Suzanne Brockmann - Frisco's Kid

His next-door neighbor was strikingly beautiful.

She was nearly an entire twelve inches shorter than he was, with a slender build. She was wearing a loose-fitting T-shirt and a pair of baggy shorts. Her shapely legs were that same light shade of brown and her feet were bare. Her figure was slight, almost boyish. Almost. Her breasts may have been small, but they swelled slightly beneath the cotton of her shirt in a way that was decidedly feminine.

At first glance, from the way she dressed and from her clean, fresh beauty, Frisco had thought she was a kid, a teenager. But up close, he could see faint lines of life on her face, along with a confidence and wisdom that no mere teenager could possibly exude. Despite her youthful appearance, this Mia Summerton was probably closer to his own age.

“Navy SEALs,” he explained, still gazing into her remarkable hazel eyes, “are the U.S. military’s most elite special operations group. We operate on sea, in the air and on land. SEa, Air, Land. SEAL.”

“I get it,” she said, with a smile. “Very cute.”

Her smile was crooked and made her look just a little bit goofy. Surely she knew that her smile marred her perfect beauty, but that didn’t keep her from smiling. In fact, Frisco was willing to bet that, goofy or not, a smile was this woman’s default expression. Still, her smile was uncertain, as if she wasn’t quite sure he deserved to be smiled at. She was ill at ease—whether that was caused by his injury or his imposing height, he didn’t know. She was wary of him, however.

“‘Cute’ isn’t a word used often to describe a special operations unit.”

“Special operations,” Mia repeated. “Is that kind of like the Green Berets or the Commandos?”

“Kind of,” Frisco told her, watching her eyes as he spoke. “Only, smarter and stronger and tougher. SEALs are qualified experts in a number of fields. We’re all sharpshooters, we’re all demolitions experts—both underwater and on land—we can fly or drive or sail any jet or plane or tank or boat. We all have expert status in using the latest military technology.”

“It sounds to me as if you’re an expert at making war.” Mia’s goofy smile had faded, taking with it much of the warmth in her eyes. “A professional soldier.”

Frisco nodded. “Yeah, that’s right.” She didn’t like soldiers. That was her deal. It was funny. Some women went for military men in a very major way. At the same time, others went out of their way to keep their distance. This Mia Summerton clearly fell into the second category.

“What do you do when there’s no war to fight? Start one of your own?”

Her words were purposely antagonistic, and Frisco felt himself bristle. He didn’t have to defend himself or his former profession to this girl, no matter how pretty she was. He’d run into plenty of her type before. It was politically correct these days to be a pacifist, to support demilitarization, to support limiting funds for defense—without knowing the least little thing about the current world situation.

Not that Frisco had anything against pacifists. He truly believed in the power of negotiation and peace talks. But he followed the old adage: walk softly and carry a big stick. And the Navy SEALs were the biggest, toughest stick America could hope to carry.

And as for war, they were currently fighting a great big one—an ongoing war against terrorism.

“I don’t need your crap.” Frisco turned away as he used his cane to limp toward the door of his condo.

“Oh, my opinion is crap?” She moved in front of him, blocking his way. Her eyes flashed with green fire.

“What I do need is another drink,” Frisco announced. “Badly. So if you don’t mind moving out of my way…?”

Mia crossed her arms and didn’t budge. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I confess that my question may have sounded a bit hostile, but I don’t believe that it was crap.”

Frisco gazed at her steadily. “I’m not in the mood for an argument,” he said. “You want to come in and have a drink—please. Be my guest. I’ll even find an extra glass. You want to spend the night—even better. It’s been a long time since I’ve shared my bed. But I have no intention of standing here arguing with you.”

Mia flushed, but her gaze didn’t drop. She didn’t look away. “Intimidation is a powerful weapon, isn’t it?” she said. “But I know what you’re doing, so it won’t work. I’m not intimidated, Lieutenant.”

He stepped forward, moving well into her personal space, backing her up against the closed door. “How about now?” he asked. “Now are you intimidated?”

She wasn’t. He could see it in her eyes. She was angrier, though.

“How typical,” she said. “When psychological attack doesn’t work, resort to the threat of physical violence.” She smiled at him sweetly. “I’m calling your bluff, G.I. Joe. What are you going to do now?”

Frisco gazed down into Mia’s oval-shaped face, out of ideas, although he’d never admit that to her. She was supposed to have turned and run away by now. But she hadn’t. Instead, she was still here, glaring up at him, her nose mere inches from his own.

She smelled amazingly good. She was wearing perfume—something light and delicate, with the faintest hint of exotic spices.

Something had stirred within him when she’d first given him one of her funny smiles. It stirred again and he recognized the sensation. Desire. Man, it had been a long time….

“What if I’m not bluffing?” Frisco said, his voice no more than a whisper. He was standing close enough for his breath to move several wisps of her hair. “What if I really do want you to come inside? Spend the night?”

He saw a flash of uncertainty in her eyes. And then she stepped out of his way, moving deftly around his cane. “Sorry, I’m not in the mood for casual sex with a jerk,” she retorted.

Frisco unlocked his door. He should have kissed her. She’d damn near dared him to. But it had seemed wrong. Kissing her would have been going too far. But, Lord, he’d wanted to….

He turned to look back at her before he went inside. “If you change your mind, just let me know.”

Mia laughed and disappeared into her own apartment.

“Yeah?” Frisco rasped into the telephone. His mouth was dry and his head was pounding as if he’d been hit by a sledgehammer. His alarm clock read 9:36, and there was sunlight streaming in underneath the bedroom curtains. It was bright, cutting like a laser beam into his brain. He closed his eyes.

“Alan, is that you?”

Sharon. It was his sister, Sharon.

Frisco rolled over, searching for something, anything with which to wet his impossibly dry mouth. There was a whiskey bottle on the bedside table with about a half an inch of amber liquid still inside. He reached for it, but stopped. No way was he going to take a slug of that. Hell, that was what his old man used to do. He’d start the day off with a shot—and end it sprawled, drunk, on the living room couch.

“I need your help,” Sharon said. “I need a favor. The VA hospital said you were released and I just couldn’t believe how lucky my timing was.”

“How big a favor?” Frisco mumbled. She was asking for money. It wasn’t the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last. His older sister Sharon was as big a drunk as their father had been. She couldn’t hold a job, couldn’t pay her rent, couldn’t support her five-year-old daughter, Natasha.

Frisco shook his head. He’d been there when Tasha was born, brought into the world, the offspring of an unknown father and an irresponsible mother. As much as Frisco loved his sister, he knew damn well that Sharon was irresponsible. She floated through life, drifting from job to job, from town to town, from man to man. Having a baby daughter hadn’t rooted Sharon in any one place.