Authors: Micqui Miller
Sweet Caroline
by Micqui Miller
heavy." He hooked her garment bag over one shoulder and, with his free hand, grabbed one of the suitcases.
"We don't have to do this in one trip." He glanced toward the end of the block. "Pull your car
'round back. You'll have to circle the block to find the drive. I'll take these up and meet you downstairs."
"Really ... I..."
"I know, I know, you can do it yourself." He smiled. "Go on with you now. We don't need to stand out here arguin'." At the doorway, he stopped and called to her, "I switched on the outdoor lights. Pull in beside my Jeep." True to his word, Mick was leaning against the back fender of his Wrangler when Caroline turned in alongside the Jeep. She locked her car and handed him the last of her things.
"I've given you two keys," he said, leading the way. "The longer one opens the front and back doors. The shorter one is for the door at the top of the stairs and your flat." She walked ahead of him, up a flight of twenty steep steps. The building was old, but it smelled like pine cleaner and fresh paint. At the top, he opened the interior door, a fire door that looked impenetrable. "If someone were to get into the building, they still couldn't get into our hallway." Had someone tried? Was this a high crime area?
"Not that anyone's ever tried."
Once inside, Caroline found a well-lit hallway. The floor, made of oak planks, was polished to a high gloss, the walls painted a pleasant, soothing light melon with golden accents. A strip of dark green carpeting served as a walkway. 51
Sweet Caroline
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They walked past two doors that Caroline guessed were other flats. Neither had numbers, and both had extra dead bolt locks as well as padlocks and chains.
At her questioning glance, Mick said, "That's a storage area on the right, and my lab's on the left. This is where I keep my files and research."
"Your laboratory?" She stopped in mid-stride. "You're not one of those mad scientists who's going to blow up the place in the middle of the night, are you?"
Mick laughed, a tight humorless sound. "You needn't worry about that, Caroline. I leave the explosives to the rest of my family."
She frowned.
An odd answer.
She saw his lips thin and his jaw tense. Obviously, he had nothing more to say.
"I'm sorry. A bad attempt at humor." His face relaxed. "The rooms have been fireproofed because I do a lot of classified work. As a precaution, I've installed double locks, but this is a very safe place. In fact, I don't bother to lock my flat. No one comes up unless I invite them."
He stopped at the front of the hallway and pointed to the door on his right, the one with the numeral two in shining brass. "Welcome to your new home." She peeked around him, to the apartment on the opposite side of the hallway with the numeral one in matching brass.
"Your place?"
"When I'm in town I stay over. Weekends, I go to the ranch."
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Sweet Caroline
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"You're a rancher, too?" She shook her head. "Rancher, scientist, restaurateur. What don't you do?" He took the keys from her, slipped the shorter one into the lock, and twisted until the latch gave. "There's a lot I don't do. We can talk about that another time. Striker said you'd be staying about eight weeks. Is that right?" She cocked her head to the side. "Striker?"
"Of course you wouldn't know him by that name. Ian Foy."
"Striker's an unusual nickname. What does it mean?" Mick turned his back to her, twisted the knob, and opened the door to her apartment. She saw by the purposeful way he stepped inside and motioned her to follow that he'd closed the subject of "Striker" Foy.
As soon as she crossed the threshold, the lights came on, bathing a beautifully decorated living room in a soft glow. She looked around. "Lovely. Don't tell me you're an interior decorator, too."
Mick chuckled. "'Fraid not. If you'll come for coffee one day, you'll see my tastes run to Spartan. You can thank my sisters for the frou-frou and frills." He gestured toward a hallway off the kitchen. "The bedroom and bath are that way. Come along for the three-penny tour."
Inside the bedroom, he opened one of the doors to a walkin closet and hung her garment bag. This room, too, bore all the signs of a talented decorator, one who liked greens and yellows.
"The television's wired to the satellite," Mick said. "You'll find a modem connection at the back of the desk."
"You've thought of everything, haven't you?" 53
Sweet Caroline
by Micqui Miller
He stifled a yawn and flexed his shoulders. "Not quite. There's no food in the pantry or the fridge, but I rise early. If you smell coffee, walk right in."
"The perfect landlord."
His lips curved into a warm, beckoning smile. "Trying to make up for our ... rocky start."
"We're past that, remember? Friends." Caroline watched Mick think about her verbal reminder, and wondered what he'd come up with next. This man was a true paradox, presumptuous and irritating one moment, charming and gracious the next. And always with a smile that took her breath away. Out of the blue, he leaned forward, almost as if he planned to seal their new friendship with a kiss.
Alarmed, she drew back.
He pulled away. "Friends it is, Caroline Spring," he said.
"Sweet dreams."
Later, face scrubbed clean and dressed in her favorite Dallas Mavericks nightshirt, Caroline sat cross-legged on the desk chair surfing through the e-mails of the day. A couple of jokes, the usual spam, a message from her best friend lamenting the fact that she'd have to attend Sunday's Fuzzy Friends fundraiser alone, and a post from her brother.
Hi, sis. Glad to see you arrived in one piece.
How goes the Mahoney hunt? Anything concrete? I'll drop your boxes at FedEx on the way to work tomorrow, so they should be there by Thursday.
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Sweet Caroline
by Micqui Miller
Saw Luke this afternoon. I think he really misses you,
Caro. Seemed disappointed that you're still traveling. He's a
good guy. Wish you two could work it out.
Caroline gritted her teeth. She missed so many things about Luke, but until he understood it was all right for a woman to
want
a career and not desire to stay home and be pampered, they'd never have a future.
She hit the reply button, and wrote:
Hey, bro—yep, I'm finding Mahoneys all over the place,
but I'm not sure yet what any of it means. Apparently Ian Foy
and the Mahoneys go way back, and it's not a pretty thing.
Thanks for shipping my stuff. My apartment's great, and the
restaurant next door, owned by my landlord, is fabulous. I'll
come home a blimp!
I don't know what to say about Luke. You know our issues, and neither of us is willing to back down.
Don't forget to water my plants on Friday.
I've got a big day tomorrow, so I'll sign off for now.
Hasta mañana!
Caroline sent the message and opened Word. She thought about summarizing the events of the day, but her shoulders and neck ached and her backside felt stiff. Her briefcase sat perched on the desk beside her. She dipped a hand inside and pulled out the file folder with the postcard and her mother's other documents. In one hand, she held her birth certificate and in the other, the birth registration for Baby Girl Smith.
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Sweet Caroline
by Micqui Miller
According to the dates, the girl child was four days older than Caroline—enough time for a family practice attorney to transport an infant halfway across the country. Was she leaping too far in thinking she was the anonymous Baby Girl Smith? Was she sired by a Mahoney or born of one? A quick look at the postcard, and anyone would have to agree she looked a damn sight more like a Mahoney than like a Spring.
Something deeply essential inside Caroline rebelled against the idea of Mahoney kinship. She leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes. A vision of violet eyes that sparkled with mischief, and a smile that could easily melt the ice around her heart, taunted her. Mick Mahoney was the first man to pique her interest in months. She knew by the trouble he'd taken to tease her that he felt something, too. If she were the anonymous Baby Girl Smith, what did that make Mick? A distant cousin perhaps? Or had Fate dealt her an even crueler hand?
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Sweet Caroline
by Micqui Miller
CAROLINE DID NOT see Mick again until Wednesday, her third night in Sebastopol. At times, she'd heard him rumbling around his place, and twice his car had been parked in the space beside hers after another of her sixteen-hour days. Overall, Mick was a quiet neighbor, which surprised her. She had expected to hear music filling their shared hallway or at least the monotonous drone of the play-by-play of a televised sports event.
Tonight Caroline had worked later than usual, and it was nearing one-thirty a.m. when she dragged herself up the backstairs. Too exhausted to do more than grab an apple on her way past the kitchen, she shed her clothes, threw on her nightshirt and fell into bed. Even the thought of checking her e-mail held no appeal.
Within minutes, she fell into a sleep so deep that the first anguished cry blended into her dream.
At the second, she knew something was terribly wrong. She shot up in bed and knocked the remains of the apple off her nightstand.
The third cry, a terrifying, gut-wrenching
NO, PAPA, NO!
sent her running, flying across the living room, and into the hall without a thought for her own safety. Her only goal was to help the person in such pain—Mick Mahoney.
"MICK, MICK." She pounded both fists against his front door. "MICK, IT'S CAROLINE. WHAT'S WRONG?" 57
Sweet Caroline
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Silence answered her, and the hammering in her chest welled into panic. Should she turn tail and run? What if someone had broken through Mick's shield of security? What if someone waited for her inside?
"MICK!" she shouted again, putting aside the fear for her own safety. "ANSWER ME OR I'M COMING IN." Still no answer. She
had
to do something. Her hands trembled but she hesitated only a second before twisting the knob and pushing her weight against the wood. The door flew open and Caroline tumbled across the threshold, arms flailing, straight into Mick's chest
"Mick, what the hell is going..." The words died on her lips as the hall light shone across his face. He stood before her, naked except for a towel wrapped carelessly around his hips. Drenched in perspiration, chest heaving and with a wild look in his eyes, he seemed as confused by what was happening as she was.
"I'm sorry," he managed between ragged breaths. "I'm sorry."
Instinctively she went into his arms, holding on as tightly as she could—not as a lover but as an anchor thrown into a heavy sea.
"It's okay, Mick," she comforted. "You were having a nightmare." She, too, had nightmares as a child, terrifying, frightening dreams that were always far worse than the events they portrayed or portended. Yet after they passed, she knew they'd taken a little of her soul with them. Caroline had no idea how long they stood like that, she crooning words of reassurance while he held onto her as if his 58
Sweet Caroline
by Micqui Miller
life depended on it. Slowly, she felt his body still, and wriggled free enough to look into his eyes and ask, "Mick, what's going on?"
Without answering, he buried his face in her hair and held on tighter.
"It's okay, Mick. It's over."
At the first sign he'd relaxed enough for her to slip out of his bear hug and catch a breath, Caroline and saw that a certain part of his body, obviously acting apart from his mind, had an erection.
When he saw it, too, he slapped his arms to his sides and jumped back until they stood separated by at least a yard.
"Oh bleedin' hell, you must think I'm an animal." Caroline denied it with a shake of her head. She looked down at herself, at how little she wore, and how close the tenting towel was to dropping.
A surge of an emotion she couldn't even name shimmered along the back of her neck. She'd come as a caregiver, and now suddenly they were both aware of how physical the moment had turned.
"If you're okay, I'll just..." She averted her gaze and backed away.
"I'm truly sorry, Caroline." Mick yanked the ends of the towel into a knot tight enough to garrote his mid-section.
"N-no, it's okay, it's okay."
Hurrying, Caroline crossed the hall and closed the door behind her, careful not to slam it, but making sure she threw the deadbolt. She'd be lying if she told herself she wasn't frightened, not of Mick, but of the depth of his anguish. There 59
Sweet Caroline
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were demons locked inside him that tonight had fought and won. How many times had this happened before? And who had been there to lead him back from edge?
Maybe coming to Sebastopol wasn't such a good idea, the practical part of her brain asserted. Just as she'd ignored its first warning and went to him, she knew there was nothing that could tear her away now. The mystery of the Mahoneys and her life was deepening. She'd come for the penny and would stay for the pound.
* * * *
BY THREE O'CLOCK on Friday, the last day of her first week, Caroline had found questionable programming in the ZyQyx network, although nothing sinister or related to fraud. She also discovered that her first impression of ZyQyx as a great place to work held up. Salaries were exceptionally high, and Ian Foy's employees adored him. No one, not even Brian Mahoney, Ian's designated suspect, spoke unkindly about him.
She'd dangled some bait before a couple of the programmers, to stir things up. No one snapped at the line. For more than an hour she'd stared at code she'd written in Visual Basic earlier in the day. When an e-mail message from Brian popped up on her screen, she gladly took a moment to read it. The e-mail invited her to "Hot August Nights, the Friday Night Bash at the Marina," the singles'