Like Slow Sweet Molasses (22 page)

“First,
Jason,” Connie threw out between coughs, “now, Dominick. I don’t know how much
more she can stand, Brock.” Her face rested in the palms of her hands.

“Who’s
Dom?” He knew but wanted to be sure.

“Her
ex-husband.” Connie looked him directly in his eyes. “Don’t you bring her
another ounce of pain.”

“That’s
not my intent, Connie. I care very much about your daughter.” Chance wrestled
with his own exhaustion by running a hand through his hair for he’d not slept
in several days. His fatigue was physical. Connie and Angela persisted through
it all burdened down emotionally, also. “She can’t have gone far. I’ll find
her.”

“Bring
her as soon as you do.”

Chance
had his marching orders and made a beeline for the stairs tripping often as his
long strides made for an unsteady descent—loping down in record time without
much exertion, a benefit of the many obstacle course training sessions
completed with loaded backpack. Moments later, he found her quaking in the
cold.

Standing
in the elements shivering, Angela saw her prediction of being alone as reality
for surely she’d chased Chance off. She hung outside counting the ambulances
frequent trips to the drop-off point. The time spent served to lessen the
chances of running into either man on her return to her father’s room. It
doubled as punishment because she felt badly for offending Chance with the
wisecrack intended to hurt Dom. But, if what Jason “accidentally on purpose”
said about him was true, he wasn’t worth her apology. Still, she felt
compelled.

“I
should be sorry, Chance,” she sniffled for her ears only.

“Yeah,
you should be.”

Angela
jerked around to see him silhouetted against the backdrop of light bursting out
of doors.

Chance
watched her for a long while unsure of her reaction if he approached her
uninvited. She bruised his ego with her taunt at her ex. Yet, he let the insult
roll off his back as soon as Dom plodded unhappily past him to the elevators
without any sign of Angela in pursuit.

She
amended very pointedly, “But—I’m not.”

A
fierce battle of wills ensued as their brows knitted in internal turmoil.
Chance broke the spell.

“I
worried about you all the time I was gone.” He was asking her for forgiveness
in his own way.

“I’ll
just bet you did,” she sniped.

“Angela,
I’m not at liberty to discuss any part of my job that requires covert activity.
I never know when special circumstances will dictate me to be elsewhere at a
moment’s notice. Usually, those times mean I’m incommunicado. Like I was this
time.”

“You
know what, Chance,” her anger multiplied in proportion to her distress, “your
behavior has lifted the rose-colored film from my eyes. Just…go…home.”

He
wondered if she’d allow him to shield her from the weather. The one way to find
out was to move close enough to wrap her up in the front of his unzipped
jacket. She was as stiff as a statue, at first, slowly warming to the feel of
his body pressed against hers as he relinquished some of his stored energy. All
of a sudden, it was like someone slapped her back to reality as he felt her
resistance to his touch. For him there was no mistaking the significance of the
embrace for it sealed what he felt in his heart for her. He knew she’d never
submit to the feelings she had for him as long as she was in that mood.

Chance
tried another tactic.

“I
have orders to get you upstairs as fast as possible.” Her knees buckled at his
statement. “Crap! No, Angela. The news is good.” He tried to correct his
blunder while holding her underarms. “Lee’s awake.”

Angela
struggled to come out of the fog as her eyes fluttered and Chance’s face swam
in and out of focus. She braced against the wall, held there by his large
hands, faintly hearing the words he repeated.

“Lee’s
awake, Angel. They’re waiting for you.”

Every
ounce of energy expelled from her body reducing her limbs to rubbery noodles.
She needed help but was too proud to ask. Angela shoved off the wall determined
to sashay without his assistance only to find her muscles quivering so badly
from weariness her hand reached out for the stability of the concrete wall.
Instead, it was Chance who steadied her.

“I’ve
got you.” He knew better than to whisk her into his arm and carry her for she’d
have none of that. “We’ll take it slowly.”

They
were the center of attention—the curvy brown-skinned beauty making her
exhaustive trek to the ICU accompanied by the doting giant marking time to
match her stride—as interested eyes scrutinized their slow progress to the
elevators. Chance supported her elbow on the ride up, switching to a full back
cradle as she tilted in his direction. She hadn’t said a word the entire
journey. Even in her anger, the look in her eyes expressed her deepest
appreciation to him as he pushed open the door to Lee’s cubicle. Angela weaved
the rest of the way on her own.

Chance,
not wanting to intrude, leaned against the wall taking in each person’s
activity in the nurse’s station. His training to memorize and compute what he
saw stayed with him in all aspects of his life. For instance, he wondered if
the nurse realized she tapped her foot when in conversation with another
person. He’d watched her. Regardless of who approached, her right foot started
a nervous tap.

“Chance?”
Angela broke into his observation. He stood soldier tall. “You’re being
summoned. Just say “yes” to whatever Daddy asks to keep him calm. We won’t hold
you to any promises made in there.”

“You
sound like you know what he wants. Want to give me a hint?”

“He’s
not fully coherent. Just remember that.”

Chance
entered the room, but, not before leaving her a concerned look that asked to
her wellbeing. A look she ignored. The partition hung designating the spot
where he stood as the anteroom. He peered around the curtain not sure what to
expect. “Knock, knock.”

“Come
on in, Brock,” Connie invited.

He
nervously broke into the room where Lee reclined hooked up, wired out and
smiling slightly. “Glad to see you awake.” What else do you say to your
almost
girlfriend’s sick father? Lee waved him closer.

“How
serious are you about my Cookie?” Lee pried.

The
question startled him.

“Lieutenant,
I need to know if I have any worries as it relates to you and my little girl.”
Lee’s raspy voice got a little breathy.

Connie
moved in to smooth his wrinkled brow casting Chance a look that said his answer
had better be the right one.

“Serious
enough to follow her to Chicago without her invitation.”

A
bigger smile twitched at the sick man’s lips. “Then, here’s what you’re going
to do.” The door creaked before he got to give Chance his instructions. Angela
appeared at the foot of his hospital bed.

Connie
broke from the group. “We’ll let your father talk to Brock for a minute. He
doesn’t need three of us hovering over him.”

Chance
stood in quiet wonder as the Munsoes ran a game on their daughter.

“Open
that drawer,” Lee motioned with his head, “and get my keys.”

Chance
obeyed.

“Take
Angela home. Feed her. Chinese food. She loves Chinese.” His breath came in
spurts. “Nothing with peanuts, though.”

“I
know,” Chance revealed causing Lee’s brows to cock.

“Get
her to rest, Brock. Don’t let her back here before noon tomorrow.”

“Then,
you’re asking me to keep her prisoner in her own home?”

“I’m
asking you to look out for her like the man who loves her.”

“Love?”
The word threw Chance for a loop.

“You
might not be ready to admit it to me because you haven’t really admitted it to
yourself. Just look out for her. Can you do that until I get out of here?”

This
time he obeyed Angela’s instructions. “Yes. Yes, I can.”

“Good.”
Lee sank further into his pillow like a terrific weight lifted from his chest.
“Call in the food order. Make sure you mention my name as they’re aware of the
“no peanut oil” rule. The menu to her favorite restaurant is on the side of the
refrigerator. They deliver.”

Chance
grasped the situation. “You’ll make a speedy recovery, Lee.” As if doubting the
idea presented by her father, he reminded the older man, “Angela’s an
exceptionally capable woman with smarts beyond her years.”

“That’s
true, Brock.” He continued his conversation with his eyes shut. “But, she’s
also had more than her share of misfortune—clearly brought on by others—and
needs to know that good things manifest, sometimes, from not so good things.”

“Lee,
you’ve got to know she won’t appreciate my sticking my nose in, right?” He
watched as Lee’s eyes reopened and his expression turned sullen. “She’s not
very fond of people of my persuasion.” The proper words to caution Lee that
sleeping in the same house as Angela was an astronomical concern, while still
so hyped up after a mission.

“You
mean bearded?”

“No.”

“Tall?”
Lee’s look said he knew exactly what Chance meant.

“No.”
He rebuffed the joke. “White. She made that very plain on our initial meeting.
And every time since…if she deemed necessary…whether appropriate or not.”

“Yet
you pursue her anyway. Why is that?”

Chance
thought he was crazy for having this conversation with her father. “She
fascinates me.”

“Because
she’s black? Because of the rumored lure of exotic love?” Lee purposely pushed
Chance’s buttons, letting up only when he saw the gleam of understanding spark
from his eyes.

“Because
she challenges and intrigues me to no end. Because I know the wee crinkle on
the bridge of her freckled nose doesn’t always mean something’s unacceptable.
Because she’s vulnerable and doesn’t attempt to hide that behind a fake and
vociferous bravado.”

“I
rest my case. Now, get out of here.”

Chance’s
dismissal was a conniving wink from Lee before he drifted off to sleep.

Chapter Fourteen

An
excruciatingly long and stressful ride is what Chance and Angela tolerated to
get to the point where they now waited for the garage door to creep upwards,
gradually previewing her homestead. They’d verbally fought at her insistence
for him to hand over the keys once they stood at Connie’s automobile back at
the hospital. He had to be extremely innovative to get her cooperation without
resulting to threats of tattling on her. She gave up when realizing her
stubbornness was nowhere in his league of mulish conduct. In his business, the
consequences for blinking meant life or death. Plus, her stamina was no match
for his.

Chance
mastered the art of war compliments of his old uncle—Uncle Sam.

Doors
slammed and her heels scuffed the treated cement floor of the garage indicating
their parade up the back stairs. Angela unlocked the mud room door, keyed in
the alarm code and left him standing in the darkened interior without any
inducement to enter. Her whereabouts were obvious as low lighting marked her
route through the house. Chance closed and secured the door leading from the
garage before taking a step into the kitchen where his bag hit the floor.
Angela, by that time, was neither seen nor heard.

He
slid his hand in the general area where he believed the light switch situated
hitting the spot dead on. A calming ambience flooded the room exposing a
kitchen any professional chef would pay a pretty price to cook in. It was
dressed out in granite, stainless steel and copper with all the name brand
appliances and gadgetry available to the discerning few.

Making
his way over to the commercial refrigerator, he eyed the telephone on the
recipe desk across the room, located the menu right where Lee said it would be
and perused the item list in detail. Her favorite dishes jumped out at him
highlighted with bright pink circles. He made the request for delivery ordering
them all. Chance stopped moving, closed his eyes and willed his breathing to a
slow and steady cadence. That was his way of combating fatigue that threatened
to surface. It wasn’t time for him to shed his armor of self-protection. It
wasn’t safe, yet. Certainly, not safe for her.

Momentarily
refreshed and curious about his surroundings, he crept on soft steps to explore
the downstairs, going first to the room by-passed adjacent to the mudroom. It
was a small bedroom off the kitchen. The rest of the Munso’s residence was
deceptively larger than it appeared in the darkness from the street. The
strategically located kitchen received the ebb and flow traffic from both the
formal living and dining rooms. There was a study-slash-office, books lining
one complete wall while noir pictures and paintings depicting black art hung in
gallery fashion along the other three walls. Their skillfully arranged display
instigated interest that willed him to stand in awe of each. Of particular
importance to him were the family portraits, not only of the Munsoes, but their
ancestors before them—a proud looking family captured in tin-type seemingly in
the late eighteen to early nineteen hundreds.