Tell Me a Story (5 page)

"Was this your daddy's when he was a little boy?"

"I don't know. Mama doesn't much like to talk about him." She took the book from Ann and set it next to the giraffe, clearly saying that the subject was closed. Ann accepted her lead, knowing that you didn't win a child's confidence by pushing.

"Is this all your clothes?"

"Most of 'em. When Mama comes home we're going to go shopping. She says I'm growing like a weed."

Ann nodded and picked up a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved blue shirt. There wasn't a whole lot of choice. Other than the garments in her hand, there was one other pair of jeans with the knees worn out and a short-sleeved pullover that looked too small.

"Well, let's get you changed and your hair washed."

Becky chattered confidently while Ann rinsed her hair, careful to keep the wound dry. There was a hair dryer in the bathroom cabinet, and it took only a few minutes to dry the little girl's hair. Ann borrowed a bobby pin from her own hair and pinned Becky's fine bangs back away from her face.

Looking in the bathroom mirror, she was aware that her neat chignon was beginning to look more than a little scruffy. She pushed at a few straggling strands, but there wasn't really much she could do. Not that it mattered what she looked like. Becky didn't care and Flynn McCallister's opinion was less than important. Ann and Becky were in the living room, standing by the balcony doors when Flynn entered from the hall. He'd taken time to finish his interrupted shower, but he hadn't bothered to shave. Wearing a pair of jeans that were just snug enough to be interesting and a blue chambray shirt that he was still buttoning, he looked distressingly attractive.

It was pure dislike that made her feel slightly breathless. It had nothing to do with an urge to lay her palm against his chest and see if the hair felt as crisp as it looked. It had nothing to do with the way his shirt clung to his damp skin, outlining every muscle. It was nothing but dislike.

"Becky, why don't you go out and take a look at the plants on the balcony. I want to talk to Flynn."

Flynn stopped a few feet away and looked at her, one dark brow arching in question. Becky looked from one to the other and her pale brows puckered.

"Are you going to fight?"

"No."

"Maybe."

Ann flashed Flynn a quelling look that didn't appear to faze him in the least. "We're not going to fight, Becky. We're just going to talk."

Becky looked at Flynn, clearly more willing to trust his judgment than Ann's. "Go on out, urchin. There's some hand tools in the box next to the door. Why don't you dig in one of the empty planters. I promise we're not going to come to blows,"

The late summer sun was low in the sky, but it would be another hour or more before the light was gone. The upper floor of the building was smaller than the floors below, allowing for a large roof garden for each apartment. Ann hired professional gardeners to care for her garden. It was lovely, not a leaf out of place, and she seldom paid any attention to it. Flynn's garden was considerably less neat. Plants sprawled wherever their fancy took them. Some of the planters were empty, while others held such a wealth of vegetation, it was hard to distinguish one plant from another. It was the perfect place for a child to play. She watched Becky disappear into the jungle of growth, trowel in hand.

The smile that softened her mouth disappeared when she turned to look at Flynn. "I think we need to have a talk, Mr. McCallister."

That irritating brow arched. "Call me Flynn. It's much easier to get out when you're yelling at someone."

"I have no intention—"

"Sure you do. I recognize the look. My mother tried calling me Mr. McCallister when she was angry. She thought it might have more impact but then my father would think she was yelling at him and he'd get mad at her and... well, you can see how much simpler it is if you just call me Flynn. Would you like some coffee? Don't tell Becky, but her coffee is a potential weapon."

He moved toward the kitchen, leaving Ann no choice but to follow. She wasn't quite sure he'd done it, but somehow he'd managed to take control of the situation from her.

In the kitchen, he began making coffee and Ann made an effort to bring the conversation back to where it belonged.

"I don't want any coffee, thank you. I want to talk about Becky."

"It's your loss. I make an excellent cup of coffee."

"I don't care about coffee. I want to talk about that little girl." When he glanced at her this time, his mouth had quirked to match the eyebrow, making Ann aware that her voice had risen. She wasn't shouting but she was perilously close. She took a deep breath, drawing on her considerable self-control and forced her voice to a calm level.

"I think there are some questions that need to be answered."

"Ask away." Since the invitation was punctuated by his turning on the coffee grinder, Ann had doubts about his sincerity. She waited until the machine had stopped running and then continued as if the interruption hadn't occurred.

"I'd like to know just what Becky is doing here."

He poured the coffee into the filter and turned to look at her as if he questioned her sanity. "She's playing on the balcony.''

Ann ground her teeth together. The man was being deliberately obtuse and infuriating. She knew he was doing it deliberately, but it didn't seem to curb the rapid climb of her blood pressure.

"Mr. McCallister, I'm willing to stand here all night and play word games with you but it's not going to do either of us any good. I'm concerned about that child and I am going to get the answers I want."

Flynn poured water into the coffee maker and then leaned one leg against the counter and studied her. Ann felt a flush come up in her cheeks. She didn't have to look at herself to know what he was seeing. Her hair was coming down around her ears, her suit jacket was gone, her blouse was undone at the throat, her skirt was probably wrinkled and, to top it off, she wasn't wearing shoes. She made a less than imposing figure and she knew it.

Whether it was the determined set of her chin or something else that only he saw, Flynn seemed to make up his mind to cooperate, at least up to a point.

"I haven't said thank-you for what you did for Becky. I'm not sure who was more frightened, her or me. I really appreciate the way you came over here and patched her up."

"You're welcome. It is my job."

"Not when you're off duty. I'm truly grateful."

"It really wasn't that big a deal." Damn the man! Just when she thought she had control of the situation, he did something to throw tier off balance again. Did he have to sound so sincere?

"It was a big deal to Becky and me." The coffee maker pinged, and he turned and got two cups down out of the cupboard. He filled them with coffee and handed one to Ann. "If you don't want it, I'll drink it. Let's go into the living room and get comfortable. We can keep an eye on the balcony from there."

Once again, she found herself trailing after him, not quite sure how he'd managed to turn the situation around. Somehow, the edge of her anger had been blunted. She settled onto an off-white overstuffed chair and then realized it was a tactical error. The chair didn't just invite you to sit back and relax, it insisted that you do so. The huge puffy cushions practically swallowed her. There was no way she could use any-effective body language in this chair. On the other hand, she couldn't change seats without looking like an idiot. She shot Flynn an annoyed look, wondering if he'd done this deliberately, but he'd settled into an identical chair and managed to look completely in command of himself, the furniture and the situation. Ann felt like a little girl sitting in her father's chair. She could barely move to set her coffee cup down on an end table—the coffee she hadn't wanted, she remembered irritably.

"What did you want to talk about?"

"Becky."

"What about her?" His eyes were cool and watchful.

"I want to know what she's doing here. And don't tell me that she's playing on the balcony. She said that you found her in the alley last night and offered her a bed. Is that true?"

"Pretty much."

"How could you!"

"You think it would have been better to leave her in the alley?"

"That's not what I mean!"

"Then what did you mean?"

"Mr. McCallister—"

"Flynn. It's much easier to spit out."

Ann ground her teeth together. "Flynn. Didn't it occur to you that her mother would be worried about her? You should have contacted her immediately. I've always known that you were irresponsible but I wouldn't have believed that even you would do something like this. That poor woman must be out of her mind with worry.''

"You've always known that I was irresponsible? You must have amazing powers of observation, Ms. Perry. Considering that your only contact with me over the past two years has been a few barbs exchanged in the hallway. On what do you base this sweeping judgment?"

Ann opened her mouth but he cut her off with a sharp gesture. "I don't really want to hear it. Your opinion of me is neither here nor there. Becky's mother disappeared two weeks ago. The landlady was about to turn Becky over to Social Services. Becky is terrified of them so she ran away. She's been living on the streets for the past few days. No matter how irresponsible I am, I think I'm a better bet than the streets."

"That's not the issue."

"Just what is the issue, Ms. Perry? Do you think I'm going to corrupt her?"

He was backing her into a corner and she didn't like the feeling. Somehow, he'd managed to put her in the wrong. She felt trapped—physically and verbally.

"She says you were intoxicated last night."

"Smashed to the gills."

"You can't possibly think that's a good influence for a child."

"I don't think it's going to put a permanent warp on her psyche to see a man drunk."

"The fact that you drink to excess doesn't make you a particularly good guardian for a child, even temporarily."

"I do not drink to excess on a regular basis."

Ann flushed angrily at the prissy tone he used to repeat her words. "I suppose last night was a special occasion."

"In a manner of speaking. It was my brother's birthday."

"And that's supposed to make it all right? The two of you go out and—"

"Not the two of us. I was alone. Mark died three years ago."

Ann wondered if it were possible to coax the huge chair into swallowing her completely. "I'm sorry."

There was a moment of silence and then Flynn ran his fingers through his hair. The crooked smile he gave her was half apology and wholly charming.

"I'm the one who should be sorry. I know you're concerned about Becky and I shouldn't be giving you such a hard time."

"She can't just continue to stay here. You've got to let someone know where she is. Maybe the Social Services people should be called." The suggestion was made without force.

"No. Becky's terrified of them. Probably with good reason. There are some pretty flaky sounding circumstances surrounding her mother. They just might take Becky away from her."

"Then, what are you going to do?"

He rubbed his forehead and Ann noticed his pallor for the first time.

"Either I'm getting too old to drink like that or hangovers are getting worse. I'm not sure what I'm going to do about Becky. I thought I'd take her out to my parents' home tomorrow. They may have some ideas. You're welcome to come along just to make sure that I don't sell her to the white slavers." He grinned to show her that there was no rancor behind the words.

Of course she wasn't going to get involved any further. It was none of her business what happened to either of them. She'd done all that could be expected of her. Naturally, she would turn down his invitation. She was going to get out of her chair and say a polite good-night—she'd even wish him luck—and then she was going to go back to her own apartment and her simple, uncomplicated life. The only male she wanted to deal with right now was Oscar, who didn't have any of the dangerous seductive qualities of Flynn Mc-Callister.

"If you wouldn't mind, I'd feel better seeing this a little farther. I don't know why. I hardly know Becky."

"There's something about her that sort of gets under your skin."

Ann nodded, suppressing the thought that Becky might not be the only one.

"
A
re you sure you don't want another piece of pizza, Mr. Flynn?"

Flynn stared at the slice of pizza Becky was holding out and swallowed hard. Red with tomato sauce and dripping with cheese, it couldn't have looked more deadly to him if it had been laced with cyanide.

"No thanks. You two go ahead and split it." One thing he'd forgotten about hangovers was that, no matter how bad you felt when you woke up, you could count on it being the best you'd feel all day.

He pushed his chair back from the table, as much to get away from the food as to get more comfortable, and studied his companions. Twenty-four hours ago, he'd never have believed that he'd be sitting across the table from one small refugee and one hostile neighbor. To tell the truth, the refugee was easier to imagine than Ann. Who would have believed that the dragon across the hall would have such a pretty smile?

He looked at Becky, his face softening. She'd lost the wary look she'd had just a few short hours ago. She seemed completely at home. Tomorrow he'd have to figure out what to do with her, but for tonight, he just wanted her to be a child. He had the feeling that she'd spent too little time doing that.

"Parcheesi." Ann and Becky looked at him. Becky looked intrigued; Ann looked suspicious. He grinned at them both. "What we need is a nice game of Parcheesi before bed."

"I don't think—"

"I love Parcheesi."

Ann swallowed the rest of her protest and managed to look enthused. Board games were right below jogging on her list of fun things to do. She'd never understood why people thought it was fun to move little pieces of plastic around a sheet of cardboard. In her experience, it led to arguments and irritation and hurt feelings. But then she'd never played with Flynn McCallister.

Over the next two hours, she learned that not everyone was like her father, who went about playing a game the way he went about life—you were there to win and nothing else mattered. Flynn didn't seem to think that winning was all that important. His only goal was to have fun, and he took just as much pleasure in losing as he did in winning. He coached Becky, he coached Ann, and he didn't seem to care that they trounced him every time.

It was a novel experience and one that wasn't entirely welcome. She didn't want to like Flynn. Not only had she grown accustomed to their antagonistic relationship over the past two years—she felt safe with it. Something told her that Flynn McCallister might be dangerous if he got any closer than arm's length. She wasn't quite sure just how he'd be dangerous, but she didn't doubt that the danger was real.

After four games of Parcheesi, both adults called a halt to any further games. Becky looked as if she'd like to protest, but didn't feel confident enough of her position to argue. Flynn ruffled her hair as he put the lid on the game box.

"We'll play again, urchin. And next time, I won't go so easy on the two of you."

"Does that mean you're not going to lose every game, Mr. Flynn?"

Ann couldn't help but grin at the way the little girl got straight to the point. Flynn gave her a stern look but she could see the laughter in his eyes. She couldn't remember ever knowing someone who could laugh at themselves so readily. Was there anything that he took seriously?

"That means I'm not going to lose every game." He slid the game onto the top shelf of a cupboard and Ann tried not to notice the way his jeans molded to his thighs. The man was just too attractive to be safe.

"Time for a bath, I think." He rubbed his forehead as he spoke and, for the first time in hours, Ann remembered that he'd spent the better part of the previous night drinking.

Against her will, she felt sorry for him. She'd never had a hangover herself but it couldn't be pleasant. No matter how much she disapproved of his drinking, she couldn't help but take pity on him. If his head was hurting as much as she suspected, he could use a short break from his role as host and baby-sitter.

"Why don't I help you with your bath, Becky? I want to be sure you keep that bandage dry.''

Ann ignored the grateful glance Flynn threw her. She didn't want him to get the idea that she was doing this for him. When she and Becky returned to the living room, Flynn was looking a little less pale, but Ann told herself that she only noticed because her medical training made it impossible to ignore.

He smiled at Becky, but his eyes skimmed over her and Ann knew he'd seen the threadbare condition of her pajamas. He didn't say anything that might hurt Becky's pride.

"Ready for bed?"

"I'm not tired." A yawn punctuated the end of the sentence and Ann saw Flynn bite his lip against a smile.

"Well, Ann and I are very tired so why don't you humor us and hop into bed. You can sleep in the room you had last night."

"Okay." She turned away and then looked over her shoulder at him. "Are you going to tuck me in?" The question was hesitant, as if she were afraid he'd refuse.

"I wouldn't miss it for the world. We'll both tuck you in."

Lying in the huge bed, the covers tucked under her chin, Becky's youth and fragility were more apparent than ever. She was such a plucky little thing that it was easy to forget just how young she was.

Flynn sat on the edge of the bed and brushed the hair back from her forehead. "Tomorrow, we're going to go visit my parents and we'll decide what to do about you."

"You won't give me to the welfare, will you?" Her thin fingers came up to clutch his hand.

"I won't give you to the welfare people. I promise. But we've got to decide how to go about finding your mom. She's going to be worried about you when she gets home and you're not there."

Ann moved to sit on the other side of the bed. "I'm going to go with you to visit Flynn's parents."

"We'll have a great time." Flynn brushed the hair back from Becky's face and smiled at her. Ann was stunned to feel a twinge of envy. She wanted that smile turned her way. The realization was so surprising that she almost got up and ran out of the apartment, as if getting away from him was the only way to protect herself. But protect herself from what?

"Could you tell me a story, Mr. Flynn? Mama always tells me a story 'fore bedtime."

Ann barely listened as he began to spin a story full of the requisite number of dragons and princesses and handsome princes. She didn't want to hear the soft rise and fall of his voice. She didn't want to see the way his eyes softened when he looked at Becky. She didn't want to like him. It wasn't safe.

She was so absorbed in her thoughts that she jumped when he touched her arm. Her eyes focused on his face and then quickly shifted away, afraid that he might be able to see her confused thoughts. Becky was fast asleep, her lashes lying in soft crescents against her cheeks. She didn't stir as the two adults eased themselves off the bed and tiptoed out of the room.

Flynn stopped in the middle of the living room and turned to look at her. He ran his fingers through his hair, ruffling it into thick black waves.

"You can stay the night if it would make you feel better. There's plenty of room."

"No." The word came out too stark, too revealing. She cleared her throat and tried again. "I don't think there's any need for that. I'll just come over in the morning." She edged toward the door. "What time are you thinking of leaving?"

"Sometime after I get up and I have a feeling that, with Becky around, that's not going to be terribly late." He smiled crookedly. "I suspect she's an early riser."

"Probably. Most children seem to be." She edged a little closer to the door. "Well, I guess I'll go home now.''

Flynn followed her to the door and Ann was vividly aware of him every step of the way. He reached around her to flip the lock, and it took all her control to keep from shying away from him. If he noticed her tension, he was polite enough not to mention it.

Ann stepped into the hall, feeling as if she were escaping some fatal temptation. "I'll see you tomorrow, then." Reluctantly, she turned to look at him, resisting the urge to run for the haven of her own apartment.

He nodded, stifling a yawn. "Sorry. I guess I'm getting too old for all-night binges. I'll come knock on your door around ten. That should give us plenty of time to get out to my parents' house by lunchtime. My mother puts on a great spread."

"That sounds fine." Ann was aware of him watching her until she opened her own door. She turned, lifting her hand in what she hoped was a casual gesture. "Goodnight."

"Good night."

She shut the door as quickly as seemed nolite, slumping back against the sturdy wood. Oscar looked up from his favorite spot on the hall table, his yellow eyes full of polite inquiry.

"Oh, Oscar. What have I gotten myself into?"

By the time Flynn's car pulled into the long driveway of his parents' estate outside Santa Barbara, Ann had convinced herself that her nervousness of the night before was a product of an overtired mind and an overactive imagination. Flynn McCallister was attractive, there was no denying that, but he was also a playboy who seemed to be content to drift through life. She could never be seriously drawn to a man like that.

And, if her heartbeat showed a tendency to accelerate when he was near, that was just hormones. Easily understood and easily controlled.

"Is that where your mom and dad live?" Becky's awed question broke the silence in the Ferrari.

Flynn nodded as he pulled the sleek car to a halt in front of the door. "This is where I grew up."

"It's beautiful."

Flynn studied the building, trying to see it through Becky's eyes. The house was built along the lines of an antebellum mansion, complete with a wide veranda and sturdy pillars across the front. When he was growing up there, it had just been home.

"I suppose it is."

The door to the house opened as Ann got out of the car and lifted Becky off her lap and onto the gravel drive. The woman who came down the steps was short and elegantly slim. Her dark hair was going gray without any pretensions, and her blue eyes were a much paler reflection of her son's.

Flynn came around the front of the car, his long strides covering the distance between them, catching his mother around the waist and lifting her off the bottom step. She laughed, a girlish sound that made Ann smile. "Put me down, hooligan." He obeyed, his wide smile matching hers. She examined her son with maternal eyes, finally reaching up to pat his cheek.

"We don't see you often enough, Flynn. Your father thought you might call this week."

"Because of Mark's birthday?" His smile twisted. "I celebrated in my own way."

"I know but your father was a bit upset."

"So what else is new? Mom, I want you to meet Ann Perry, my neighbor, and this is Becky Sinclair. I told you about her on the phone. Ann, Becky, this is Louise McCallister, my mother."

The smile Louise turned on Ann and Becky was warm and full of welcome. "I'm so pleased to meet both of you. We're having a late lunch today so you'll have time to rest a bit after the drive from L.A. You must have been crowded in that little sports car. Why didn't you drive the Mercedes, Flynn?"

"Becky preferred the Ferrari, Mom."

"Actually, it wasn't very crowded at all, Mrs. McCallister. Becky doesn't take up much room."

"Call me Louise. Come in and meet my husband."

Ann followed her hostess up the steps, aware of Flynn following behind with Becky. Becky seemed a bit awestruck by the elegant house, and her hand clung to Flynn's. The interior of the house was as polished as the exterior. Dark mahogany floors and creamy wallpaper created a rich background for the beautiful antiques that filled the hallway.

Ann's father was a wealthy man and she'd grown up around money. But there was something different here, some indefinable essence. The McCallister home smelled of old money—lots of it. The walls seemed permeated with quiet elegance. Some of the antiques were one of a kind pieces—all of them were exquisite.

Despite the decor, it wasn't difficult to imagine Flynn and his brother growing up here. Beneath the rich beauty, the big house felt like a home. A place where two growing boys could have laughed and played without restrictions.

Louise led the way across the hall and into the study where her husband awaited them. The man who stood to greet them was not at all what Ann had expected. She hadn't given much conscious thought to what Flymfs father would be like, but she'd had a vague image of an older version of Flynn—tall, lean, with elegantly masculine grace.

She hadn't expected a stocky man a few inches short of six feet. His features were blunt, his eyes a clear, sharp gray rather than electric blue. The only resemblance she could see was the thick black hair, now heavily streaked with gray.

His handshake was firm, his look direct, lacking the lazy charm that made his son so fascinating and so exasperating.

"Thank you for allowing me to come, Mr. McCallister."

"I don't blame you for not trusting Flynn with the child. My son isn't known for his sense of responsibility.' Ann blinked, wondering if she'd misunderstood him, wondering what she was supposed to say in reply if she hadn't.

"Heilo, Dad. Nice to know that some things never change. It's great to see you again, too." There was an edge to Flynn's voice. "Ann, this is my father."

David McCallister nodded to his son, his eyes cool. "Flynn. I thought you might call this week."