“She’s my doctor.”
“That’s not what I mean and you know it.”
Angel’s gaze snapped up. “Quit beating around the bush, Franco. You don’t want me screwing her—that’s what you’re trying to say in that holier-than-thou way of yours, isn’t it?”
“I don’t want her hurt again. Madelaine is … fragile.”
Angel thought of the ball-buster who’d read him the riot act about his heart and laughed out loud. “Yeah, a real magnolia petal.”
“I mean it, Angel. It took her years to get over you last time. Don’t break her heart again.”
Angel laughed bitterly. “Don’t worry, pal. If anyone’s got a broken heart, it’s me.”
With a weary sigh, Francis pushed to his feet. “I’ve got a couples’ retreat in Oregon for the rest of the month. I could cancel if—”
“If I’m gonna die tomorrow? Don’t bother. I’ll be fine.”
“I’ll come back and see you when I get home. Unless you’re going to disappear again …”
Angel sighed. Already the anger was gone, faded back into insignificance next to the power of his love for his brother. Again he wished that he’d held back, that just once in his life, he’d had some self-control. “I’ll be here, Franco.”
“Good.”
Angel forced a pathetic smile. “I’m sorry I yelled at you, man. Thanks for coming.”
Francis looked down at him for a long, long time. Then, slowly, he smiled. “You’re always sorry.”
“Yeah,” Angel said softly, stung by the truth of it.
Chapter Ten
Shoplifting.
The phone slipped from Madelaine’s hand and hit the floor with a clatter. She swayed and reached for the kitchen counter to steady herself. She took a deep breath, then another and another. Her shoulders inched back as years of discipline training kicked in. Quit pouting, girl. All a Milquetoast ever gets is wet.
She heard her father’s booming voice as if he were in the room with her. Buck up, act like a Hillyard and not some scared, stupid rabbit. Christ, you embarrass me, girl.
Madelaine shivered at the memory and pushed it away.
“Get your purse, Madelaine.” She spoke out loud to the too empty room. Woodenly she bent over and retrieved the phone, setting it down on the cradle with an exaggerated calm. Then she plucked her purse off the counter, slung it over her shoulder, and moved toward the front door.
Just as she reached for the knob, someone knocked. The door swung open as Madelaine stumbled to a stop.
Francis stood in the doorway. “Hi, Maddy.”
She noticed that he wasn’t smiling—odd, but she didn’t have time to care, couldn’t quite make herself care. “Hey, Francis,” she responded automatically. She waited for him to move or say something, but he didn’t. She blinked up at him, confused. “Did we have dinner plans?”
“No. I’m leaving for Portland tonight. I won’t be back for a few weeks. There … there was something I wanted to talk to you about…. I saw An—”
“Oh, yeah. Portland. Have a nice trip.” She gave him a distracted smile and waited for him to leave. When he didn’t she said, “I’ve got to go to … town now.”
“Maddy? I’m trying to tell you something important.” He moved closer, gazed down at her with concern. “What is it, Maddy-girl?”
His gentleness made her want to cry. It saddened her that even now, even with Francis, she had so much difficulty speaking of her problems. “It’s Lina. She’s been …” Her voice fell to a whisper. “She’s been arrested for shoplifting.”
“Oh, my God. It’s my fault.”
“What?”