international reputation for effectiveness was why the agency had been tapped to watch Carolyne, a computer programmer extraordinaire who’d been on everyone’s snatch list when she uncovered—and developed the fix for—a security weakness in the current crop of missile laser guidance systems. The bad guys, professionals at the beck and call of those who wanted to exploit that weakness. And Leo Stark’s role had been a desperate ploy on Kimmer’s part to keep him from focusing on her. Because it was Kimmer he’d wanted—Kimmer who’d been promised to him not so much as a wife than as a servant. Leo. Dammit.
“He was right, I guess. Must have cost a pretty penny to fix you up like this.” He lifted an appreciative eyebrow.
She snorted. “Is that your idea of a compliment? It’s supposed to make me stick around long enough to hear what you have to say?”
Hank scowled. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be. I’ve come all this way to find you. That must count for something.”
Yeah. It pissed her off.
But there was Rio sitting next to her, knowing only how upset she was and not quite understanding; the puzzlement showed in the faintest of frowns, the only outward sign of his struggle to comprehend the strength of her reaction. And he’d never understand if she literally left Hank in the dust.
You want to know my family, Rio? Okay then.
She raised an eyebrow at Hank. “Coming all this way doesn’t count for a thing,” she told him. “But let’s just call it your lucky day. I’ll bet you know where I live, too.” She wouldn’t have been hard to find once Leo pointed Hank in the direction of Seneca Lake; she was in the phone book. She’d never made any effort to hide who she really was—she’d never expected them to care enough to come looking.
Whyever Hank had tracked her down, it wasn’t because he cared. He might still want to control her, he might still want to use her, but he didn’t want to renew any kind of family relationship.
Rio would learn that.
Outside the window, Hank nodded. For an instant, she thought he actually looked relieved, but a second glance showed her only the arrogant certainty that she’d see things his way. But whatever had inspired him to invade her world…
It wouldn’t be good enough.
Kimmer had little to say on the way home. Full of glower and resentment and anger, she took the curving roads at satisfying speed, reveling in the way the car clung to the road and how it leaped to the challenge when she accelerated in the last section of each swoop of asphalt. She left the Suburban far, far behind and when she pulled the Miata to an abrupt stop beside Rio’s boxy Honda Element in her sloping driveway, she exited the car with purpose.
Shedding and gathering clothes along the way, she climbed the stairs to the remodeled second floor of the old house—two small bedrooms and a bathroom turned into one giant master suite—and dumped the lunch outfit on the unmade bed. She replaced it with a clean pair of low-rise blue jeans from the shelves in her walk-in closet, and a clingy ribbed cotton sweater with laces dangling from the cross-tie sleeves. Red.
If Hank thought he was here to see his little sister, he had a thing or two coming.
She jammed the war club in her back pocket—Hank would do well to pale if he recognized it, given the events of the night she’d departed—and headed back down the stairs.
Rio puttered in the kitchen, putting away lunch leftovers and the desserts they’d brought home for later. He’d poured them each a glass of bright blue Kool-Aid, his current favorite flavor. Raspberry Reaction. A third glass stood off to the side, filled with ice, waiting to see what Hank preferred. Rio didn’t react as she stood in the kitchen entrance, slipping athletic Skechers over her bare feet, but he knew she was there; he pointed at the glass he’d filled for her.
As usual, he seemed to fill the room—he always filled the room, no matter how large it was, though calling her kitchen roomy went beyond exaggeration and straight to blatant lie. He’d gone to lunch in a tailored sport coat over jeans and a collarless short-sleeved shirt, a look he carried off with much panache. Now he’d dumped the coat and still looked…good.
Oh, yeah.
For a wistful moment, Kimmer wished they could simply lock the door and exchange frantic Kool-Aid flavored kisses. Forget Hank, forget family…just Rio and Kimmer, warming up the house on a beautiful spring day.
But Hank was on the way. They had no more than minutes. In fact, he should have been here by now. Kimmer strongly suspected he’d gotten lost. She wished she could take credit for the missing street sign between her street and the main road…it was enough that she’d neglected to mention it to Hank. She sighed heavily and reached for the cold glass.
The sigh got his attention. He turned to look at her, tossing the hand towel back into haphazard place over the stove handle, his mouth already open to say something, but abruptly hesitating on the words. He stared; she raised her eyebrows. He cleared his throat. “I like that sweater.”
Kimmer smoothed down the hem. “It’s unexpectedly easy to remove,” she informed him.
“That’s not fair.” He seemed to have forgotten he held his drink.
She shrugged at his ruefulness over Hank’s impending arrival. “You’re the one who wanted me to give Hank his say.”
That brought him back down to earth. “But—” He narrowed his eyes at her, accenting the angle of them “—you told me you couldn’t use your knack on me.”
“I can’t,” she said, sipping the drink. It wasn’t what she’d have chosen, but it was cold and felt good on her throat.
“Ah.” His expression turned more rueful yet. “That obvious, am I?”
“Oh, yeah.” She gave him a moment to digest the notion, then nodded at the front door. “Let’s wait on the porch. I don’t want to invite him in.”
He followed her outside, latching the screen door against the cat she seemed to have acquired when Rio moved in—an old white marina cat with black blotches, half an ear and half a front leg missing. Rio had seemed almost as surprised as Kimmer when it showed up along with him, muttering some lame-ass explanation about how it was too old to survive alone at the dock. OldCat, he called it.
Big softie. That was Rio, deep down. Too intensely affected by the lives of those he cared about, even the life of a used-up cat.
Though the cat did look comfortable on her front window sill.
Kimmer helped herself to a corner of the porch swing and sat cross-legged, shuffling off her Skechers. Rio took up the rest of the seat and stretched his legs out before him, taking up the duty of nudging the thing back and forth ever so slightly. Down by the barely visible stop sign, a blotchy green-on-green Suburban traveled slowly down the main road, passing by her unidentified street.
Rio settled his glass on the arm of the swing. “You may have to go get him.”
Kimmer didn’t think so.
After a moment, she said, “When I was little, my mother used to rock with me.”
“I thought—”
“Before
