Seal Team Ten

by Brockmann, Suzanne

  "Day before yesterday."

  "That was when you broke your foot?"

  She nodded. Yes.

  "Was anyone else hurt?"

  Her voice shook. "The other driver is still in the hospi­tal. If he dies, I'll be up on charges of vehicular man­slaughter."

  Francisco swore. "Shar, if he dies, he'll be dead. That's a little bit worse than where you'll be, don't you think?"

  Blond head bowed, Sharon nodded.

  "You were DUI." It wasn't a question, but she nodded again. DUI—driving under the influence. Driving drunk.

  A shadow fell across her flowers, and Mia looked up to see the little red-haired girl standing beside her.

  "Hi," Mia said.

  The girl was around five. Kindergarten age. She had amazing strawberry blond hair that curled in a wild mass around her round face. Her face was covered with freckles, and her eyes were the same pure shade of dark blue as Alan Francisco's.

  This had to be his daughter. Mia's gaze traveled back to the blonde. That meant Sharon was his.. .wife? Ex-wife? Girlfriend?

  It didn't matter. What did she care if Alan Francisco had a dozen wives?

  The red-haired girl spoke. "I have a garden at home. Back in the old country."

  "Which old country is that?" Mia asked with a smile. Kindergarten-age children were so wonderful.

  "Russia," the little girl said, all seriousness. "My real father is a Russian prince."

  Her real father, hmm? Mia couldn't blame the little girl for making up a fictional family. With a mother up on DUI charges, and a father who was only a step or two be­hind...Mia could see the benefits of having a pretend world to escape to, filled with palaces and princes and beautiful gardens.

  "Do you want to help me weed?" Mia asked.

  The little girl glanced over at her mother.

  "The bottom line is that I have no more options," Sharon was tearfully telling Alan Francisco. "If I voluntarily enter the detox program, I'll win points with the judge who tries my case. But I need to find someplace for Natasha to stay."

  "No way," the Navy lieutenant said, shaking his head. "I'm sorry. There's no way in hell I can take her."

  "Alan, please, you've got to help me out here!"

  His voice got louder. "What do I know about taking care of a kid?"

  "She's quiet," Sharon pleaded. "She won't get in the way."

  "I don't want her." Francisco had lowered his voice, but it still carried clearly over to Mia. And to the little girl—to Natasha.

  Mia's heart broke for the child. What an awful thing to overhear: Her own father didn't want her.

  "I'm a teacher," Mia said to the girl, hoping she wouldn't hear the rest of her parents' tense conversation. "I teach older children—high school kids."

  Natasha nodded, her face a picture of concentration as she imitated Mia and gently pulled weeds from the soft earth of the garden.

  "I'm supposed to go into detox in an hour," Sharon said. "If you don't take her, she'll be a ward of the state—she'll be put into foster care, Alan."

  "There's a man who works for my father the prince," Natasha told Mia, as if she, too, were trying desperately not ,to listen to the other conversation, "who only plants flow­ers. That's all he does all day. Red flowers like these. And yellow flowers."

  On the other side of the courtyard, Mia could hear Alan Francisco cursing. His voice was low, and she couldn't quite make out the words, but it was clear he was calling upon his full sailor's salty vocabulary. He wasn't angry at Sharon— his words weren't directed at her, but rather at the cloudless California sky above them.

  "My very favorites are the blue flowers," Mia told Na­tasha. "They're called morning glories. You have to wake up very early in the morning to see them. They close up tightly during the day."

  Natasha nodded, still so seriously. "Because the bright sun gives them a headache."

  "Natasha!"

  The little girl looked up at the sound of her mother's voice. Mia looked up, too—directly into Alan Francisco's dark blue eyes. She quickly lowered her gaze, afraid he'd correctly read the accusations she knew were there. How could he ignore his own child? What kind of man could ad­mit that he didn't want his daughter around?

  "You're going to be staying here, with Alan, for a while," Sharon said, smiling tremulously at her daughter.

  He'd given in. The former special forces lieutenant had given in. Mia didn't know whether to be glad for the little girl, or concerned. This child needed more than this man could give her. Mia risked another look up, and found his disturbingly blue eyes still watching her.

  "Won't that be fun?" Sharon hopefully asked Natasha.

  The little girl considered the question thoughtfully. "No," she finally said.

  Alan Francisco laughed. Mia hadn't thought him capa­ble, but he actually smiled and snorted with laughter, cov­ering it quickly with a cough. When he looked up again, he wasn't smiling, but she could swear she saw amusement in his eyes.

  "I want to go with you," Natasha told her mother, a trace of panic in her voice. "Why can't I go with you?"

  Sharon's lip trembled, as if she were the child. "Because you can't," she said ineffectively. "Not this time."

  The little girl's gaze shifted to Alan and then quickly back to Sharon. "Do we know him?" she asked.

  "Yes," Sharon told her. "Of course we know him. He's your uncle Alan. You remember Alan. He's in the Navy...?"

  But the little girl shook her head.

  "I'm your mom's brother," Alan said to the little girl.

  Her brother. Alan was Sharon's brother. Not her hus­band. Mia didn't want to feel anything at that news. She re­fused to feel relieved. She refused to feel, period. She weeded her garden, pretending she couldn't hear any of the words being spoken.

  Natasha gazed at her mother. "Will you come back?" she asked in a very small voice.

  Mia closed her eyes. But she did feel. She felt for this lit­tle girl; she felt her fear and pain. Her heart ached for the mother, too, God help her. And she felt for blue-eyed Alan Francisco. But what she felt for him, she couldn't begin to define.

  "I always do," Sharon said, dissolving once more into tears as she enveloped the little girl in a hug. "Don't I?" But then she quickly set Natasha aside. "I've got to go. Be good. I love you." She turned to Alan. "The address of the detox center is in the suitcase."

  Alan nodded, and with a creak of her crutches, Sharon

  hurried away.

  Natasha stared expressionlessly after her mother, watch­ing until the woman disappeared from view. Then, with only a very slight tightening of her lips, she turned to look at Alan.

  Mia looked at him, too, but this time his gaze never left the little girl. All of the amusement was gone from his eyes, leaving only sadness and compassion.

  All of his anger had vanished. All of the rage that seemed to burn endlessly within him was temporarily doused. His blue eyes were no longer icy—instead they seemed almost warm. His chiseled features looked softer, too, as he tried to smile at Natasha. He may not have wanted her—he'd said as much—but now that she was here, it seemed as if he were going to do his best to make things easier for her.

  Mia looked up to see that the little girl's eyes had filled with tears. She was trying awfully hard not to cry, but one tear finally escaped, rolling down her face. She wiped at it fiercely, fighting the flood.

  "I know you don't remember me," Alan said to Na­tasha, his voice impossibly gentle. "But we met five years ago. On January 4."

  Natasha all but stopped breathing. "That's my birth­day," she said, gazing across the courtyard at him.

  Alan's forced smile became genuine. "I know," he said. "I was driving your mom to the hospital and..." He broke off, looking closely at her. "You want a hug?" he asked. "Because I could really use a hug right now, and I'd sure appreciate it if you could give me one."

  Natasha considered his words, then nodded. She slowly crossed to him.

  "You better hold your breath, th
ough," Alan told her ruefully. "I think I smell bad."

  She nodded again, then carefully climbed onto his lap. Mia tried not to watch, but it was nearly impossible not to look at the big man, with his arms wrapped so tentatively around the little girl, as if he were afraid she might break. But when Natasha's arms went up and locked securely around his neck, Alan closed his eyes, holding the little girl more tightly.

  Mia had thought his request for a hug had been purely for Natasha's sake, but now she had to wonder. With all of his anger and his bitterness over his injured leg, it was possible Alan Francisco hadn't let anyone close enough to give him the warmth and comfort of a hug in quite some time. And everyone needed warmth and comfort—even big, tough professional soldiers.

  Mia looked away, trying to concentrate on weeding her last row of flowers. But she couldn't help but overhear Na­tasha say, "You don't smell bad. You smell like Mommy— when she wakes up."

  Alan didn't look happy with that comparison. "Terri­fic," he murmured.

  "She's grouchy in the morning," Natasha said. "Are you grouchy in the morning, too?"

  "These days I'm afraid I'm grouchy all the time," he ad­mitted.

  Natasha was quiet for a moment, considering that. "Then I'll keep the TV turned down really quiet so it doesn't bother you."

  Alan laughed again, just a brief exhale of air. Still, it drew Mia's eyes to his face. When he smiled, he transformed. When he smiled, despite the pallor of his skin and his heavy stubble and his uncombed hair, he became breathtakingly handsome.

  "That's probably a good idea," he said.

  Natasha didn't get off his lap. "I don't remember meet­ing you before," she said.

  "You wouldn't," Alan said. He shifted painfully. Even Natasha's slight weight was too much for his injured knee, and he moved her so that she was sitting on his good leg. "When we first met, you were still inside your mom's belly. You decided that you wanted to be born, and you didn't want to wait. You decided you wanted to come into the world in the front seat of my truck."

  "Really?" Natasha was fascinated.

  6 Alan nodded. "Really. You came out before the ambu­lance could get there. You were in such a hurry, I had to catch you and hold on to you to keep you from running a lap around the block."

  “Babies can't run," the little girl scoffed.

  "Maybe not regular babies," Alan said. "But you came out doing the tango, smoking a cigar and hollering at ev­erybody. Oh, baby, were you loud."

  Natasha giggled. "Really?"

  "Really," Alan said. "Not the tango and the cigar, but the loud. Come on," he added, lifting her off his lap. "Grab your suitcase and I'll give you the nickel tour of my condo.

  You can do...something...while I take a shower. Man, do I need a shower."

  Natasha tried to pick up her suitcase, but it was too heavy

  for her. She tried dragging it after her uncle, but she was

  never going to get it up the stairs. When Alan turned back

  to see her struggle, he stopped.

  "I better get that," he said. But even as he spoke, a change came over his face. The anger was back. Anger and frustration.

  Mia was only one thought behind him, and she realized almost instantly that Alan Francisco was not going to be able to carry Natasha's suitcase up the stairs. With one hand on his cane, and the other pulling himself up on the cast-iron railing, it wasn't going to happen.

  She stood up, brushing the dirt from her hands. How­ever she did this, it was going to be humiliating for him. And, as in all painful things, it was probably best to do it quickly—to get it over with.

  "I'll get that," she said cheerfully, taking the suitcase out

  of Natasha's hand. Mia didn't wait for Alan to speak or re-

  act. She swept up the stairs, taking them two at a time, and

  set the suitcase down outside the door to 2C.

  "Beautiful morning, isn't it?" she called out as she went into her own apartment and grabbed her watering can.

  She was outside again in an instant, and as she started down the stairs, she saw that Alan hadn't moved. Only the expression on his face had changed. His eyes were even darker and angrier and his face was positively stormy. His mouth was tight. All signs of his earlier smile were gone.

  "I didn't ask for your help," he said in a low, dangerous voice, "I know," Mia said honestly, stopping several steps from the bottom so she could look at him, eye to eye. "I figured you wouldn't ask. And if / asked, I knew you would get all mad and you wouldn't let me help. This way, you can get as mad as you want, but the suitcase is already upstairs." She smiled at him. "So go on. Get mad. Knock yourself out."

  As Mia turned and headed back to her garden, she could feel Alan's eyes boring into her back. His expression hadn't changed—he was mad. Mad at her, mad at the world.

  She knew she shouldn't have helped him. She should have simply let him deal with his problems, let him work things out. She knew she shouldn't get entangled with someone who was obviously in need.

  But Mia couldn't forget the smile that had transformed Alan into a real human being instead of this rocky pillar of anger that he seemed to be most of the time. She couldn't forget the gentle way he'd talked to the little girl, trying his best to set her at ease. And she couldn't forget the look on his face when little Natasha had given him a hug.

  Mia couldn't forget—even though she knew that she'd be better off if she could.

  Chapter 4

  Frisco started to open the bathroom door, but on second

  thought stopped and wrapped his towel around his waist

  first.

  He could hear the sound of the television in the living room as he leaned heavily on his cane and went into his bedroom, shutting the door behind him.

  A kid. What the hell was he going to do with a kid for the next six weeks?

  He tossed his cane on the unmade bed and rubbed his wet hair with his towel. Of course, it wasn't as if his work schedule were overcrowded. He'd surely be able to squeeze Natasha in somewhere between "Good Morning, Amer­ica" and the "Late Show with David Letterman."

  Still, little kids required certain specific attention—like food at regular intervals, baths every now and then, a good night's sleep that didn't start at four in the morning and stretch all the way out past noon. Frisco could barely even provide those things for himself, let alone someone else.

  Hopping on his good leg, he dug through his still-packed duffel bag, searching for clean underwear. Nothing.

  It had been years since he'd had to cook for himself. His kitchen skills were more geared toward knowing which cleaning solutions made the best flammable substances when combined with other household products.

  He moved to his dresser, and found only a pair of silk boxers that a lady friend had bought him a lifetime ago. He pulled on his bathing suit instead.

  There was nothing to eat in his refrigerator besides a lemon and a six-pack of Mexican beer. His kitchen cabinets contained only shakers of moisture-solidified salt and pep­per and an ancient bottle of tabasco sauce.

  The second bedroom in his condo was nearly as bare as his cabinets. It had no furniture, only several rows of boxes neatly stacked along one wall. Tasha was going to have to crash on the couch until Frisco could get her a bed and whatever other kind of furniture a five-year-old girl needed.

  Frisco pulled on a fresh T-shirt, throwing the clothes he'd been wearing onto the enormous and ever-expanding pile of dirty laundry in the corner of the room... some of it dating from the last time he'd been here, over five years ago. Even the cleaning lady who'd come in yesterday afternoon hadn't dared to touch it.

  They'd kicked him out of the physical therapy center be­fore laundry day. He'd arrived here yesterday with two bags of gear and an enormous duffel bag filled with dirty laun­dry. Somehow he was going to have to figure out a way to get his dirty clothes down to the laundry room on the first floor—and his clean clothes back up again.

  But the first thing he had to do
was make sure the collec­tion of weapons he usually carried were all safely locked up. Frisco didn't know much about five-year-olds, but he was certain of one thing—they didn't mix well with guns.

  He quickly combed his hair and, reaching for the smooth wood of his cane, he headed toward the sound of the TV. After he secured his private arsenal, he and Tasha would hobble on down to the grocery store on the corner and pick up some chow for lunch and...

  On the television screen, a row of topless dancers gy­rated. Frisco lunged for the off switch. Hell! His cable 0, must've come with some kind of men's channel—the Play- boy Channel or something similar. He honestly hadn't known.

  "Whoa, Tash. I've got to program that off the remote control," he said, turning to the couch to face her.

  Except she wasn't sitting on the couch.

  His living room was small, and one quick look assured him that she wasn't even in the room. Hell, that was a re­lief. He limped toward the kitchen. She wasn't there, ei­ther, and his relief turned to apprehension.

  "Natasha...?" Frisco moved as quickly as he could down the tiny hallway toward the bedrooms and bathroom. He looked, and then he looked again, even glancing under­neath his bed and in both closets.

  The kid was gone.

  His knee twinged as he used a skittering sort of hop and skip to propel himself back into the living room and out the screen door.

  She wasn't on the second-floor landing, or anywhere in immediate view in the condo courtyard. Frisco could see Mia Summerton still working, crouched down among the explosion of flowers that were her garden, a rather silly-looking floppy straw hat covering the top of her head.

  “Hey!"

  She looked up, startled and uncertain as to where his voice had come from.

  "Up here."

  She was too far away for him to see exactly which shade of green or brown her eyes were right now. They were wide though. Her surprise quickly changed to wariness.

  He could see a dark V of perspiration along the collar and down the front of her T-shirt. Her face glistened in the morning heat, and she reached up and wiped her forehead with the back of one arm. It left a smudge of dirt behind.