19 Headed for Trouble (4 page)

Frank felt himself nod. Whatever it was that had shifted in his chest had moved to his throat. He tried to swallow it back down, but it was lodged there. She put her hand on his arm, her fingers cool and soft against his skin. “I’m so sorry.”

She meant it. Frank didn’t know what to say.

Across the street, the singer finished his song. He started packing up his box. “Sorry, folks. Gotta run. Shelter starts filling this time of night, weather like this. If I wait too long, I won’t get a bed.”

Frank hadn’t noticed until now, but it had started, again, to rain. It was coming down faster now. Harder.

The singer clutched his box to his chest. “Rosie, can I walk you to your hotel?” he asked.

Rosie. She only briefly glanced away from Frank as she answered the man. “No thanks, Odell. I’m okay.”

The singer—Odell—still didn’t trust Frank, eyeing him, edging closer, as if he could do some serious damage to the SEAL, who had way more than a hundred pounds on him. “You sure?”

“Thank you, but yes.” Rosie was sure.

And as the skies opened up, Odell was gone.

Rosie looked up into the deluge and just laughed. She must’ve been even more drunk than Frank had thought, so he grabbed her by the hand and pulled her, and together they ran for shelter.

It was pointless—they were already soaked—running wouldn’t keep them from getting any more wet. Still, the sound of her laughter made him smile, and—go figure—he was laughing, too, when she finally pulled him into a narrow doorway.

She was breathless and soaked. Her face wasn’t all that was glistening wet, but her smile was so damn infectious as they stood there, squeezed together in a space where he’d have barely fit on his own. She was warm and soft against him, the neckline of that clingy top truly amazing from his vantage point.

“This seems like a good time for introductions,” she told him. “I’m Rosie Marchado. I’m from Hartford. In Connecticut.”

“Frank O’Leary,” he said. He couldn’t look down into her face without getting an eyeful of her sonnet-worthy cleavage. Sweet Jesus, he loved full-figured women.

“Do you want to …,” she started, then stopped. She made an embarrassed face. “God, I’ve never done this before. You’re going to think that I’m …” She took a deep breath, which completely renewed his faith in a higher power. “I really never, ever do this, but do you want to …”

She didn’t hesitate for more than a second or two, but that was all the time Frank needed to fill in the blank.

Have sex, right here in this shadowy doorway
. He would kiss her, his hands sweeping her skirt up, her leg wrapping around him as they strained to get closer, even closer.…

She was going to ask him for it, and he was going to have to turn her down because she was drunk, except, damn, he couldn’t think of anything or anyone he’d rather do.

But then she finished her question with, “Maybe go get some coffee? With me?”

At first her words just didn’t make sense.

She wanted hot, steaming … 

Coffee.

She was looking up at him, her lower lip caught between her perfect teeth. She was feeling trepidation both at the fact that she’d been so bold as to suggest to a near stranger that they go get coffee, and because she thought he might actually say no.

Frank started to laugh. “I know a place we can go.” He took her by the hand, and once again pulled her out with him, into the rain.

They talked.

All night.

And by the time Frank walked Rosie back to her hotel in the French Quarter, he knew that even though she’d given him her phone number—in Hartford freakin’ Connecticut—he wasn’t going to call her.

He liked her too damn much.

She’d told him about her fiancé. Ex-fiancé. The sumbitch had dumped her two months before their wedding
because—the asshole had claimed—their lives together would be too boring.

Boring? In what dimension? She was funny and sweet and smart and—God
damn!
—sexy as all get out. The entire time they sat there, sipping their coffee and talking themselves hoarse, he couldn’t stop thinking about how perfect and soft her lips would feel if he kissed her.

But when he’d told her—just a little—about being a SEAL, about being stationed in San Diego, about going TDY in places where American service persons weren’t exactly welcome, Frank knew that even though she claimed to be looking for excitement, hooking up with a man like him, who risked his life as a matter of course, would be too much for her.

Oh, she didn’t say it in so many words. And, in fact, it was just after that that she’d given him her business card with her personal phone number in curvy handwriting on the back.

But Hartford to San Diego …? The sheer distance alone howled of unpreventable disaster. And now here they were, with dawn lighting the sky behind them. Standing just outside the ornate gilded doors of her hotel.

“So,” Rosie said.

Yeah. So. Her flight home wasn’t until that evening. She didn’t
have
to run upstairs to pack. Not right away.

But she was tired. He might’ve been used to going without sleep for long periods of time, but she was unable to hide her obvious fatigue.

Still, she didn’t move any closer to that fancy door.

She was looking, too, as if she wanted something more from him than a handshake and a
Nice to meet you
.

But no way was he kissing her. No way was he stepping hip deep into
that
temptation. Except, damn, he
wanted to, and he knew she knew because he could not, for the life of him, stop staring at her mouth.

“Do you want,” she started, and he knew she wasn’t going to invite him to her room—she had roommates. That just wasn’t going to happen. Not tonight.

Not ever.

“I better go.” He cut her off, unwilling or maybe just plain unable to turn down whatever she was about to offer.

But she spoke over him. “—to meet for a late lunch?”

“I can’t,” he said. It wasn’t a lie. “My flight’s at oh-eight-thirty.”

“Oh,” she said. “Wow. Well, then, you better …”

“Go,” he agreed, yet still stood there, like a fool. Wishing for things he couldn’t have. Knowing that he had to turn and walk away. He had to go back to the Sheraton and pack—and toss her business card into the trash can under the bathroom counter.

“I know you aren’t going to call me,” she said softly. “It’s okay. Don’t feel bad. I know that … Well, maybe in another lifetime, you know? I just … I loved last night. I loved meeting you.”

She touched him then, only briefly, her fingers cool against his face, and then she was gone, the gilded door shutting silently behind her.

It was for the best. It was definitely for the best. Those words drummed through Frank’s head as he passed the park where artists and vendors, palm readers and bead sellers had been set up, even after dark, even in the rain. It was empty now, littered with trash from the hardcore partying of the previous night.

It was for the best. For the best
.

Mother
fucking
fool, mother
fucking
fool.…

Frank violently kicked garbage—plastic beer cups—out of his way. One wasn’t quite empty and it flew through
the air, nearly hitting a woman who still sat by the park’s wall, raincoat up and over her head.

Her wooden sign was still out:
Palms read, five dollars. Blind Maggie Sees the Truth
was lettered in smaller print beneath the picture of a hand. She started awake—she’d been asleep sitting there—and even though she wore dark glasses, she turned and looked directly at Frank.

“You don’t have much time,” she said, her voice raspy, maybe from age or from sleeping in the rain, but probably from sleeping on the street in the rain at her advanced age.

“Not interested, ma’am.” Frank slowed down, but only to press his spare change and a few loose dollar bills into her hand.

But she caught his wrist, running gnarled fingers across his palm. “She loves you.”

For an old woman, she had a grip of steel. Frank could have pulled free, but not without knocking her out of her seat and dragging her down the street.

“You just met,” the old woman—Blind Maggie, presumably—insisted. “Her eyes … She has such beautiful eyes.”

As did nearly all the women on the planet. Frank was not impressed.

“She sees you,” Maggie intoned. “She loves you already—and you would walk away from such a gift?”

It was foolish. He was a fool. He should have thanked her for her advice. She would have let him go if he’d told her he believed her, and that he was going to get her five-dollar payment out from his wallet. The dead last thing he should have done was argue.

“She deserves better,” Frank said.

And just like that, the old woman kicked him—ow, Jesus! Right on the shin.

“Fool!” she used the same word he’d been using to
chastise himself. “What’s better than loving and being loved?”

She’d let him go in the course of delivering a kick with that much force, and he backed away.

For a blind woman—right—she tracked his movement with unerring accuracy as he turned and saw—thank you, Lord—the Sheraton sign. His hotel wasn’t close, but it wasn’t that far either.

“You’ll break her heart!” Maggie shouted at him. “You’re going to break her heart!”

Frank turned the corner, but she kept on shouting. “You love her, too, and you didn’t even kiss her goodbye!”

And he stopped. Just like that.
Fool
. He was
such
a fool. Love her, too? He didn’t know. Was that what this was, this tight feeling in his chest, this odd grief at the idea of not seeing Rosie again, Rosie whom he barely even knew. Except …

He knew her
.

They’d talked for hours, as if they’d been friends for years. He’d told her secrets, things he’d never told anyone else. She’d made him laugh, made him dream of a life he’d never dared dream of before as he’d lost himself in her beautiful dark brown eyes.

And just like that, Frank started running.

Not toward the Sheraton. Away from it.

Toward Rosie’s hotel.

He was out of breath and sweating when he pushed his way into the lobby, and the clerk at the front desk looked up in alarm.

“House phone?” Frank panted, and the man pointed to a telephone farther down the counter.

Frank picked it up and dialed zero. “Connect me to Rosie Marchado’s room,” he said when the operator picked up.

There was a pause. “I’m sorry, sir”—words he didn’t want to hear—“we have no guests named Marchado.”

Perfect. She was staying with friends and had obviously registered under one of their names.

As Frank hung up, he saw in the mirror that two of the bellhops—big, burly fellows—had come to surround him. Shit. Now he wouldn’t even be able to sit in the lobby, hoping that she’d come downstairs early, in the few minutes he had left before he had to catch his own flight out.

“I’m not here to make trouble, boys,” Frank told them, turning around nice and slow, keeping his hands up and in sight.

But the bigger bellhop was smiling. “Chief O’Leary?” he asked.

Frank blinked. What the …?

“I served twelve years in the regular Navy,” the man said. He was more overweight than muscular, Frank saw now. “I always admired you SEALs.” He cleared his throat, holding out an envelope. “Miss Rosie asked me to give this to you. She said you’d be coming by.”

Frank took it. Opened it.

Rosie had written him a note in her neat, clear hand.
Suite 312
was all it said. Short and sweet and all he needed to know.

He ran for the elevator, pushed the button. It took too damn long, so he searched for and found the sign for the stairs. He took them up, three at a time.

And there it was. Suite 312. He knocked, knowing that he was probably going to wake up her friends, but he didn’t give a good goddamn. He knocked again, even louder, and the door opened.

Rosie stood there, and for several seconds, neither of them moved. And then they both did, both at once, and she was in his arms and Jesus Lord save him, he was finally kissing her.

She was sweetness and fire, kissing him back so fiercely, that his heart damn near exploded in his chest.
When he finally pulled away, breathless and dizzy, she was laughing and maybe even crying a little, too.

“I’ve never done anything even remotely like this before,” Rosie told him. “I just … I don’t do this.”

Frank didn’t either. Never before this. And probably, in all honesty, never again. “I have to go,” he told her. Words she’d hear from him again and again, unless she came to her senses in the next few hours, days, weeks,
months
. It was quite probably going to be
months
before he could arrange a trip to Hartford to see her again. And it would take him far longer, unless he broke into that savings account where he’d stashed his inheritance from his mother—all nine thousand dollars of it.

Still, he kissed Rosie again, longer, slower, deeper this time, loving the way she melted into his arms.

“My email address is on my business card,” she whispered. “Write me, okay?”

“This is crazy,” he said, touching the softness of her cheek, trying to memorize her face, her eyes.