Baby dropped a squeaky toy at Max’s foot, and he picked it up and tossed it for the dog. It landed in some phlox, and Baby dove into the bushes and disappeared. He glanced about the backyard, at the ivy growing up the high fences and the profusion of roses. At the little bench seat beneath a magnolia, and he asked himself what he was doing here.
She’d been right. He could have called and determined that she was all right. Just as he could have called one of a dozen guys he knew who could take care of her problem with her ex-fiancé. He did not have to involve himself. This was her life, her home, her world, and he did not fit. He would never fit. He was Max Zamora. Black operative, existing within a world he understood. Living the only life he knew. The only life he’d ever wanted.
But even if he had ever wanted more from life, he knew it was not in the cards for him. Lola was not for him. She was a fantasy, and how long would the fantasy last? Until his beeper went off and he’d have to leave in the middle of the night? Would she be satisfied with a kiss good-bye and no explanation?
No. She wouldn’t. No woman would. And how could he begin to imagine a life with her, when the chances were extremely good he would make her a widow before she turned forty? Max was not a fool; he’d been lucky, but in his profession a man’s days were numbered. He was not afraid of dying, but he was of leaving someone behind. How could he expect any woman to settle for that kind of life? Especially a woman like Lola who could do so much better.
Lola moved through the French doors and set a white platter next to the grill. “Max, there’s something I’ve wanted to talk to you about since the night we fled the island,” she said as she moved to the table sitting in the corner of the patio. “But so much was going on, I didn’t get the chance.”
“What’s that?” He took a drink of his beer and watched her shorts slide up the backs of her legs as she spread a red-checked tablecloth.
“Did you blow up the Dora Mae?”
“Yep.”
“How?” She moved to the other side of the table and looked up at him. “It was dark and I know you had some sort of rifle. Did you shoot the fuel tanks?”
“No. I’d loaded some dynamite with blasting caps and shoved them inside one of those condoms aboard the yacht, then I taped it in the O of Dora. When we were far enough away, I shot it with a.50-caliber round. The second explosion was the fuel tanks going up.”
She smiled and tiny creases appeared in the corners of her eyes. “My hands were shaking so badly, I could hardly hold on to the steering wheel. And it was so dark, how did you manage something like that?”
“Practice,” he said. “Years of practice.”
She shook her head and threaded matching cloth napkins through little rings that looked like watermelons. “Well, you are one coolheaded guy. When those engines wouldn’t start and those bullets started hitting the water, the blood drained from my head and I about passed out.”
“You looked like you were going to pass out.” He put the chicken on the platter and closed the lid to the barbeque. “You did great, though.”
“No.” She shook her head and set flatware beside two red plates. “I was so scared I was numb, but you… you weren’t scared at all.”
She was wrong. He’d been afraid. He’d been more afraid than he’d ever been in his life. Not for himself, but for her. He moved to the table and set the platter in the center beside two lit candles that looked just like pears. “I’ve learned how to deal with fear,” he told her. “I don’t let it interfere with want I need to do.”
“Well, I don’t ever want to learn how to deal with fear, because I don’t ever want to be shipwrecked and shot at ever again.” Lola walked into the house and returned in less than a minute with salad and a basket of sliced French bread. “Once we got to the base that night, where did you go?”
Max held out her chair for her as she sat. “The naval station right next door to the Coast Guard base. Within an hour I was on my way to D.C.”
“Oh.” A little wrinkle appeared on her forehead as she placed a barbequed thigh on her plate. “I tried to wait up for you.”
He sat next to her and spooned salad into bowls that resembled hollowed-out heads of lettuce. He handed one to her, then spread his napkin in his lap. “I’m sorry,” he said, just as he had all the other times, with all the other women whom he’d disappointed over the years.
“No, I don’t want you to be sorry.” She chose a piece of bread, then handed him the basket. “You never said you would come and see me, so there is nothing for you to feel sorry about,” she said, but he didn’t believe her, not really. She took a big bite of salad and washed it down with her wine. “What sort of business do you have in Charlotte? Is there some hostage situation that the rest of us don’t know about? A spy conference?”
“Nothing that exciting, I’m afraid. Duke Power has hired me to come and check out their security.”
“Why? Is there a terrorist threat?”
“No. They’ve hired me because that’s what I do. I’m a security consultant.”
She stared at him. “You mean you have a real job?”
“I have a real job and a real company.” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. “Here,” he said, and handed her his business card.
As she ate a piece of bread, she studied the card. “Z Security. Are you the Z?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He dug into his chicken. “That’s me.”
“You have a real job, yet you do all that secret agent stuff on the side? Why?”
“Why, what?”
“Why would any man in his right mind risk his life when he has another job? His own business.” She set the card on the table. “Why would you choose to get shot at and beat up when you don’t have to? Is it the money?”
“No, but the money is very good.”
“Are you insane, then?”
He wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Probably.”
“Because I don’t think normal people like to get shot at, Max.”
“I don’t like to get shot at, Lola,” he said, and reached for his beer. “But it comes with the job.”
“But that’s just it, you have a real job. You don’t have to be involved with drug lords or blow up yachts.”
“I know I don’t have to.” He stabbed another piece of chicken and put it on his plate. He’d had different versions of this conversation before. With other females. Although Lola was the only woman who knew what he did for the government, the only one who knew the dark side of what he did, it always came back to the same basic thing. Why couldn’t he just settle down and live a normal life in the suburbs and raise two children and drive a minivan? He had no answer other than the truth. He just wasn’t that kind of guy.
He glanced up and caught her staring at him. The sun had begun to set, and light from the candles flickered across the table and onto her plate and hands. A light breeze tousled her new blond curls, and her brows were lowered. “What?”
“You like it, then. You like the fear biting the back of your neck and stealing your breath. And not knowing if you’re going to live another day.”
“I like what I do, yes,” he answered.
“No wonder you don’t get romantically involved with anyone. I imagine it would be very hard to have a serious relationship with a woman when you have to leave in the middle of the night to save the world. Especially when you don’t know when or if you’ll return home again.” She shook her head and took a big bite of her chicken.
He reached for his beer and watched her over the bottle as he took a drink. He wondered if she was being sarcastic, but she didn’t look like it. “Relationships are hard in my line of work, yes,” he said, which was an understatement. Relationships were impossible.