Dangerous Illusion. Melissa James
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intact?”
He backed off a step, folding his arms as if she’d called his masculinity into question. “Twenty feet’s ample, and water from the tap and good old Dial soap will do me just fine. Chlorine and fluoride can’t do me any more damage than living in that crazy city did.”
She laughed. Oh, man, she laughed as if she meant it, as if she’d spent years needing to laugh again. The husky sweet music of it sucker-punched him, and sent a king hit right to his heart…because if it wasn’t quite Delia’s laugh, it was close enough. A woman’s version of the girl’s husky giggle that IDed her with ninety percent accuracy. The knowledge speared him with guilt, pity and the ruthlessness of duty.
It all added up. The food, the coffee; her reaction to hearing Danny’s real name; the fear, the security system—her laugh. Her response to him, as white-hot as his was to her. This woman was Delia de Souza, ID virtually positive, unless by some crazy quirk of fate Ana de Souza also had the same laugh, the same tastes in food…and in men.
McCall was no stranger to duty. He had only two choices now—to find solid evidence of her identity, or call Anson and tell him of his past with Delia, and his certainty that Beth Silver and Delia de Souza were one and the same.
The latter would be enough for Anson to move the equipment in tonight. The full show—mikes, cameras—a full regalia of watchers, as much to protect her as to keep her from running. This woman was the only one who could give him the irrefutable proof the Nighthawks needed to give the World Court, the only ones left who might be able to extradite Falcone from Minca bel Sol, his luxurious little bolt-hole in the Pacific—
And because Anson doesn’t know her, he’ll take me off point. And if she doesn’t trust me, how much chance have any of the other Nighthawks got, apart from forcibly abducting her and the kid? Then we’d never get the evidence—and we’ve got a snowball’s chance in a volcano of finding it. She’s too smart not to have stashed it where we’d never find it without her cooperation.
God help him, he had to keep silent, both to Beth and to Anson. He had to find physical evidence of her identity by the end of this day, or they could all go down in a hail of bullets.
The bell above the door gave a violent jangle as the door flew inward. McCall wheeled around, reaching for his weapon, training his eye on the target—but his gaze fell by two feet to find the culprit…a kid erupting into the room, a kid with a shock of thick dark hair, a thin build and intense, soulful eyes.
Danny. Maybe—almost definitely—Robbie Falcone. The resemblance to his father was uncanny.
The boy tore in, straight past McCall without noticing him, traipsing mud through the showroom, a football under his thin arm and his dark-eyed face alight with joy. “Mr. Branson says if I practice hard I might get off the reserves bench next week!”
“Oh, sweetie, that’s wonderful.”
Stuffing his Glock back in his jacket, McCall turned around to see Beth’s face, stricken pale—she’d seen the gun, all right—but she infused her voice with a happiness as strong as the boy’s, her eyes bright as the Pacific sky. “Do you want to practice again this afternoon? I can close the store early.”
The boy’s eyes fell, his thick dark lashes covering them. “Mummy, you play like a girl. Mr. Richards said I can go over now and play with him and Ethan.”
McCall smothered a grin; but any urge to smile faded when he saw the flash of panic that came and went in Beth’s eyes, so fast an untrained eye couldn’t have seen it. “Sweetie, you know I think Mr. Richards is very nice, but—”
“But we don’t know him well enough. We don’t know what he might do,” Danny said with an adult-sounding weariness that told McCall he’d said this too many times before. Was the poor kid only six? He sounded forty; and suddenly, he wasn’t “the kid” anymore. As in smuggling the dog in at night, in this, Danny Silver was a brother in arms, a little kid whose life necessitated that innocence must be shattered for survival.
Poor kid. Poor Danny.
Beth gave a swift, unreadable glance at McCall then turned away. “Exactly. Good boy.”
The boy’s face turned earnest, pleading. “But, Mummy, we know them. Mrs. Richards is your friend. And Mr. Richards, he’s not like the other guys’ dads…he goes to church.”
“Danny, I’d rather play with you myself. You know, just you and me.” Beth’s face had a haunted, hunted look to it now.
“No! I don’t wanna!” The boy stamped his foot, red-faced with fury, lapsing into childish speech. “I wanna play with Mr. Richards and Ethan! I want someone who can really play!”
Beth gave another swift glance McCall’s way. “Danny, we have a customer here. Can we wait until he’s left the showroom to continue the conversation?” Please leave, her eyes begged.
What was he doing here? He had no right to listen, not even for their protection. He turned to leave the showroom.
“But, Mummy, they’re playing now, and you always talk and talk until it’s all over and I can’t go!” Danny’s face was blazing with indignation and pleading combined. “I don’t wanna talk ’bout it again—we talk all the time. I wanna go!”
Beth closed her eyes, but not before McCall, looking over his shoulder, saw a warrior-size guilt spear through the indigo depths, acknowledgment of a six-year-old’s unwanted perception. “I said now, Daniel.” With a swift movement, Beth twitched the curtain to the washstand and drying room.
“But I gotta go to the park right now or they’ll be gone—and Mr. Richards says he’s gonna show me and Ethan how to do a catch an’ a pass, and I could get into the team next week—”
“I said now, Daniel Silver!”
Oh, boy, Beth was pulling rank on Danny. A decision made in fear, if he knew anything at all—and though she didn’t know it, she’d regret this later, with bitter tears. McCall pulled open the door, but couldn’t resist another glance, and his heart twisted. Danny’s shoulders had slumped; his mouth trembled in silent mutiny, but he went ahead of his mother into the storage space. Obedient, maybe, but McCall would bet his eyes glittered with all the fire of resentment he felt. He knew; he’d been there.
“Mr. McCall.”
About to close the door behind him, McCall turned to her.
Her words were innocuous, but somehow filled with meaning when combined with the blazing message in her eyes. “Thank you.”
She’d thanked him for leaving? Refusing to show her how much she’d shocked him with that unexpected leap forward in her trust, he nodded. “Sure. But, Beth?”
One eyebrow lifted, but her eyes were softer. Open. She was listening to him.
He dragged in a quick breath, and said what he had to—for Danny’s sake. “I understand what you want—better than you know. But Danny will remember today, and whether he thanks you or hates you for it is up to you.” He gazed into her eyes and went on, knowing he risked shattering the trust he’d felt from her moments ago. “I was only eight when my mom left, and I still remember her last words to me, the look on her face as she said them.”
“And?” she asked, her gaze intent on his face. “Besides the fact that I don’t need to keep making that teapot for her.”
“No. You don’t.” He gave her a brief, self-mocking smile of acknowledgment. “What I’m saying is, Danny’s trying to find his way in life, and friends and sport are vital to a child’s self-esteem. Being called a mama’s boy is fatal. He’ll be bullied about it all his life, no matter where you go.”
Her face closed off. “What do you know about it?”
He shrugged. “Maybe not much. I’m not a father. But I was a boy once, and most boys believe the same credo. If you keep overprotecting him he may make it to twenty-five, but if all he remembers is you