glared at it, looking around. She didn’t see anybody. But he’d been here, watching her. He’d seen her talking to her mother. Great. Something else for him to hold against her. She started to crumple up the note, but it was the first one he’d ever written her. She liked the way he wrote, very legible, elegant longhand. With a sigh, she folded it and stuck it in the glove compartment.
“Mental illness must be contagious,” she muttered to herself. “Maybe I got it from Rourke.”
She got in under the wheel and started the engine. It didn’t occur to her until much later that it seemed to matter to Carson if something happened to her. Of course, it could have just been pride in his work that she wouldn’t get killed on his shift. Still, it felt nice. Unless he’d seen her talking to Mary and thought she needed to be committed.
* * *
HER FATHER CAME in with Rourke that night just as she was taking the cornbread out of the oven. She’d made a big pot of homemade chili to go with it.
“What a delightful smell,” Rourke said in the kitchen doorway.
She grinned. “Pull up a chair. All you need is some butter for the cornbread. I have real butter. Homemade chili to go with it. There’s always plenty.”
“By all means,” Reverend Blair chuckled. “Carlie always makes extra, in case I bring someone home with me.”
“Do you do that often?” Rourke asked.
“Every other day,” the reverend confessed. “She never complains.”
“He only brings hungry people who like the way I cook,” she amended, and laughed. Her face, although she didn’t realize it, was very pretty when she smiled.
Rourke studied her with real appreciation. If his heart hadn’t been torn, he might have found her fascinating.
He looked around the stove and the cabinets.
“Did I forget something?” she asked.
“I’m looking to see if you cooked a grit.”
She and her father both laughed.
“It isn’t a grit, it’s grits. They’re made with corn,” she pointed out.
He shook his head. “Foreign fare.”
“Yes, well, I expect you know how to cook a springbok, but I’d have no idea,” she said as she put the pot of chili on the table.
“And she knows about springboks!” Rourke groaned. He sat down and put his napkin in his lap. “She also knows the history of the Boer Wars,” he said.
Her father shook his head. “She’s a student of military history. A big fan of Hannibal,” he confided.
“So am I. He was from Carthage. Africa,” Rourke added.
There was silence while they ate. Rourke seemed fascinated with the simple meal.
“I’ve had cornbread before, but it’s usually so dry that I can’t eat it. My mother used to make it like this,” he added quietly. “She was from the States. Maryland, I believe.”
“How in the world did she end up in Africa?” Carlie exclaimed. She blushed. “I mean, if you don’t mind my asking.”
He put down his spoon. “I was very rude about my father. I’m sorry,” he said, his brown eyes steady on her face. “You see, my birth certificate lists my mother’s husband in that capacity. But a covert DNA profile tells a very different story.” His face was hard. “I don’t speak of it in company because it’s painful, even now.”
She was really blushing now. She didn’t know what to say.
“But I wouldn’t have hurt you deliberately just for asking an innocent question,” Rourke continued gently. “You don’t even know me.”
She bit her lower lip. “Thanks,” she said shyly.
“Now, if you’d been a man...” her father mused, emphasizing the last word.
Carlie looked at him inquisitively.
He exchanged a look with Rourke. “There was a bar in Nassau,” her father said. “And a member of the group we were with made a sarcastic remark. Not to add that he did know Rourke, and he certainly knew better, but he’d had one too many Bahama mamas.” He pursed his lips and studied Rourke’s hard face. “I believe he made a very poetic dive into the swimming pool outside the bar.”
“Deliberately?” Carlie asked.
“Well, if it had been deliberate, I don’t think he’d have done it through the glass patio door,” her father added.
Carlie sucked in a breath. She looked behind her.
“What are you looking for?” her father asked.
“Glass patio doors...”
Rourke chuckled. “It was a while back,” he remarked. “I’m less hotheaded now.”
“Lies,” her father said. “Terrible lies.”
“Watch it,” Rourke cautioned, pointing his chili spoon at the reverend, “or I’ll tell her about the Russian diplomat.”
“Please do!” Carlie pleaded.
Her father glowered at Rourke. “It was a long time ago, in another life. Ministers don’t hit people,” he said firmly.
“Well, you weren’t a minister then,” Rourke teased, “and your embassy had to call in a lot of favors to keep you out of jail.”
“What in the world did you people do in those days?” Carlie asked, shocked.
“Bad things,” Reverend Blair said softly. “And it’s time to change the subject.”
“The things we don’t know about our parents,” Carlie mused, staring at her father.
“Some things are better not known,” was the reply. “And isn’t your chili getting cold, pumpkin?”
“Why do you call her ‘pumpkin’?” Rourke wanted to know.
“Now that’s a really long story...”
“And we can forget to tell it unless we want burned meat for a week,” Carlie interjected.
The reverend just smiled.
* * *
HER FATHER WENT to answer a phone call while Carlie was clearing the dishes in the kitchen. Rourke sat at the kitchen table with a second cup of black coffee.
“You really don’t know a lot about your dad, do you?” he asked her.
“Apparently not,” she laughed, glancing at him with mischievous green eyes. “Do you take bribes? I can make almost
