Tall, Dark and Fearless: Frisco's Kid

“You better hold your breath, though,” 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.

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 with 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 react. 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 I 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 FOUR

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 his collection of weapons 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 firearms.

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 must’ve come with some kind of men’s channel—the Playboy 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.