LITMIR.BIZ

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regular intervals, baths every now and then, a good night’s sleep that didn’t start at four in the morning and stretch all the way out past noon. Frisco could barely even provide those things for himself, let alone someone else.

      Hopping on his good leg, he dug through his still-packed duffel bag, searching for clean underwear. Nothing.

      It had been years since he’d had to cook for himself. His kitchen skills were more geared toward knowing which cleaning solutions made the best flammable substances when combined with other household products.

      He moved to his dresser, and found only a pair of silk boxers that a lady friend had bought him a lifetime ago. He pulled on his bathing suit instead.

      There was nothing to eat in his refrigerator besides a lemon and a six-pack of Mexican beer. His kitchen cabinets contained only shakers of moisture-solidified salt and pepper and an ancient bottle of tabasco sauce.

      The second bedroom in his condo was nearly as bare as his cabinets. It had no furniture, only several rows of boxes neatly stacked along one wall. Tasha was going to have to crash on the couch until Frisco could get her a bed and whatever other kind of furniture a five-year-old girl needed.

      Frisco pulled on a fresh T-shirt, throwing the clothes he’d been wearing onto the enormous and ever-expanding pile of dirty laundry in the corner of the room…some of it dating from the last time he’d been here, over five years ago. Even the cleaning lady who’d come in yesterday afternoon hadn’t dared to touch it.

      They’d kicked him out of the physical therapy center before laundry day. He’d arrived here yesterday with two bags of gear and an enormous duffel bag filled with dirty laundry. Somehow he was going to have to figure out a way to get his dirty clothes down to the laundry room on the first floor—and his clean clothes back up again.

      But the first thing he had to do was make sure his collection of weapons were all safely locked up. Frisco didn’t know much about five-year-olds, but he was certain of one thing—they didn’t mix well with firearms.

      He quickly combed his hair and, reaching for the smooth wood of his cane, he headed toward the sound of the TV. After he secured his private arsenal, he and Tasha would hobble on down to the grocery store on the corner and pick up some chow for lunch and…

      On the television screen, a row of topless dancers gyrated. Frisco lunged for the off switch. Hell! His cable must’ve come with some kind of men’s channel—the Playboy Channel or something similar. He honestly hadn’t known.

      “Whoa, Tash. I’ve got to program that off the remote control,” he said, turning to the couch to face her.

      Except she wasn’t sitting on the couch.

      His living room was small, and one quick look assured him that she wasn’t even in the room. Hell, that was a relief. He limped toward the kitchen. She wasn’t there, either, and his relief turned to apprehension.

      “Natasha…?” Frisco moved as quickly as he could down the tiny hallway toward the bedrooms and bathroom. He looked, and then he looked again, even glancing underneath his bed and in both closets.

      The kid was gone.

      His knee twinged as he used a skittering sort of hop and skip to propel himself back into the living room and out the screen door.

      She wasn’t on the second-floor landing, or anywhere in immediate view in the condo courtyard. Frisco could see Mia Summerton still working, crouched down among the explosion of flowers that were her garden, a rather silly-looking floppy straw hat covering the top of her head.

      “Hey!”

      She looked up, startled and uncertain as to where his voice had come from.

      “Up here.”

      She was too far away for him to see exactly which shade of green or brown her eyes were right now. They were wide though. Her surprise quickly changed to wariness.

      He could see a dark V of perspiration along the collar and down the front of her T-shirt. Her face glistened in the morning heat, and she reached up and wiped her forehead with the back of one arm. It left a smudge of dirt behind.

      “Have you seen Natasha—you know, the little girl with red hair? Did she come down this way?”

      Mia rinsed her hands in a bucket of water and stood up. “No—and I’ve been out here since you went upstairs.”

      Frisco swore and started down past his condo door, toward the stairs at the other side of the complex.

      “What happened?” Mia came up the stairs and caught up with him easily.

      “I got out of the shower and she was gone,” he told her curtly, trying to move as quickly as he could. Damn, he didn’t want to deal with this. The morning sun had moved high into the sky and the brightness still made his head throb—as did every jarring step he took. It was true that living with him wasn’t going to be any kind of party, but the kid didn’t have to run away, for God’s sake.

      But then he saw it.

      Sparkling and deceptively pure looking, the alluring blue Pacific Ocean glimmered and danced, beckoning in the distance. The beach was several blocks away. Maybe the kid was like him and had salt water running through her veins. Maybe she caught one look at the water and headed for the beach. Maybe she wasn’t running away. Maybe she was just exploring. Or maybe she was pushing the edge of the obedience envelope, testing him to see just what she could get away with.

      “Do you think she went far? Do you want me to get my car?” Mia asked.

      Frisco turned to look at her and realized she was keeping pace with him. He didn’t want her help, but dammit, he needed it. If he was going to find Tasha quickly, four eyes were definitely better than two. And a car was far better than a bum knee and a cane when it came to getting someplace fast.

      “Yeah, get your car,” he said gruffly. “I want to check down at the beach.”

      Mia nodded once then ran ahead. She’d pulled her car up at the stairs that led to the parking lot before he’d even arrived at the bottom of them. She reached across the seat, unlocking the passenger’s side door of her little subcompact.

      Frisco knew he wasn’t going to fit inside. He got in anyway, forcing his right knee to bend more than it comfortably could. Pain and its accompanying nausea washed over him, and he swore sharply—a repetitive, staccato chant, a profane mantra designed to bring him back from the edge.

      He looked up to find Mia watching him, her face carefully expressionless.

      “Drive,” he told her, his voice sounding harsh to his own ears. “Come on—I don’t even know if this kid can swim.”

      She put the car into first gear and it lurched forward. She took the route the child might well have taken if she was, indeed, heading for the beach. Frisco scanned the crowded sidewalks. What exactly had the kid been wearing? Some kind of white shirt with a pattern on it…balloons? Or maybe flowers? And a bright-colored pair of shorts. Or was she wearing a skirt? Was it green or blue? He couldn’t remember, so he watched for her flaming red hair instead.

      “Any sign of her?” Mia asked. “Do you want me to slow down?”

      “No,” Frisco said. “Let’s get down to the water and make sure she’s not there first. We can work our way back more slowly.”

      “Aye, aye, sir.” Mia stepped on the gas, risking a glance at Alan Francisco. He didn’t seem to notice her military-style affirmative. He was gripping the handle up above the passenger window so tightly that his knuckles were white. The muscles in his jaw were just as tight, and he kept watching out the window, searching for any sign of his tiny niece in the summertime crowd.

      He’d shaved, she noticed, glancing at him again. He looked slightly less dangerous without the stubble—but only slightly.

      He’d hurt his knee getting into her car, and Mia knew from the paleness of his face underneath his tan that

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