his daughter. Mia’s gaze traveled back to the blonde. That meant Sharon was his…wife? Ex-wife? Girlfriend?
It didn’t matter. What did she care if Alan Francisco had a dozen wives?
The red-haired girl spoke. “I have a garden at home. Back in the old country.”
“Which old country is that?” Mia asked with a smile. Kindergarten-age children were so wonderful.
“Russia,” the little girl said, all seriousness. “My real father is a Russian prince.” Her real father, hmm? Mia couldn’t blame the little girl for making up a fictional family. With a mother up on DUI charges, and a father who was only a step or two behind…Mia could see the benefits of having a pretend world to escape to, filled with palaces and princes and beautiful gardens.
“Do you want to help me weed?” Mia asked.
The little girl glanced over at her mother.
“The bottom line is that I have no more options,” Sharon was tearfully telling Alan Francisco. “If I voluntarily enter the detox program, I’ll win points with the judge who tries my case. But I need to find someplace for Natasha to stay.”
“No way,” the Navy lieutenant said, shaking his head. “I’m sorry. There’s no way in hell I can take her.”
“Alan, please, you’ve got to help me out here!”
His voice got louder. “What do I know about taking care of a kid?”
“She’s quiet,” Sharon pleaded. “She won’t get in the way.”
“I don’t want her.” Francisco had lowered his voice, but it still carried clearly over to Mia. And to the little girl—to Natasha.
Mia’s heart broke for the child. What an awful thing to overhear: Her own father didn’t want her.
“I’m a teacher,” Mia said to the girl, hoping she wouldn’t hear the rest of her parents’ tense conversation. “I teach older children—high school kids.”
Natasha nodded, her face a picture of concentration as she imitated Mia and gently pulled weeds from the soft earth of the garden.
“I’m supposed to go into detox in an hour,” Sharon said. “If you don’t take her, she’ll be a ward of the state—she’ll be put into foster care, Alan.”
“There’s a man who works for my father the prince,” Natasha told Mia, as if she, too, were trying desperately not to listen to the other conversation, “who only plants flowers. That’s all he does all day. Red flowers like these. And yellow flowers.”
On the other side of the courtyard, Mia could hear Alan Francisco cursing. His voice was low, and she couldn’t quite make out the words, but it was clear he was calling upon his full sailor’s salty vocabulary. He wasn’t angry at Sharon—his words weren’t directed at her, but rather at the cloudless California sky above them.
“My very favorites are the blue flowers,” Mia told Natasha. “They’re called morning glories. You have to wake up very early in the morning to see them. They close up tightly during the day.”
Natasha nodded, still so serious. “Because the bright sun gives them a headache.”
“Natasha!”
The little girl looked up at the sound of her mother’s voice. Mia looked up, too—directly into Alan Francisco’s dark blue eyes. She quickly lowered her gaze, afraid he’d correctly read the accusations she knew were there. How could he ignore his own child? What kind of man could admit that he didn’t want his daughter around?
“You’re going to be staying here, with Alan, for a while,” Sharon said, smiling tremulously at her daughter.
He’d given in. The former special operations lieutenant had given in. Mia didn’t know whether to be glad for the little girl, or concerned. This child needed more than this man could give her. Mia risked another look up, and found his disturbingly blue eyes still watching her.
“Won’t that be fun?” Sharon hopefully asked Natasha.
The little girl considered the question thoughtfully. “No,” she finally said.
Alan Francisco laughed. Mia hadn’t thought him capable, but he actually smiled and snorted with laughter, covering it quickly with a cough. When he looked up again, he wasn’t smiling, but she could swear she saw amusement in his eyes.
“I want to go with you,” Natasha told her mother, a trace of panic in her voice. “Why can’t I go with you?”
Sharon’s lip trembled, as if she were the child. “Because you can’t,” she said ineffectively. “Not this time.”
The little girl’s gaze shifted to Alan and then quickly back to Sharon. “Do we know him?” she asked.
“Yes,” Sharon told her. “Of course we know him. He’s your uncle Alan. You remember Alan. He’s in the Navy…?”
But the little girl shook her head.
“I’m your mom’s brother,” Alan said to the little girl.
Her brother. Alan was Sharon’s brother. Not her husband. Mia didn’t want to feel anything at that news. She refused to feel relieved. She refused to feel, period. She weeded her garden, pretending she couldn’t hear any of the words being spoken.
Natasha gazed at her mother. “Will you come back?” she asked in a very small voice.
Mia closed her eyes. But she did feel. She felt for this little girl; she felt her fear and pain. Her heart ached for the mother, too, God help her. And she felt for blue-eyed Alan Francisco. But what she felt for him, she couldn’t begin to define.
“I always do,” Sharon said, dissolving once more into tears as she enveloped the little girl in a hug. “Don’t I?” But then she quickly set Natasha aside. “I’ve got to go. Be good. I love you.” She turned to Alan. “The address of the detox center is in the suitcase.”
Alan nodded, and with a creak of her crutches, Sharon hurried away.
Natasha stared expressionlessly after her mother, watching until the woman disappeared from view. Then, with only a very slight tightening of her lips, she turned to look at Alan.
Mia looked at him, too, but this time his gaze never left the little girl. All of the amusement was gone from his eyes, leaving only sadness and compassion.
All of his anger had vanished. All of the rage that seemed to burn endlessly within him was temporarily doused. His blue eyes were no longer icy—instead they seemed almost warm. His chiseled features looked softer, too, as he tried to smile at Natasha. He may not have wanted her—he’d said as much—but now that she was here, it seemed as if he were going to do his best to make things easier for her.
Mia looked up to see that the little girl’s eyes had filled with tears. She was trying awfully hard not to cry, but one tear finally escaped, rolling down her face. She wiped at it fiercely, fighting the flood.
“I know you don’t remember me,” Alan
