of concern in her voice was almost his undoing. He hated that emotion seemed so near the surface now, but the idiot shrink the agency had insisted he talk to had told him he could expect that. Maybe so, but that didn’t mean he had to like it.
“I will be,” he said, forcing a smile. Her lips quickly answered it, but her eyes were still clouded. Slightly anxious. “I thought I might hang out here for a while. If I won’t be in the way.”
For one instant there was a flicker of something in the blue-green depths of her eyes. It was gone before he could even think about identifying what he’d seen. Her smile broadened immediately, and she leaned forward to kiss him on the cheek.
“Welcome home, little brother,” she said. “And when you’re all rested up, there are a couple of paint ponies that could use some schooling. Think you’re up to that?”
“I will be,” Michael promised, and for the first time in nearly six months, he began to believe that might be true.
“GUILTY OR NOT, Cal Demarco’s still a son of a bitch.”
Michael could hear the anger in Colleen’s voice despite the nearly ten years that had passed since the Internal Affairs Division of the Denver Police Department had cleared her former supervisor of the corruption charges she’d leveled against him.
“Unfortunately, they don’t put you away for that,” he said, “or jails would be a whole lot more crowded than they are now.”
The bourbon his sister had been pouring with a generous hand had finally eased the ever-present ache in his knee. It had also served to destroy any sense of strain his long absence might have caused between them.
“I could suggest a few other candidates.” She lifted her glass, resting it against her chin as she considered him. She was sitting on the couch opposite his, legs curled under her. “And now that I’ve caught you up on the sad, uninteresting story of my life, I think it’s time to hear what you’ve been up to.”
He hesitated, thinking about what he wanted to tell her, as well as what he couldn’t. Most of that was for security reasons, but some he just didn’t want to talk about.
“Suffice it to say that I’m retired.”
Her lips pursed, her eyes still on his face. “From the military.”
It hadn’t been phrased as a question, but he nodded, dropping his eyes to the amber liquid he was absently swirling in the bottom of his glass. He lifted it, anticipating the dark, smoky bite of his grandfather’s private stock.
“Except you left the Rangers more than eight years ago.”
His hand halted in midmotion as his eyes jumped up to meet hers.
“I’m just curious what you’ve been doing since,” she said. “Or is that privileged information?”
He didn’t answer, holding her gaze as silent seconds ticked by.
“You’re the only family I have left, Michael. It’s unlikely I wouldn’t try to find out where you were and what you were doing.”
What was unlikely, he thought, was that she could have.
“And did you?”
“That surprises you.”
“Considering.”
She smiled at him, seeming pleased she’d been able to shock him. “I know you worked for Jack Waigner up until December of last year. I don’t know where you’ve been for the last six months. You…dropped off my radar screen.”
Her eyes briefly touched on the knee she’d pointedly avoided asking him about, in spite of its obvious impairment.
“Hospital and then rehab,” he said. That, too, was probably obvious, given what she already knew.
“That’s why you retired?” This time her acknowledgment of the injury he’d suffered was more open, her eyes tracing along the long, blue-jean clad length of his leg, stretched out on the coffee table between them.
Was it? That wasn’t a question he’d allowed himself to think too much about.
“Partially.”
“I’ve thought about the timing of your disappearance. About what was going on then. Wondering if there was a connection.”
“And you think you’ve figured it out,” he said flatly, reading confidence in her tone.
“I asked some questions.”
“And got answers?” he asked, his voice deliberately quizzical.
He hadn’t quite been able to put together how, living here, his sister could know things no one outside the intelligence community should know. Nor had he figured out where her questions were headed. He’d be willing to bet, however, that this conversation wasn’t about familial concern. Nor was it the product of an idle curiosity.
“A few. Enough, I think. San Parrano maybe,” she suggested.
The words evoked memories he never wanted to think about again. He had worked hard on erasing the nightmare images from what had been a joint Special Forces/CIA counterterrorist mission. One that had gone very wrong very quickly.
“You were there, weren’t you?”
He nodded, then raised the glass and tossed down the last swallow of liquor. It burned a path along the back of his throat, despite the ache that had formed there.
“And you don’t want to talk about it.”
“I don’t want to think about it,” he said truthfully. He leaned forward, setting the empty glass down on the coffee table.
“I understand Waigner sent his best people.”
“Most of them died. Hardly a recommendation.”
“I don’t know. It’s good enough for me.”
The small smile was back, but he couldn’t quite read it. A little self-satisfied. Maybe even challenging. In response, he tilted his head, raising his brows in inquiry.
“I could use some help right now,” she said, “and since you’re here…”
Get up now, he told himself. Walk down the hall to your bedroom, thoughtfully located on the ground floor. Crawl into bed, pull the covers over your head, and pretend this conversation never happened.
“Help with what?” he said instead.
“An assignment.”
After she’d left the police department, Colleen had set up her own private investigation agency. She ran it from behind the scenes, and from what she’d told him earlier, it had become very successful.
This offer to join it was probably her way of getting him back on his feet, as misguided as the idea was. He’d been approached by other people with the same purpose during the last couple of months. His answer hadn’t been repeatable.
