Major Dad

by Shelley Cooper

  It was second nature for her to gauge the mood of the children she supervised and to act accordingly. She did so now with Brady. He looked so proud of himself she would hate to say anything that would take the wind out of his sails, anything that would make him retreat behind the wall he usually put up between him and the rest of the world. Instead, she substituted lamely, "I bought groceries."

  He relieved her of her burden and began storing the food in the refrigerator. "They'll keep."

  She looked around her again. Picasso had never made such a mess, not even when he'd hurled paint at his canvasses. "I still can't get over all this."

  "Why?"

  Since she couldn't tell him the truth, she thought fast. "Most men aren't any good in the kitchen."

  "I made you pancakes yesterday. Remember?"

  "But all that amounted to was pouring mix from a box and adding water." And you didn't make near the mess you did today.

  He drew himself up in mock haughtiness. "I'll have you know, I made them from scratch. How could you not taste the difference?"

  Because all she'd been aware of was his presence in her bedroom. And all she'd been able to think about was the kiss they'd shared just hours before. She could have been eating sawdust, for all she'd tasted them.

  In the middle of the mess, she saw the pasta machine she'd bought a couple of years ago on impulse, then never used. "You made the spaghetti from scratch?"

  "It isn't homemade unless it's from scratch."

  That explained the flour that was everywhere. What she couldn't quite understand were the streaks of tomato sauce on the ceiling. She didn't have the strength to ask.

  "I didn't know you were such a purist," she murmured while mentally calculating how long it would take to clean up. If she helped, they might make it out of there by, oh, say, midnight.

  "Well, I am."

  She eyed her navy blue linen dress, which had looked crisp and professional that morning but was now looking the worse for wear. "I think I'll go upstairs and change into something more comfortable."

  "Take your time. Dinner won't be ready for a little while yet."

  When Haven returned to the kitchen ten minutes later, she wore a pair of kelly green slacks and a bright print blouse. She hoped to find that her eyes had been playing tricks on her, and that things weren't as bad as she'd thought they were. Unfortunately, that wasn't to be. If anything, the room looked messier.

  And the maker of the mess had never looked sexier.

  "Don't worry, I'll clean it up," Brady said, obviously picking up on her distress.

  It wasn't the mess that bothered her. Not really. While she was meticulous about the state of her home, she never had been the kind of person to dog other people's footsteps, cleaning up behind them. No, it wasn't the mess; it was the idleness that was driving her crazy. With nothing to occupy her hands, her mind had free rein to think whatever it wanted. Right now it persisted in reliving in vivid detail every kiss she and Brady had shared.

  "I'll just give you a head start on it now," she said quickly, bending over to pick up the pot holders that the kittens had abandoned in the middle of the floor.

  A flicker of annoyance passed over his face. "I'm perfectly capable of cleaning up my own mess."

  "I know you are," she soothed. "I'm just not the kind of person who can sit still while someone else does all the work. Indulge me, please. Just this once."

  He shrugged. "If it means that much to you."

  "Thanks." She made a beeline for the center cooking island, where the worst of the devastation was located. "Who taught you how to cook? One of your foster mothers?"

  Steam surrounded his face when he lifted the lid on a boiling pot of water. "I learned as an adult, when I was out on my own. It was a matter of self-defense. I got tired of eating TV dinners and macaroni and cheese out of a box."

  She understood completely. When she'd lived on her own, she'd eaten more than her fair share of macaroni and cheese, too. She paused in the middle of rinsing a bowl to glance at him curiously. "Why didn't you take the easy way out and just hire someone to cook for you?"

  "I don't believe in taking the easy way out. Besides, I couldn't afford it."

  She raised her eyebrows. "You couldn't afford it?"

  He dumped a handful of spaghetti into the boiling water, stirred and replaced the lid. Then he picked up a knife and began cutting a loaf of Italian bread into thick slices.

  "My adoptive father was a wise man. When he knew he was going to die, he redid his will. You see, he figured all that money might go to an eighteen-year-old's head. So, when he died, the house, along with all his properties, were sold and the money put into trust for me. I received just enough to pay for college. I didn't come into the bulk of my inheritance until I was thirty. By then—"

  He stopped abruptly. She waited, but he didn't continue. "By then, what?" she prompted.

  The knife in his hand stilled. He held her gaze for a long moment before looking away and resuming his slicing. "By then I was being held prisoner."

  His voice was pitched so low she could barely hear it. When the significance of his words penetrated, she drew a quick breath and studied the face he kept averted from her. He didn't look exhausted. He didn't look as if he were walking in his sleep. Which meant only one thing. He was volunteering this information of his own free will.

  Her heart surged with hope. She wondered if he realized the magnitude of the step he'd just taken. Still, she'd have to tread warily. It wouldn't take much for him to retreat again.

  "Where were you held prisoner?" she asked carefully, trying to keep the excitement out of her voice.

  "South America, I was a member of Special Forces. We were on a mission, when I was taken prisoner by a band of guerrilla soldiers."

  "How long were you held there?"

  "Three years, seven months and seven days." He paused. "I was released a month ago."

  A month ago. It explained so much: his limp, the paleness of his skin, the reason he'd never received Melinda's letter.

  "What are you thinking?" he asked.

  That he was the most extraordinary man she'd ever met. At a time when he should be relishing everything he'd missed, he was here with her, fighting for his daughter. Guilt surged through her when she remembered how she'd hounded him about not working. If anyone deserved a little R and R without being badgered about it, it was Brady.

  "I'm thinking I'm glad you told me."

  He gazed at her thoughtfully. "Guess I no longer have any secrets from you."

  If only that were true. After all she'd just learned, he was still such a mystery. How could a person endure what he had and not be profoundly affected? It gave her nightmares just thinking about it. And if the thought of it was enough to give her nightmares, what had actually living through it done to Brady? No wonder he couldn't sleep at night. There was still so much she wanted to know. She told herself not to ask. She did anyway.

  "What was it like, being held prisoner?"

  For a moment, his eyes took on a shadow, as if some cloud had passed in front of the sun. Whatever he was thinking, his thoughts weren't pleasant.

  "I swore to myself, once I returned, that I'd never think or speak about it again."

  "I'm sorry," she said quickly. "Forget I asked."

  "No, Haven," he surprised her by saying. "I'd like to tell you. Know something? In all the debriefing I went through when I returned, no one once asked me what it was like. Oh, they wanted to know what had happened to me, but they never asked how I felt about it. You're the first person to care enough to do that."

  His knuckles turned white as his hand clenched the handle of the knife. "What was it like? Picture being lost deep in a cave without food, blankets or batteries for your flashlight, and then magnify that picture a million times."

  She shivered. "Were you alone?"

  "Most of the time."

  Where would she be if she'd spent over three years in a dank cave with no company? Probably in a padd
ed cell somewhere. If she'd survived. "What did you do to pass the time?"

  "Lots of things. I exercised to keep up my strength. I tried to recall every word of every book I'd ever read. I built houses and skyscrapers brick by brick. I spent a lot of time dreaming about what I'd do when I got home." He smiled his irreverent, irresistible and decidedly sensuous half smile. "I finally narrowed the list to three things."

  Admiration for his strength and sheer will to live humbled her. She'd known before that he was a man like no other. What she hadn't known was how truly heroic he was.

  "What were they?"

  "Number one was to visit my father's grave and explain why I was away so long."

  Tears pricked the back of her eyes. "Number two?" she prompted huskily.

  "Charter a plane and fly to a steak house I know of in New Orleans, where I would order the biggest steak on the menu. Medium rare."

  "And number three?"

  "Go for a long run."

  "Did you get to do all of them?"

  "I haven't yet gone to New Orleans."

  "Because you came to see me," she guessed.

  He nodded. His tone turned brisk. "Now, if you don't mind, I don't ever want to talk about that time in my life again. I wasted over three and a half years in that hellhole. I refuse to waste any more time thinking about it."

  "It's that easy?"

  "Mind over matter."

  She wished she found it so easy to ignore the way he made her feel inside. She wished she found it so easy to forget about the threat the Zieglars posed. But that was one of the major differences between men and women, wasn't it? In the face of a problem, men could compartmentalize their emotions and get on with what needed to be done. Facing the same problem, women became emotionally paralyzed and could do nothing until it was resolved to their satisfaction.

  "You're worried about the meeting this morning, aren't you?" he said.

  She looked at him in surprise. "Among other things." Drawing a deep breath, she asked, "What did you think of them?"

  "The Zieglars? They both need a character transplant."

  His accurate assessment made her laugh, and she decided to put her worries behind her. For this evening, at least. She'd certainly done her share of worrying that day, and it had taken its toll. Tonight, she was determined to relax and enjoy the unexpected luxury of having her dinner cooked for her. And she wouldn't even think of the cleanup that faced them once it was over.

  "Is dinner weady?" Anna asked from the doorway. "I'm hungwy."

  As if on cue, the oven timer went off, signaling that the pasta was done.

  When they were seated around the table, steaming plates before them, Haven took one last look at the pristine white tablecloth that had cost her a small fortune. With a mental shrug, she pushed away all thoughts of what spaghetti stains would do to it, and decided it would just have to wash. Some things were more important than spaghetti stains.

  * * *

  "How'd you get the spaghetti sauce off the ceiling?" Brady asked.

  Haven paused in the middle of scrubbing down the stove top to glance over her shoulder. Still wearing Josephine's apron, and managing to look impossibly sexy in spite of it, he stood in the doorway, eyeing her quizzically. He no longer looked pale, she realized as her heart skipped a beat. His skin had taken on a golden hue from the sun, and his body had filled out. In all the right places.

  "I stood on the counter."

  "The counter," he murmured, shaking his head. "I should have thought of that."

  "You would have, given time."

  "I wouldn't be too sure. You see, my plan was to scour your garage for a ladder so I could reach it that way."

  "I don't have a ladder," she told him.

  The warmth in his eyes took her breath away. "I did take that possibility into consideration. It might interest you to know that I had a backup plan in place for just that contingency."

  Crossing her ankles, she leaned back against the stove. "I can't wait to hear it."

  "It's kind of hard to put into words, but it involved standing in the middle of the floor, dishcloth in hand, and jumping as high as I could."

  The mental image made her smile. "And if that didn't work?"

  He shrugged. "I'd probably just throw a bucket of water at it and hope that did the trick."

  He really was changing, Haven thought as she laughed. Little by little. He probably didn't even realize it himself, and the casual observer would have no way of knowing. But she wasn't a casual observer. As each day passed, she saw less and less of the stern, forbidding man who'd first walked into her office. His eyes were no longer cool and remote, but filled with warmth and laughter. His smile came more easily, and he joked and teased. On occasion, as he had before dinner, he even offered information about himself without being begged or threatened. Slowly, one by one, the barriers were coming down.

  It was all because of Anna. The little girl, and her outpouring of love and affection, was rounding the rough edges on him, making him softer. If a man like Brady Ross could ever be called soft. Oh, he wasn't ready for the big leagues yet, like love, commitment and trust. Given his past, he probably never would be. But it still pleased her to no end to see him this way.

  She turned back to the stove and tackled a particularly stubborn stain. "Do you always have a backup plan?"

  "Always."

  "Why?"

  "So that I never wind up with my back to the wall, with all escape routes cut off."

  She knew he was talking about more than just his experiences in the military. He was talking about a way of life. No matter what happened, he would do what he had to in order to protect himself.

  Some of the happiness leaked out of her heart. Maybe he hadn't changed as much as she'd thought. After all, it was one thing to let a little girl lower your reserve, and another thing entirely to make yourself vulnerable to a full-grown woman.

  When the stove was clean, she rinsed out the dishcloth, folded it in half and laid it over the spigot to dry. Turning, she inspected her now-gleaming kitchen. It hadn't taken nearly as long as she'd expected to put it to rights.

  "As you can see," she said, "no backup plan is necessary. I'm all done."

  "You really should have left the cleanup for me," he said.

  Pushing all gloomy thoughts from her mind, she forced a smile. "What, and have you bouncing all over my kitchen like a Mexican jumping bean? Think of the scuff marks that would leave on the floor. Besides, much as I might have paid to see that spectacle, Anna did want you to bathe her and read her a bedtime story." Haven's grin broadened as she remembered Brady's look of terror at the prospect. Then, when Anna had gazed at him pleadingly, he'd given a resigned shrug and followed her up the stairs. "And I dare you to look me square in the eye and tell me you're not thrilled to bits you don't have to spend the next couple of hours on KP."

  He grinned, and a tiny thrill shot through her. "I probably wouldn't have done it to your satisfaction anyway."

  "Probably not," she agreed, grinning back.

  His grin faded, and an emotion she couldn't read filled his eyes. "Thanks for cleaning up."

  She shrugged. "It's the least I could do after that magnificent meal. You really are a good cook."

  To her amazement, a dull flush colored his cheeks. She couldn't believe it. He was actually blushing. Never, in her wildest dreams, would she ever have imagined she could make him blush.

  From the look on his face, she would have thought nobody had ever paid him a compliment before. A pang pierced her as she remembered his upbringing. Maybe no one had. At least, during her formative years, when it mattered most, she'd had Josephine to cheer her on and buck up her confidence. But until Charles Ross came along, who had Brady had? No one.

  Well, all that was about to change, she decided. For as long as they were together, she would make it her business to see that he got the praise he deserved.

  Of course, she'd have to be subtle about it. He might be changing, but she knew he
wasn't ready to be overwhelmed with praise. Maybe a little more lighthearted teasing was what the situation called for.

  "I can't believe it," she said, her gaze fixed on his ruddy cheeks.

  "What?"

  "You're blushing."

  "I am not." His cheeks grew even redder. "I never blush."

  "Then why is your face so red?"

  "For your information, Anna likes her bathwater hotter than Hades. There was more steam in that bathroom than at a boiler convention. If my face is red, blame it on that."

  She wasn't about to let him get away with that flimsy excuse. "Anna was done with her bath ages ago. Your cheeks are red because you're blushing." She tilted her head to study the phenomenon some more. "I thought you were too cynical to blush."

  "I am."

  She ignored his denial. "Let's see if this has any effect. You're a wonderful father."

  His reaction surprised her. Instead of more color flooding his cheeks, his body grew as rigid and unyielding as a petrified tree. "Am I?" he asked in a tight voice.

  She could feel the tension wiling off him like a fever, and she knew how important her answer was to him.

  "Yes," she said, abandoning her teasing. "You most definitely are. You spend time with her. You listen to her. You make her feel important. I always wanted a dad like you when I was a kid."

  He swallowed hard and looked away. "At least your father was there. Mine couldn't even be bothered to stick around for my birth."

  "But don't you see," she explained, "that's what made it worse. Yes, my father was there, if by 'there' you mean he provided me with a roof over my head and clothes on my back. He fulfilled his obligations as far as I was concerned. But there was never any question that his research came first, my mother second and me a distant third."

  "Maybe he just didn't know how to express his feelings for you," Brady said.

  "Maybe," she acknowledged, although she didn't really believe it. "But I wasn't asking for flowery phrases of love and adoration. I was just a kid. It would have been enough for him to read me the funny pages on a lazy Sunday morning. Or take me to the zoo. Or play bucking bronco and let me ride on his back. Or simply ask how I was doing. I can't tell you how many meals I ate at the same table with him without his even acknowledging my presence. It made me feel invisible."