Tall, Dark and Fearless: Frisco's Kid. Suzanne Brockmann

admitted. “She blatantly disobeyed my orders.”

      “That’s not the way she sees it,” Mia told him.

      “The rule was for her to tell me when she went outside. The rule was to stay in the courtyard.”

      “In her opinion, all bets are off if Mom—or Uncle Frisco—can’t drag themselves out of bed in the morning.” Mia fixed him with her level gaze. Her eyes were more green than brown in the bright morning sun. “She told me she thought she’d be back before you even woke up.”

      “A rule is a rule,” Frisco started.

      “Yeah, and her rule,” Mia interrupted, “is that if you climb into a bottle, she’s on her own.”

      Frisco’s headache intensified. He looked away, unable to meet her gaze. It wasn’t that she was looking at him accusingly. There was nothing even remotely accusative in her eyes. In fact, her eyes were remarkably gentle, softening the harshness of her words.

      “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “That was uncalled for.”

      He shook his head, uncertain as to whether he was agreeing with her or disagreeing with her.

      “Why don’t you come inside?” Mia said, holding open the screen door for him.

      Mia’s condo might as well have been from a different planet than his. It was spacious and open, with unspotted, light brown carpeting and white painted bamboo-framed furniture. The walls were freshly painted and clean, and potted plants were everywhere, their vines lacing across the ceiling on a system of hooks. Music played softly on the stereo. Frisco recognized the smoky Texas-blues-influenced vocals of Lee Roy Parnell.

      Pictures hung on the wall—gorgeous blue and green watercolors of the ocean, and funky, quirkily colorful figures of people walking along the beach.

      “My mother’s an artist,” Mia said, following his gaze. “Most of this is her work.”

      Another picture was that of the beach before a storm. It conveyed all of the dangerous power of the wind and the water, the ominous, darkening sky, the rising surf, the palm trees whipped and tossed—nature at her most deadly.

      “She’s good,” Frisco said.

      Mia smiled. “I know.” She raised her voice. “How’s it going in bubbleland, Natasha?”

      “Okay.”

      “While she was out playing in the dirt, she gave herself a Russian princess mud bath.” With a wry smile, she led Frisco into the tiny kitchen. It was exactly like his—and nothing like his. Magnets of all shapes and sizes covered the refrigerator, holding up photos of smiling people, and notes and coupons and theater schedules. Fresh fruit hung in wire baskets that were suspended from hooks on the ceiling. A coffee mug in the shape of a cow wearing a graduate’s cap sat on the counter next to the telephone, holding pencils and pens. The entire room was filled with little bits and pieces of Mia. “I managed to convince her that true royalty always followed a mud bath with a bubble bath.”

      “Bless you,” Frisco said. “And thank you for bringing her home.”

      “It was lucky I ran that way.” Mia opened the refrigerator door. “I usually take a longer route, but I was feeling the heat this morning.” She looked up at Frisco. “Ice tea, lemonade or soda?”

      “Something with caffeine, please,” Frisco told her.

      “Hmm,” Mia said, reaching into the back of the fridge and pulling out a can of cola. She handed it to him. “And would you like that with two aspirin or three?”

      Frisco smiled. It was crooked but it was a smile. “Three. Thanks.”

      She motioned to the small table that was in the dining area at the end of the kitchen, and Frisco lowered himself into one of a pair of chairs. She had a napkin holder in the shape of a pig and tiny airplanes for salt and pepper shakers. There were plants everywhere in here, too, and a fragile wind chime directly over his head, in front of a window that looked out over the parking lot. He reached up and brushed the wind chime with one finger. It sounded as delicate and ghostly as it looked.

      The doors to her kitchen cabinets had recently been replaced with light, blond wood. The gleaming white countertop looked new, too. But he only spared it half a glance, instead watching Mia as she stood on tiptoes to reach up into one of the cabinets for her bottle of aspirin. She was a blinding mixture of muscles and curves. He couldn’t look away, even when she turned around. Great, just what she needed. Some loser leering at her in her own kitchen. He could see her apprehension and discomfort in her eyes.

      She set the bottle of aspirin down in front of him on the table and disappeared, murmuring some excuse about checking on Natasha.

      Frisco pressed the cold soda can against his forehead. When Mia returned, she was wearing a T-shirt over her running gear. It helped, but not a lot.

      He cleared his throat. A million years ago, he had been so good at small talk. “So…how far do you run?” Cripes, he sounded like some kind of idiot.

      “Usually three miles,” she answered, opening the refrigerator again and taking out a pitcher of ice tea. She poured herself a glass. “But today I only went about two and a half.”

      “You gotta be careful when it’s hot like this.” Man, could he sound any more lame? Lame? Yeah, that was the perfect word to describe him, in more ways than one.

      She nodded, turning to look at him as she leaned back against the kitchen counter and took a sip of her tea.

      “So…your mother’s an artist.”

      Mia smiled. Damn, she had a beautiful smile. Had he really thought that it was goofy-looking just two days ago?

      “Yeah,” she said. “She has a studio near Malibu. That’s where I grew up.”

      Frisco nodded. This was where he was supposed to counter by telling her where he came from. “I grew up right here in San Felipe, the armpit of California.”

      Her smile deepened. “Armpits have their purpose—not that I agree with you and think that San Felipe is one.”

      “You’re entitled to your opinion,” he said with a shrug. “To me, San Felipe will always be an armpit.”

      “So sell your condo and move to Hawaii.”

      “Is that where your family’s from?” he asked.

      She looked down into her glass. “To tell you the truth, I’m not really sure. I think I must have some Hawaiian or Polynesian blood, but I’m not certain.”

      “Your parents don’t know?”

      “I was adopted from an overseas agency. The records were extremely sketchy.” She looked up at him. “I went through a phase, you know, when I tried to find my birth parents.”

      “Birth parents aren’t always worth finding. I would’ve been better off without knowing mine.”

      “I’m sorry,” Mia said quietly. “There was a time when I might’ve said that you can’t possibly mean that, or that that couldn’t possibly be true. But I’ve been teaching at an urban high school for over five years, and I’m well aware that most people didn’t have the kind of childhood or the kind of parents that I did.” Her eyes were a beautiful mixture of brown and green and compassion. “I don’t know what you might have gone through, but…I am sorry.”

      “I’ve heard that teaching high school is a pretty dangerous job these days, what with guns and drugs and violence,” Frisco said, trying desperately to bring the conversation out of this dark and ultrapersonal area. “Did they give you any special kind of commando training when you took the job?”

      Mia laughed. “No, we’re on our own. Thrown to the wolves naked, so to speak. Some of the teachers have compensated by becoming real drill sergeants. I’ve found that positive reinforcement works far better than punishment.”