She could hear the loss in his voice. For all his full and busy life, she knew her father desperately missed the woman he had called his wife. Just as she knew that he had felt no woman would ever compare to her.
He patted her on her shoulder, a gesture of affection, before dropping a kiss to the top of her head and going to his desk.
“I had a call from Cooper earlier,” he told her as he slipped his glasses back on his face, sat down, and looked up at her.
“What does he need?” Sitting on the side of the desk as she had even as a young girl, she pulled her jean-clad legs up to the top of the side of the desk, crossed them, and watched her father expectantly.
“The network is doing very well.” Her father sat back in his chair as his face creased thoughtfully. “Cooper’s group is one of our best, and the information he’s been pulling in has been damned important.”
Sheila nodded. The Broken Bar wasn’t the only operational location set up to gather intel on criminal and terroristic activities, and it wasn’t the only location under her father’s command, but as he said, it was one of the best.
“So why did he call?” she asked.
“According to Cooper, you’ve been slipping in, getting the intel, and slipping back out. You’re not coming in at your usual time, and you’re acting nervous.”
Sheila looked beyond his shoulder to the gardens outside. Rather than facing the question in her father’s gaze, she avoided it.
“I’ve been busy.”
“Yeah, that heavy social life you have,” he grunted with what she called his loving sarcasm. He had a way of saying things to her that let her know he was clearly disapproving, and/or disappointed. Sometimes just plain disbelieving.
In this case, perhaps it was all three.
“Yeah, my social life is just all that,” she agreed with the same tone.
“Yep, it’s matching Casey’s if my suspicions are correct.”
And there it was. Sheila had wondered how long it would take her father to say something if he was aware of the relationship. Or the non-relationship. Whatever the hell it was. Or had been.
A wave of pain swept through her as she fought to keep from dragging in a ragged breath.
God, she missed him. She missed his touch, the sound of his voice, the amusement in his gaze, and that crooked smile he often carried.
“I wouldn’t know,” she finally said faintly.
“Yeah, avoiding him will do that.” She watched him nod from the corner of her eye as he continued to watch her. “Is it working?”
She shook her head, not bothering to lie any longer.
It wasn’t working.
“How did you know?” she finally asked without meeting his gaze.
“Ah yes, how did your father find out you were sleeping with one of his agents when you were so very careful to hide it?” That disappointment was there. “I’ve known since the first night you didn’t come home because you were at his apartment,” he revealed. “I swore to your mother I’d watch out for you, Sheila. I almost messed up with Ross Mason, but I haven’t messed up since.”
“You didn’t mess up, Daddy,” she sighed as she lifted her hands and began to pick at her nails rather than letting her gaze meet her father’s.
If her father saw how much it hurt, he might blame himself. She didn’t want that.
“I almost messed up,” he reiterated. “I almost didn’t introduce Mason to the general out of pride. I knew what he wanted, what he was, but seeing how it hurt you would have broken your mother’s heart. I couldn’t have that, you know.”
A sad smile pulled at her lips as she nodded again. That was her father’s way of saying it had hurt him to see her hurt.
“I got over it, Dad,” she promised him.
“Not all the way,” he guessed softly. “You weren’t in love with him, so you got over the man, but you didn’t get over the lesson, did you, baby girl?”
“Dad—” she began to protest.
He lifted his hand, silencing her immediately. As always, she clenched her teeth, irritated with herself because that one moment could immediately remind her that if she didn’t quieten, then her father could refuse to speak to her for days.
It had happened once, and only once, when she had been no more than five.
“Now, look at me.”
She lifted her gaze slowly, emotion clogging her throat as she met the concern and affection in her father’s eyes.
He’d been a stern disciplinarian when she had been a child, but he had been a friend after she’d passed that unruly teenage stage. He was her boss and, sometimes, her sounding board, but he was always her father.
“Daddy, I don’t want to talk about Casey,” she stated, her tone respectful but determined. “This is my fight, not yours.”
“And why is it a fight?” he asked softly. “What is it, Sheila, that has you watching the road expecting him, and yet refusing to make that first move?”
“Because I don’t know what he wants from me.” Frustration filled her voice now. “He wants me to guess, or to beg, I don’t know,” she bit out furiously. “And I can’t stand not knowing.”
“Maybe he just wants you,” her father suggested gently.
Sheila turned her gaze back to the flowers as she shook her head. “He wants more. He has to.”
“What do you want from him?”
Her gaze swung back to him in surprise. “I just want him, Dad,” she whispered. “That was all I ever wanted.”
“His love?”
She nodded slowly. “Just his love.”
“Maybe, Sheila, you’re wrong. Maybe that really is all Casey wants from you.”
Her lips parted to argue the suggestion. There had to be more. Casey had to want more.
