Tell Me a Story (15 page)

R
afferty threaded his way between wide planters, some overgrown with vegetation, some full of bare soil. The sun seemed stifling after the Indian summer he'd left in Colorado. He stopped next to a planter that contained a small jungle of ficus trees and unbuttoned his cuffs, rolling them up his forearms. It was a delaying tactic.

What was he going to say to Becky when he was finally face-to-face with her? How could he resist the need to pull her into his arms and hold her close? He had to remember that he was a total stranger to her, less welcome in her life than the two people in the penthouse behind him.

He walked on, feeling the rhythm of his pulse throbbing in his temples. Three years. Three years since he'd seen her. What would she look like? Did she look like her mother?

He came around the corner of a planter that contained a tangle of unidentifiable vegetation and stopped abruptly, feeling his heart almost stop also.

She was kneeling by a planter just a few feet away, digging in the bare soil with a small trowel, mounding the dirt carefully to one side. She was wearing bright purple jeans and a purple-and-white striped top. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, a bright yarn bow slightly askew.

He swallowed hard, his hand going out for an instant before he jerked it back. He pushed both hands in his back pockets to control the tremors that shook them. He'd done surgery, knowing the patient's life depended on the steadiness of his fingers, and his hands had been rock steady. He drew in a quick breath. He had to remember that he was supposed to be nothing more than a friend of McCallister's.

"Hello, Becky." He hoped she wouldn't notice the way his voice shook.

He moved forward as she turned to look at him and Rafferty sank onto the edge of the planter, as much to give himself support as anything else. The move put his face almost level with hers.

"Hello. This roof belongs to Mr. Flynn, you know. Did he say you could come out here?"

"I'm a friend of his."

She studied him for a long moment, her expression solemn. Rafferty took the opportunity to study her, his eyes devouring every inch of her. She'd changed so much. The realization hurt. She wasn't the plump toddler he remembered. This was a little girl on her way to growing up. She was taller, of course. He'd expected that. But he hadn't expected her to look so different. She was slim, with none of the chubbiness she'd had as a baby. And her eyes, her eyes looked so much older and wiser than her years.

He felt a flash of anger. She'd had to grow up too quickly. Maryanne had robbed her of part of her childhood.

She looked like Maryanne. The same delicate features, elfin in a child, changing to beauty in a woman. But he could see himself in her face. The same stubborn chin, and her eyes weren't the pale blue of her mother's. Her eyes were gray, uncompromisingly gray.

"I guess if you're a friend of Mr. Flynn's, it's okay if you're out here."

Rafferty smiled, hoping she wouldn't notice that his eyes were too bright. "Thanks. I'm Rafferty."

"I'm Becky." She held out her hand and he took it.

The first time he'd been close enough to touch his daughter in three years. Her hand felt so tiny in his.

"I'm digging for gold."

He dragged his eyes from her face and looked at the hole she'd dug. "Have you had any luck?"

"Not yet but Mr. Flynn says you got to keep at something to make it work. And Ann says that pers.. .perst...."

"Persistence?"

"That's it. Ann says you got to have that to get anywhere."

"Sounds like you've had some pretty good advice."

"Mr. Flynn and Ann are my best friends in the whole world. They know everything."

Rafferty's mouth kicked up on one side. "Well, I hope you and I can be friends, too."

"We'll have to see if we like each other." Becky picked up the trowel and returned to her digging.

"I think we're going to like each other a lot, Becky."

He sat there, with the hot L.A. sun beating down and watched her dig in the soil. He'd missed so much of her life. Years that he could never regain. But he wouldn't miss any more of it.

It wasn't that he wasn't pleased for Becky's sake, but did Rafferty Traherne have to be so damned perfect?

Flynn picked up the dice and shook them before tossing them onto the table. A full house stared back at him. The fourth full house he'd had in a row. He stared at the Yahtzee score sheet, wondering what else he needed. Nothing that the dice were offering. He picked up the dice and threw them all again. At the end of his turn, he was forced to scratch his Yahtzee.

"You're not having much luck tonight, are you, Mr. Flynn?"

He smiled at Becky. "Not much. But you're making up for it, urchin. It's a good thing we're not gambling or I'd have lost the farm to you by now." She giggled.

Rafferty threw next and, of course, threw a Yahtzee on the second toss of the dice. Becky squealed with excitement and Ann laughed. Flynn smiled, but what he really wanted to do was throw the dice out the window.

No, if he was honest, what he really wanted to do was throw the man out the window.

No. He didn't want to do that. There was nothing wrong with Traherne. In fact, that was what was wrong with him. Couldn't the man have a few flaws? Bad breath. Bowlegs. Anything would do. But there was nothing.

He was absolutely perfect father material. He was patient with Becky but not above being firm. He had a good sense of humor; he was a polite house guest. He was good-looking, but not too good-looking. He probably loved God, America and apple pie, not necessarily in that order.

It was impossible not to like him but Flynn was trying.

He watched Ann smile across the table at Rafferty and felt a knot in his stomach that had nothing to do with the biscuits that Becky had made for dinner. Jealousy. Plain, old-fashioned jealousy. He was honest enough to admit that he felt it, but that didn't change the feelings.

In the last two weeks, Becky had come to adore Rafferty. Which was just as it should be. Flynn was doing what he could to loosen the ties between himself and Becky. It hurt but it had to be done. She needed to transfer her dependence to her father. He was glad that she was doing so.

He wasn't so glad that Ann seemed to think Rafferty was the greatest thing since sliced cheese. Did she have to smile at him quite so often?

He picked up the dice when his turn came and threw again, barely noticing when he had to put the results down on chance. His eyes caught Ann's as Rafferty picked up the dice. She gave him a flickering smile and then looked away, her fingers toying with her pencil.

She'd barely looked at him since Rafferty's arrival. In fact, come to think of it, they'd barely spoken since the night they made love. It seemed as if something was always taking priority. First there'd been the death of Becky's mother, then finding out about Rafferty and then Rafferty himself showing up.

Flynn wondered if he was the only one to feel the tension between them. There was so much left unspoken. Their relationship had taken a giant step and then been frozen in time. They couldn't go back to what they'd been before, but there was no saying what might lie in the future.

"Your turn, Flynn." He looked up, startled out of his thoughts. Ann was holding the dice out to him, her expression quizzical.

"Sorry. I guess I wasn't paying much attention." He reached out to take the dice from her, their fingers brushing. Their eyes met, and Flynn knew he wasn't the only one to feel the sparks that resulted from the casual contact.

Soon, he promised himself. Soon, they'd have time for each other.

❧

"Good game. Not that the Raiders can compare to the Broncos, of course." Rafferty's grin took the sting out of the words.

Flynn lifted his hand, signaling for another round of beers before settling back in the booth and looking at his companion. "I haven't been to a football game in years."

"I thought you had season tickets." Rafferty emptied his mug as the waitress set another round down in front of them. He reached for his wallet, waving off Flynn's attempt to pay for them. "My treat. The tickets were yours."

"Thanks. But the tickets weren't exactly my treat. The family always has season seats. We just haven't used them in a while. My brother and I used to go almost every game."

"Did he switch to hockey?"

"He died and I guess I just got out of the habit." Flynn took a long swallow of the frosty beer, surprised by how little it hurt to mention Mark.

In the background, a country song twanged out the miseries of divorce. Two would-be cowboys played a desultory game of eight ball at a pool table near the jukebox. It was broad daylight outside but the bar was dusky, as if light never quite penetrated the shabby wooden walls. The bartender polished glasses with a rag that looked like it had been used to polish an engine.

"Must be tough, losing a brother. Was he younger or older?"

Flynn dragged his gaze away from the surroundings. "Older. Older and perfect. In fact, you remind me of Mark."

Rafferty raised an eyebrow, his skepticism clear. "I do? Doesn't seem likely. Perfect is hardly a word likely to be associated with me."

"Not perfect, maybe, but you're so damn upright. Mark was like that. It was impossible not to like him but it was hell living up to him."

"Upright? I don't know that I see myself that way."

"Sure you are. You're a doctor. You're a great father. You probably own your own home and I bet you contribute to an IRA every year."

Rafferty laughed. "Guilty. Are those the only criteria for being upright?"

"Just about."

"Then I guess I have to confess to the crime."

Flynn smiled. "It's not exactly a crime. What do you think of Becky?"

Rafferty's face softened, answering the question even before he spoke. "She's terrific."

"Yeah. I thought so myself."

"I'll be telling her who I am soon."

Flynn nodded. "I figured. I'm going to hate to lose her but there's no sense in dragging things out forever."

"I think..." Whatever Rafferty thought was destined to remain unspoken. While they were talking, Flynn had been vaguely aware that the bar was filling up. Urban cowboys, construction workers and an assortment of women, accompanied and otherwise. The jukebox had been turned up and one or two couples were rocking back and forth on a tiny strip of space that could optimistically be called a dance floor.

It was the dance floor that was the source of the sudden trouble. Apparently, three men were claiming the privilege of the same dance with one woman. The disagreement had escalated into a shouting match. It was only a moment before the first punch was thrown.

Rafferty and Flynn slid out of the booth, both of them with the same thought in mind. To slip quietly and unobtrusively out of the bar. Unfortunately, things were not destined to work out quite that neatly. The fighting in the middle of the room seemed to have a ripple effect. Every man in the place remembered a grudge against the man next to him. Before they'd gone more than three steps from their booth, they were involved in a full-fledged brawl.

Flynn ducked under a punch thrown at him by a man in a cowboy hat and buried his left fist in the man's overfed belly, coming up with his right fist against the cowboy's chin. The man staggered back and Flynn spun to check Rafferty's progress. Rafferty was holding his own, using his sheer bulk to force his way toward the door and using his fists when he had to.

A journey that had taken a matter of seconds earlier in the day took closer to ten minutes in the midst of the brawl. Flynn could feel the adrenaline pounding in his temples as he ducked flying fists and flying bottles, always keeping the door in sight. He jumped forward, pulling a man off Rafferty's back and spinning him into the melee around them. Rafferty turned.

"Thanks."

"Don't mention it." Rafferty's eyes went past him, widening. Flynn spun around. He caught only a glimpse of a stop-sign red shirt, a black beard and an upraised hand. He threw up his arm. The bottle that would have landed on his head and removed half his face, shattered against his forearm instead. He was aware of pain but there was no time to worry about it now. Rafferty came around him like a freight train. Red-shirt didn't have time to react and Flynn saw the startled look on his face as Rafferty's fist connected with his chin, rocking him back on his heels. A second blow sent him crashing to the floor.

Rafferty turned, his eyes bright. "You okay?" He had to shout to be heard. Flynn nodded. "Let's get the hell out of here."

They were only a few feet from the door, and seconds later they ducked through into the relative quiet of the street. Both men collapsed back against the building. Inside the battle raged on, shouts and obscenities mixing with the shatter of breaking glass.

Flynn rolled his head to look at Rafferty, their eyes meeting in the dusky light. They were both disheveled. Rafferty's lip was split and oozing blood sullenly. His jacket had been left behind in the bar, his shirt was torn and his jeans were covered with beer. Flynn knew he looked at least as bad. He could feel blood soaking the fabric of his shirt. He had no idea how bad the cut was. He only hoped he wasn't bleeding to death. Every muscle in his body ached.

He grinned, feeling more alive than he'd felt in years. "Hell of a fight."

Rafferty grinned back, wincing as the gesture tugged at his split lip. "Hell of a fight." He dabbed at the blood on his chin. "How bad is your arm?"

Flynn shrugged, still grinning. "I have no idea."

"Ought to check it out." The wail of sirens punctuated his remark and their eyes met again. "We'll check it out later."

Flynn nodded. "I can't imagine Ann's reaction if I had to call and ask her to bail us out of jail."

"Think we can make it to the car before the cops get here?"

"We can try." Flynn pushed himself away from the wall and sprinted the half block to the Ferrari, aware of Rafferty right behind him.They arrived at the car just as the first squad cars came around the corner ahead of them. Flynn skidded to a halt by the passenger door, tossing the keys to Rafferty.

"You drive. I don't think my arm is up to it."

Rafferty walked around the end of the car, glancing up as if mildly curious when the police cars hurried by, lights and sirens going. He opened the car door and slid inside, flicking open the lock for Flynn. Flynn slipped into the dark interior and shut the door.

"Wonder where they're going."

"I have no idea." Their eyes met and they both grinned like a couple of teenagers. Their friendship was cemented in those moments.

An hour later, Flynn turned the key in the apartment door. "Ann's not going to be happy."

"We could lie and tell her we were rescuing someone from a fate worse than death."

"Just what is a fate worse than death?"

Rafferty shrugged his huge shoulders. "I don't know."

Flynn hesitated, the key still in the lock. "She'd never believe it."

He withdrew the key and opened the door. Inside, a peculiar acrid smell assaulted their noses, and Flynn stopped dead just inside the hall.

"Becky's cooking again."

Rafferty had had some experience with his daughter's cooking and he winced, both at the smell and at the thought of what might have caused it. "I wonder what's she's made."

"I don't want to know."

"Me neither. Let's go back to the bar. It's probably safer."

Flynn grinned at Rafferty's suggestion. He pushed the door shut behind them but he didn't take off his coat. The black leather served to conceal the blood that soaked his arm. With luck, he could get into the bathroom and deal with the wound without Becky or Ann being any the wiser. If it needed medical attention, he could call on Rafferty's expertise.

"Hi, Mr. Flynn. Hi, Rafferty. I'm making a cake." Becky greeted them as they stepped into the living room. Her small form was swathed in an apron, but it hadn't prevented flour from coating every exposed surface. "Did you have fun?"

"We had a lot of fun, pumpkin." Rafferty came around Flynn and scooped Becky, dropping a kiss on her flour-dusted hair. "What kind of cake are you making?"

"Spice. Ann says she thinks I may have added too much cinnamon."

Flynn inhaled, finally identifying the acrid scent as burning spices. He had the feeling that Ann was right. Ann came out of the kitchen, also apron-wrapped. She had flour in her hair and a slightly harried expression on her face, and Flynn thought she'd never looked more beautiful.

"How was your..." Her eyes, more critical than Becky's, went over the two of them, seeing the bruise starting to show on Rafferty's cheekbone, his swollen lip and torn shirt, Flynn's disheveled hair and clothes and the careful way he held his left arm.

"What happened?"

"Nothing. We stopped and had a drink after the game."

"A drink? That's all?"

Rafferty looked from Ann to Flynn and took hold of Becky's hand. "How would you like to go to a movie?"

"Yeah!"

"Coward." He shrugged without apology in answer to Flynn's quiet accusation.

"Sorry. I don't think it's good for Becky to see bloodshed and I have a feeling that's what's about to occur."

"Who's going to blood?"

"Bleed, sweetheart. Nobody's going to bleed. I was just kidding. Why don't you come help me find a new shirt and we'll go out to the movies."

"Is Mr. Flynn and Ann going to come, too?"

Becky's ungrammatical question was the last sentence spoken until she and Rafferty returned a moment later. Rafferty was shrugging into a clean shirt. Becky was carrying a jacket.

"Okay if I borrow a car?"

"If it wasn't for Becky, I'd make you walk to the theater. Take the Ferrari. I just hope you can sleep tonight after abandoning a friend in need."

Rafferty grinned, not in the least disturbed by Flynn's dark warning. "Ann's too nice to do more than minor damage." He looked at Ann's set face. "It really wasn't our fault."

The door shut, leaving Ann and Flynn in the quiet apartment.

"What happened?"

Flynn shrugged, wincing as the gesture shifted his arm. "Nothing much. A little fight broke out in the bar and we got involved in the edges of it while we were trying to get to the door."

"How badly are you hurt?"

"Not bad. A few scrapes and bruises. It really wasn't that bad a fight."

"Then why are you favoring your arm?" She was wearing a pink apron that clashed with the fiery red of her hair, her feet were encased in bright blue socks and he knew exactly how her jeans molded her firm body. She looked absolutely feminine, except for the stern line of her mouth.

Flynn didn't want to talk about his arm, or the fight. He didn't want to talk about Rafferty or Becky or the fact that soon they'd be going away and he'd be alone again. He wanted to pull Ann into his arms and kiss the stern expression from her face. He wanted to feel her soften against him.

"Do you realize this is the first time we've been alone in a month?"

Awareness flickered through her eyes for a moment before being sternly pushed aside. "Let me see your arm."

"It's really not that big a deal."

"Then you won't mind me taking a look at it, will you?"

To tell the truth, his arm was beginning to throb like the devil. Besides, if he wanted to seduce Ann, it would be nice if he weren't bleeding all over her.

"All right. I would appreciate it if you took a look at it. To tell the truth, I haven't looked at it since it happened."

If she was suspicious of his abrupt capitulation, he couldn't tell it from her expression. He led the way into the huge bathroom off his bedroom and then stood there, looking as helpless as possible. All was fair in love and war. He wasn't quite ready to call this one or the other. All he knew was that he wanted Ann in his bed again and, if he could accomplish that by playing on her sympathies, then he wasn't above doing that.

Ann pulled a wicker stool over next to the sink. "Sit down and we'll see if we can get that coat off."

He sat down and shrugged the coat off his uninjured arm, letting Ann ease it off the other arm. He didn't have to pretend to a pained silence when the fabric stuck to the wound. In fact, by the time Ann was through fixing him up, he felt worse than he had before she started.

She took one look at the cut and announced that it would require stitches. Flynn's protests were ignored as she fetched her medical bag and proceeded to scrub the wound with what he would have sworn was pure lye. She stitched the arm without local anesthetic, announcing that he was big enough to handle the pain. Flynn thought of suggesting that he might prefer not to handle the pain, but her disapproval was so palpable that he decided not to risk her ire any further.