Her Kind of Hero: The Last Mercenary

“Colleen what?”

“Colleen Mary,” she replied.

He smiled. “Yes. That suits you.”

He was acting very strangely. In fact, he had been ever since he rescued her. She wondered if he was still trying to take her mind off Lopez. If he was, it wasn’t working. The nightmarish memories were too fresh to forget.

She looked at him worriedly. “Lopez will be looking for me,” she said suddenly.

He tautened. “Let him look,” he said shortly. “If he comes close enough to make a target, I’ll solve all his problems. He isn’t getting his hands on you again, Callie.”

She relaxed a little. He sounded very confident. It made her feel better. She moved back into the center of the room, wrapping her arms around herself. “How can people like that exist in a civilized world?” she wanted to know.

“Because governments still can’t fight that kind of wealth,” he said bluntly. “Money and power make criminals too formidable. But we’ve got the Rico statutes which help us take away some of that illegal money,” he added. “and we’ve got dedicated people enforcing the law. We win more than we lose these days.”

“You sound like a government agent,” she teased.

He chuckled. “I do, don’t I? I spent several years being one. It sticks.” He moved forward, taking his hands out of his pockets to wrap them gently around her upper arms. “I give you my word that I won’t let Lopez get you. In case you were worrying about that.”

She grimaced. “Does it show?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I can read your mind these days,” he added, trying to make light of it.

“You’re sure? About Dad being safe, I mean?”

“I’m sure about Dad,” he returned at once. “Gator may look dumb, but he’s got a mind like a steel trap, and he’s quick on the draw. Nobody’s going to get past him—certainly nobody’s going to get past him and Maddie at the same time.”

“You like her a lot, I guess?”

He chuckled. “Yes, I do. She’s hell on two legs, and one of the best scroungers I’ve ever had.”

“What does Bojo do?”

He gave her a wary appraisal, and it seemed as if he didn’t like the question. “Bojo is a small arms expert,” he replied. “He also has relatives in most of the Muslim nations, so he’s a great source of information, as well. Peter, you met him on the plane, is new with the group. He’s a linguist and he’s able to pass for an Arab or an Israeli. He’s usually undercover in any foreign operation we’re hired to undertake. You haven’t met Rodrigo yet—he was the pilot of the DC-3 we flew back to Miami. He does undercover work, as well. Don, the blond copilot, is a small arms expert. We have another operative, Cord Romero, who does demolition work for us, but he had an accident and he’s out of commission for a while.”

“What you and your men do—it’s dangerous work.”

“Living is dangerous work,” he said flatly. “I like the job. I don’t have any plans to give it up.”

Her eyebrows arched and her pale blue eyes twinkled. “My goodness, did I propose marriage just now and get instant amnesia afterward? Excuse me!”

He gaped at her. “Propose marriage…?”

She held up both hands. “Now, don’t get ruffled. I understand how men feel about these things. I haven’t asked you out, or sent you flowers, or even bought you a nice pair of earrings. Naturally you’re miffed because I put the cart before the horse and asked you to give up an exciting job you love for marriage to a boring paralegal.”

He blinked. “Callie?” he murmured, obviously fearing for her sanity.

“We’ll just forget the proposal,” she offered generously.

“You didn’t propose!” he gritted.

“See? You’ve already forgotten. Isn’t that just like a man?” she muttered, as she went back to the sofa and sat down. “Now you’ll pout for an hour because I rejected you.”

He burst out laughing when he realized what she was doing. It took the tension away from their earlier discussion and brought them back to normal. He dropped down into an armchair across from her and folded his arms over his chest.

“Just when I think I’ve got you figured out, you throw me another curve,” he said appreciatively.

“Believe me, if I didn’t have a sense of humor, I’d already have smeared Mr. Kemp with honey and locked him in a closet with a grizzly bear.”

“Ouch!”

“I thought you lived in Nassau?” She changed the subject.

He shrugged. “I did. This place came on the market three years ago and I bought it. I like the idea of having a defendable property. You’ll see what I mean when we get there. It’s like a walled city.”

“I’ll bet there are lots of flowers,” she murmured hopefully.

“Millions,” he confirmed. “Hibiscus and orchids and bougainvillea. You’ll love it.” He smiled gently. “You were always planting things when I lived at home.”

“I didn’t think you noticed anything I did,” she replied before she thought.

He watched her quietly. “Your mother spent most of that time ordering you around,” he recalled. “If she wanted a soft drink, or a scarf, or a sandwich, she always sent you after it. I don’t recall that she ever touched a vacuum cleaner or a frying pan the whole time she was around.”

“I learned to cook in the last foster home I stayed in,” she said with a smile. “It was the best of the lot. Mrs. Toms liked me. She had five little kids and she had arthritis real bad. She was so sweet that it was a joy to help her. She was always surprised that anyone would want to do things for her.”

“Most giving people are,” he replied. “Ironically they’re usually the last ones people give to.”

“That’s true.”

“What else did she teach you?” he asked.

“How to crochet,” she recalled. She sighed. “I can’t make sweaters and stuff, but I taught myself how to make hats. I give them to children and old people in our neighborhood. I work on them when I’m waiting for appointments with Dad. I get through a lot.”

It was another reminder that she was taking care of his father, something he should have been doing himself—something he would be doing, if Callie’s mother hadn’t made it impossible for him to be near his parent.

“You’re still bitter about Dad,” she said, surprising him. “I can tell. You get this terrible haunted look in your eyes when I talk about him.”

It surprised him that at her age she could read him so well, when his own men couldn’t. He wasn’t sure he liked it.

“I miss him,” he confessed gruffly. “I’m sorry he won’t let me make peace.”

She gaped at him. “Whoever told you that?”

He hesitated. “I haven’t tried to talk to him in years. So I phoned him a few days ago, before you were kidnapped. He listened for a minute and hung up without saying a word.”

“What day was it?”

“It was Saturday. What difference does that make?”