cattle, and every few miles, a small orchard or vineyard. The sun had begun its descent. Caroline shielded her eyes, and would have drifted off to sleep if she hadn't fought so hard to stay awake. She hadn't been this relaxed since before her mother's illness.
What seemed like the hundredth time that afternoon, they rounded one of the curves in the road. This time, Caroline saw row upon row of grapevines and behind them, hundreds of apple trees. Pristine white wooden fencing enclosed the property, with a different type and color of rose bush planted about every eight to ten feet along the perimeter. She had earned her Master's in computer science at A & M. Along the way, she'd learned enough about agriculture to know that roses attracted bees that fertilized the blossoms on the vines that turned to grapes and made the wine that much sweeter. A taste of honey.
"What a nice spread," she said.
He pointed to an arch made of stone, still a mile or so ahead of them. "The Golden S & T," he said. "The S is for Sheila, the T for Tony. My mother and stepfather. This is the ranch."
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"Wow. Impressive."
"Tony's father bought it in the early 1900s. Paid pennies on the dollar. Now it's worth millions."
"Do they live out here alone?"
He looked at her sideways and laughed. "Are you serious?
Brian hasn't told you about the compound?" She shook her head.
"Tony and Sheila watched too many 'Dallas' re-runs. He thinks he's a Ewing and this is South Fork. Built a huge house for us as a wedding present to my mom. A three-story brick Tudor—a couple of rooms shy of each of us having our own wing."
"A lot of kids wouldn't complain about that."
"I didn't. Until I got back from college and found they'd built a house right next door for me. Now it's an enclave of Mahoneys."
"That's very sweet of him, and generous." She looked closer. Mick wasn't smiling.
"Four have gone up since. Brian and Ramona's should be ready a day or two after the wedding, waiting for them to return."
"You don't sound happy about it."
"Family is everything to me, but it doesn't mean I have to live in a fiefdom."
"So you let your house sit vacant."
"It'll stay that way 'til I bring home my bride."
"That won't happen until you've entered the safe zone?"
"You learn quickly."
"It's safe because...?"
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He started to answer then stopped, checked his watch, and looked at her. "It's been a long day. I won't make you meet the clan tonight."
"How do you know they're home?"
"It's a Saturday afternoon tradition in summer. We all trek over to five o'clock Mass. Afterward, the kids jump in the pool, Tony throws steaks on the grill, and Sheila opens bottles of Merlot."
"Sounds wonderful." Especially to someone with almost no family at all. "I'm jealous. I think we had only one tradition ... eating black-eyed peas and cornbread on New Year's Day, along with everyone else in Texas."
"Oh we have traditions, trust me. Italian ones, Irish ones, and everything in between. You'll see that at the wedding." Surprised, she said, "Brian and Ramona's? I'm not invited to their wedding. I hardly know them."
"The ceremony will be held at the back of the house, among the vines. There's been an altar there for years, where the priests celebrate Mass for the migrant workers. For the wedding, both Fr. McGinty and Fr. Cardoni will officiate. They're putting up a huge tent out on the green in front, and a bandstand just outside of that for dancing."
"Your family knows how to party." Mick tapped the accelerator harder. "If you've never been to an Irish/Italian wedding before, you're in for a treat. Don't worry about an invitation," he added. "You can tag along with me."
Her mouth dropped open. "As your date?" 124
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He turned to her, reached out and mussed her already wind-tousled hair. She saw he was trying not to smile.
"Absolutely not!" he said, "As a friend." As an afterthought he added, "'Course, if you were a Road Warrior, it might be a different story."
* * * *
CAROLINE HADN'T REALIZED she'd fallen asleep until she jerked awake, brushing at what turned out to be Mick drawing circles on her forearm with his fingertip.
He sat sideways in his seat, resting one arm on the steering wheel. They were parked in the space behind their building.
"I hated
to wake you," he said softly. "You were catching some serious Zs."
She sat up straight. "Was I snoring?"
"Like as asthmatic bull!"
Horrified, she turned away, but looked back when Mick broke up. "You dog," she shouted and punched his arm.
"Ooo, oww, oww," he carried on while he hopped out of the Jeep. "Come on, let's get these groceries inside." Outside their respective doors, Mick handed Caroline two of the bags. "These are for you."
"For me?" She looked inside the first sack. It held a bottle of brandy, a can of coffee, and a six-pack of cola. In the other, she found a couple of large baking potatoes, a package wrapped in butcher paper, a bag of salad greens, a tomato, a carton of sour cream and a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon. Surprised, she asked, "Why did you buy all of this for me?" 125
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"Last night, you said you didn't have any brandy, coffee, or sodas."
"Mick, I didn't mean—"
"Don't tell me you were lying to me." He gave her a broad, teasing smile. "Because then I'd have to believe you were only trying to get rid of me."
She looked back at him, wide-eyed and innocent. "Oh, I'd never want you to think that," she managed to say without laughing
"Then it's settled. You now have everything you need to be a good hostess, including a couple of filets for dinner tonight. What time shall I come by?"
Caroline's smile faded. She looked down at the two bags of groceries. She couldn't think of anything she wanted to do more than to stretch what had been a wonderful day into an even more wonderful evening. But she didn't dare. Some wine, some brandy. Heaven help her, she couldn't trust what might happen.
She was grateful that she'd already made plans for the evening, though she dreaded going. "I'd love to, Mick, but I can't."
He folded his arms and stared down at her, saying nothing, but she could almost see the wheels spinning in his mind. She hated feeling guilty. She hadn't done anything wrong.
"You have a date?"
"It's not a date," she said, much too quickly. Accusing eyes looked at her. "Who are you meeting, Caroline?"
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Damn him! He was making her feel like a traitor.
"Caroline?"
She threw back her shoulder and straightened her spine.
"You're my landlord, Mick, not my keeper." He said nothing but tightened his grip on the bags of groceries he still carried. They stared at each, neither backing down for what seemed to Caroline like a very long minute. Finally Mick shook his head, turned away, and just before he closed the door to his apartment behind him, called over his shoulder, "Give my regards to Striker." 127
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Chapter Ten
CAROLINE HAD DAWDLED too long thinking about her glorious day and not concentrating enough on tonight's dinner meeting. Now she was dashing from drawer to closet to dresser like a crazed woman, hoping to be ready before the always-prompt Ian rang her doorbell. She hadn't expected her phone to ring. It startled her enough that she dropped the tiny pearl stud earring she'd been trying to fasten. On hands and knees reaching under the bed, she managed to say,
"Hello, this is Caroline."
"Ian here, I'm sorry I'm late," Foy said from the other end.
"No problem, Ian. I'm running a little late, too." Her fingers had found something that felt a tiny bit bigger than the pearl, and not quite as round. She cradled the phone between her shoulder and her ear and reached even farther under the bed.
"There's no parking on the street so I can't come up," Ian said. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be." It's not like this is a date. "Give me two minutes, and I'll be down."
After Ian clicked off, Caroline rested the phone on the floor and threw back the bedclothes. Her mom and dad had given her the earrings the day she received her Master's. She would rather lose a hand than one of the tiny pearls. "Darn it, where are you?" She flattened out on the floor, not caring that the Chinese silk dress she wore was taking the brunt of the search.
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She'd expected to see a few dust cats. To her surprise, the carpet had been vacuumed clean. The stud lay just beyond her fingertips. Next to it, within her reach, a curious looking button, not much bigger than the pearl, with a wire attached to it that was almost as thin as a strand of hair. Had the sun not been shining just so, had she not lifted the spread and been lying flat on her stomach, she would never have seen it.
"What in the world," she muttered and tugged on it, loosening the far tip that had tangled in the weave of the carpet. With the button end, she whipped at her earring and snapped it to within reach. With both in hand, Caroline crawled to her knees and sat back on her heels. She held the wire up to the light, and felt her blood pressure drop as a chill swept through her. The wire was so narrow it was almost invisible. She'd recently completed a course in surveillance equipment and recognized the buttonend immediately. A sick feeling roiled inside her. Technology changed rapidly in the security industry. This piece was certainly more sophisticated than any she'd seen in class. Not even as thick as a straight pin, the "shank" as her instructor had called it, could pierce a single telephone line and record conversations from dozens of phones in a single area code sector. The "button" at the other end of the wire held months'
worth of data, which could be played back with amazing clarity.
What in the heck is going on? She didn't know the exact cost but guessed the shank sold for upwards of $5,000. Why was it lying under her bed? It wasn't something that was casually carried in a pocket, dropped and forgotten. Yet it 129
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wasn't being utilized, either. The fact that she used only a cell phone had nothing to do with it. The shank recorded from any type of equipment as long as it was connected to something. This one had just been lying there. How very curious. How very frightening.
Caroline fastened her earring, and as she climbed to her feet, rolled the wire until it was a small circle in the palm of her hand. Most everything today had wireless capability. Was it possible that in the last six months, the technology of this device had improved enough that it no longer needed to be connected to anything? That it was capable of listening and gathering all the data on its own? What if the head contained not only a listening device, but some sort of camera as well?
It might be recording her every sound, every movement, chronicling every step she took. If she searched, how many others would she find? And why?
As if it suddenly morphed into a poisonous snake, Caroline dropped the wire.
Besides Mick, who had access to her apartment? The people who cleaned it. His sisters, who decorated it. Any number of maintenance people like plumbers, painters or electricians. Why would any of them, Mick included, be interested in recording her movements or listening to her conversations enough to invest in this type of equipment?
The phone rang again. She struggled to find enough voice to say hello.
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side of the street, so if you'll be a few minutes longer, I'll start circling..."
She walked to the window and pushed the drape further aside. Ian was standing at the passenger door of his BMW, which he'd double-parked parallel to Mick's Jeep.
"I'm sorry, Ian, I dropped my earring. I'll be right down." In the hall, she pulled her door shut then made sure the lock held, a ludicrous gesture considering what she'd just found under her bed. Someone had easy access to her place. No wonder Mick never locked his door. The deadbolts offered no real protection.
At the bottom of the steps, Caroline reached for the door and turned the handle, ready to step out and onto the side
walk until she saw the sour expression on Ian's face. He was standing next to his car staring at the front door of her building as if he were in a trance. He stood almost at attention, his lips drawn into a fine line, jaw set, hands clutched into fists at his sides—a volcano ready to erupt. Granted she'd taken longer to come down than he'd expected, but not enough to cause this degree of exasperation.
She grasped the handle, drew a deep breath, and with her sunniest smile, stepped outside. An instant later she saw the cause of Ian's angst—Mick.
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stance made him look like an overblown windbag, Mick looked irresistible.
She had left him sweaty and rumpled just as she'd been when they returned home. Now clean-shaven and freshly showered, he'd dressed in a pair of tan jeans, obviously new and custom tailored to fit tightly enough for him to breathe and little else, a white shirt sewn from a fabric so soft she could almost feel its richness from where she stood, and a tan suede sports jacket, with a hint of rust to catch the color of his hair. To Caroline, he looked like he'd just stepped off the covers of He Man, GQ, and Play Girl all at the same time. The width of a car and half its length separated the two men who were becoming central to her life. On her right, Ian, seething, and looking as if he'd gladly strangle Mick; on her left, Mick, scintillating, obviously ignoring the older man's presence. And she, Caroline, stuck right in the middle.
"Good evenin', y'all," she called to both of them, taking a neutral tack while she turned and pulled the front door closed behind her. She had to decide how she was going to handle this, and do it quickly. If she walked around the front of the Jeep, Ian would have to close the passenger door for her to pass by before she climbed inside. If she walked around the back of the Jeep, she could easily slide into the waiting Beamer, but she'd have to pass close to Mick en route. She saw the mischief in his eyes and knew he wasn't about to move.
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