The Street Where She Lives

they could do if he was there. Under other circumstances he’d be amused and a little intimidated by Emily’s plans to make them a cozy nuclear family.

Maria came back, speaking in rapid-fire Spanish, shocking Ben, both because she was actually speaking unprompted, and by the words coming out of her mouth.

Five weeks ago, Asada had escaped in the middle of extradition to the States, adding the murder of two guards to his rap sheet in the process, and was thought to be somewhere between North and South America.

Christ. “Emily,” he said hoarsely, gripping the phone. “Tell me about your mom’s accident.”

“She was hit by a car.”

“When?”

“A month or so ago, you’ve been unreachable until now-”

“I know. Who hit her?”

“I don’t know. The police haven’t caught anyone.”

Ben dragged in a steady breath. “Okay, listen to me. I don’t want you to open the door or talk to any strangers, do you understand?”

“Daddy.” She laughed. “I’m twelve, not four.”

“Yes, but-”

“You gave me this talk years ago, remember? Don’t worry.”

“Emily-”

“Just say you’ll come back here to be with us while Mom gets better.” She hesitated, then went for the kill. “I love you, you know.”

Ah, hell. He was such a goner.

And he was going to South Village, California.

“I love you, too, baby. With all my heart. Now stay safe.” Please, God. “I’ll be there fast as I can catch a plane.”

CHAPTER TWO

EVEN AT THE tender age of five, Rachel knew what moving day meant. A new room, a new nanny, all of her toys in new places. She didn’t want to go, not again, neither did her sissie, but what they wanted didn’t matter.

“Goddamn it girl, suck it up.” This from her father. “Go find your mother if you’re going to snivel.”

Her mother waved her nearly empty glass of that stuff that looked like water but smelled bad-it would be years before Rachel came to know vodka was her mother’s drink of choice-and said, “Don’t look at me, there’s nothing I can do.”

A common refrain, one Rachel had learned to live by. With no more control over this move than the last one, or the one before that, she sat on the step, hugged her doll close and waited for the movers.

“Rachel.”

She tried to blink the porch into focus, but suddenly she wasn’t five years old anymore, it’d all been just another dream. She’d had a lot of those lately. As it had for the past month, the creeping, insidious pain joined by a nauseous claustrophobia jerked her fully awake. Logically, she knew the claustrophobia was from being trussed up like a mummy. But even worse was the sweat-inducing panic she felt from her complete lack of control over anything, including her own body.

“Oh, good, you’re awake.”

She grimaced at the deceptively kind voice of the nurse who carried needles, and used them often. “You couldn’t possibly need more blood.”

“Oh, just a little.”

“No way.”

Unperturbed, the nurse sat by Rachel and took out her blood kit.

“I mean it. Don’t even think about it.” But even Rachel had to let out a laugh, though it shot a bullet of sharp pain right through her. Most of her was still covered in either soft bandages or plaster casting. She hadn’t been able to move on her own since she’d crossed the street a month ago, heading toward Cafe Delight to have lunch with her agent, Gwen Ariani, and instead had been mistaken for a roadblock by a speeding car.

Among other physical problems she had, her brain seemed to have the hiccups, making coordinating movement a circus event. Her doctor told her that would probably be temporary. Probably. Good God. Forget the fact she needed fine motor skills to maintain her comic strip Gracie; things weren’t looking real good for the rest of her nice, cozy life. “I am not a pincushion.”

“Spunk.” The short, dark-haired nurse named Sandy nodded approvingly. “Give ’em hell, girl.” She swabbed Rachel’s arm, but had the good grace to look apologetic as she wielded the needle. When she was done, she patted Rachel’s hand-bandaged to the tips of her still healing fingers. “Oh, and hey, good news. Most of the bandages come off today. Dr. Thompson will be here this morning.”

“And how about the casts?” Rachel found herself coming to life for the first time that day. That month.

“You’re going to go from plaster to air casts.”

“What’s the difference?”

“You’ll be more mobile and lightweight. It’s a good thing.” Sandy headed for the door. “Now, don’t you worry your pretty little head over any of the details. I’ll be back with the doctor in a few.”

Rachel studied the ceiling, her new hobby. There were eighty-four ceiling tiles in the room. She’d worry her pretty little head all right-the “pretty” part no longer applying, of course. She’d worry because she knew. They would release her, maybe as early as the end of the week, but it didn’t mean freedom.

For at least a couple of months she needed help, a fate worse than death as far as she was concerned. She’d learned her love of control from her overly controlled, overly authoritative, overly guarded childhood. That she would need someone to help dress her, help her move around, help her in every way, was extremely…frightening.

What she really needed right now was a powerful, virile husband.

Ha!

To get a husband, she’d have to seriously date someone. To do that she’d actually have to let that someone into her life. And to let someone into her life, especially a male someone, she’d have to… Well, she’d have to do a whole hell of a lot, including honing up on the social skills she’d let get so rusty.

Since that wasn’t about to happen, Rachel had no choice, no choice at all. A nurse. A temporary nurse. Either a huge, beefy woman or a male, it didn’t really matter at this point. She had so little pride left.

Just as long as she and Emily got to be at home, together, nothing else truly mattered.

Which brought to the surface her greatest worry. How was she going to manage without being a burden on her teenage alien-er, daughter?

Her hospital room door opened again, and she heard the voice of Sandy, coming back with Dr. Thompson.

Closing her eyes, she feigned sleep. It was unlike her to pretend anything, but in this case, where everyone persisted in talking to her as if she’d suffered permanent brain damage, eavesdropping had become a necessity.

She wanted to know their plans for her, because no way was she accepting anything but release papers. No convalescent care, no way. Forcing her taut muscles to relax wasn’t easy. Over a month after the accident she couldn’t yet quite remember, and every inch of her still ached.

Even her hair.

And she itched. Beneath the cast on her arm and lower leg. Beneath the multitude of healing lacerations. Beneath the stubbly hair growing back after the buzz cut she’d required for surgery to ease the swelling of her brain.