Frisco's Kid. Suzanne Brockmann

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      And as for war, they were currently fighting a great big one—an ongoing war against terrorism.

      “I don’t need your crap.” Frisco turned away as he used his cane to limp toward the door of his condo.

      “Oh, my opinion is crap?” She moved in front of him, blocking his way. Her eyes flashed with green fire.

      “What I do need is another drink,” Frisco announced. “Badly. So if you don’t mind moving out of my way…?”

      Mia crossed her arms and didn’t budge. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I confess that my question may have sounded a bit hostile, but I don’t believe that it was crap.”

      Frisco gazed at her steadily. “I’m not in the mood for an argument,” he said. “You want to come in and have a drink—please. Be my guest. I’ll even find an extra glass. You want to spend the night—even better. It’s been a long time since I’ve shared my bed. But I have no intention of standing here arguing with you.”

      Mia flushed, but her gaze didn’t drop. She didn’t look away. “Intimidation is a powerful weapon, isn’t it?” she said. “But I know what you’re doing, so it won’t work. I’m not intimidated, Lieutenant.”

      He stepped forward, moving well into her personal space, backing her up against the closed door. “How about now?” he asked. “Now are you intimidated?”

      She wasn’t. He could see it in her eyes. She was angrier, though.

      “How typical,” she said. “When psychological attack doesn’t work, resort to the threat of physical violence.” She smiled at him sweetly. “I’m calling your bluff, G.I. Joe. What are you going to do now?”

      Frisco gazed down into Mia’s oval-shaped face, out of ideas, although he’d never admit that to her. She was supposed to have turned and run away by now. But she hadn’t. Instead, she was still here, glaring up at him, her nose mere inches from his own.

      She smelled amazingly good. She was wearing perfume—something light and delicate, with the faintest hint of exotic spices.

      Something had stirred within him when she’d first given him one of her funny smiles. It stirred again and he recognized the sensation. Desire. Man, it had been a long time….

      “What if I’m not bluffing?” Frisco said, his voice no more than a whisper. He was standing close enough for his breath to move several wisps of her hair. “What if I really do want you to come inside? Spend the night?”

      He saw a flash of uncertainty in her eyes. And then she stepped out of his way, moving deftly around his cane. “Sorry, I’m not in the mood for casual sex with a jerk,” she retorted.

      Frisco unlocked his door. He should have kissed her. She’d damn near dared him to. But it had seemed wrong. Kissing her would have been going too far. But, Lord, he’d wanted to….

      He turned to look back at her before he went inside. “If you change your mind, just let me know.”

      Mia laughed and disappeared into her own apartment.

CHAPTER 3

      “Yeah?” Frisco rasped into the telephone. His mouth was dry and his head was pounding as if he’d been hit by a sledgehammer. His alarm clock read 9:36, and there was sunlight streaming in underneath the bedroom curtains. It was bright, cutting like a laser beam into his brain. He closed his eyes.

      “Alan, is that you?”

      Sharon. It was his sister, Sharon.

      Frisco rolled over, searching for something, anything with which to wet his impossibly dry mouth. There was a whiskey bottle on the bedside table with about a half an inch of amber liquid still inside. He reached for it, but stopped. No way was he going to take a slug of that. Hell, that was what his old man used to do. He’d start the day off with a shot—and end it sprawled, drunk, on the living room couch.

      “I need your help,” Sharon said. “I need a favor. The VA hospital said you were released and I just couldn’t believe how lucky my timing was.”

      “How big a favor?” Frisco mumbled. She was asking for money. It wasn’t the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last. His older sister Sharon was as big a drunk as their father had been. She couldn’t hold a job, couldn’t pay her rent, couldn’t support her five-year-old daughter, Natasha.

      Frisco shook his head. He’d been there when Tasha was born, brought into the world, the offspring of an unknown father and an irresponsible mother. As much as Frisco loved his sister, he knew damn well that Sharon was irresponsible. She floated through life, drifting from job to job, from town to town, from man to man. Having a baby daughter hadn’t rooted Sharon in any one place.

      Five years ago, back when Natasha was born, back before his leg had damn near been blown off, Frisco had been an optimist. But even he hadn’t been able to imagine much happiness in the baby’s future. Unless Sharon owned up to the fact that she had a drinking problem, unless she got help, sought counseling and finally settled down, he’d known that little Natasha’s life would be filled with chaos and disruption and endless change.

      He’d been right about that.

      For the past five years, Frisco had sent his sister money every month, hoping to hell that she used it to pay her rent, hoping Natasha had a roof over her head and food to fill her stomach.

      Sharon had visited him only occasionally while he was in the VA hospital. She only came when she needed money, and she never brought Natasha with her—the one person in the world Frisco would truly have wanted to see.

      “This one’s a major favor,” Sharon said. Her voice broke. “Look, I’m a couple of blocks away. I’m gonna come over, okay? Meet me in the courtyard in about three minutes. I broke my foot, and I’m on crutches. I can’t handle the stairs.”

      She hung up before giving Frisco a chance to answer. Sharon broke her foot. Perfect. Why was it that people with hard luck just kept getting more and more of the same? Frisco rolled over, dropped the receiver back onto the phone, grabbed his cane and staggered into the bathroom.

      Three minutes. It wasn’t enough time to shower, but man, he needed a shower badly. Frisco turned on the cold water in the bathroom sink and then put his head under the faucet, both drinking and letting the water flow over his face.

      Damn, he hadn’t meant to kill that entire bottle of whiskey last night. During the more than five years he’d been in and out of the hospital and housed in rehabilitation centers, he’d never had more than an occasional drink or two. Even before his injury, he was careful not to drink too much. Some of the guys went out at night and slammed home quantities of beer and whiskey—enough to float a ship. But Frisco rarely did. He didn’t want to be like his father and his sister, and he knew enough about it to know that alcoholism could be hereditary.

      And last night? He’d meant to have one more drink. That was all. Just one more to round down the edges. One more to soften the harsh slap of his release from the therapy center. But one drink had turned into two.

      Then he’d started thinking about Mia Summerton, separated from him by only one very thin wall, СКАЧАТЬ