Whose kid? Her racing mind screeched to a halt on those two words.
And she'd thought he couldn't hurt her any worse. "What did you say?"
He didn't fidget or even blink this time, but his incredible stillness betrayed him nonetheless. He knew he'd screwed up and he was scrambling to cover. "I said Lucia deserves better than a drug addict mother."
Nice try. "Not that part. The other part about you not caring whose kid she was."
He still didn't look away, but he stayed quiet for five seconds too long. "I meant that no kid should have a drug addict parent."
"No, you didn't." The full, horrible reality of his slip swelled through her. "You bastard."
She shoved his rock wall of a chest. She shoved again, even in her anger careful of his injured arm and somehow that awareness hurt her all the more because she didn't want to harbor even the smallest tender emotion for this man. Again she thumped his chest, and again, not that he bothered to block her blows, which proved more effective in stopping her.
Her hands fell to her sides.
She may not be the silly young woman looking for flowery romance, but she was damn well woman enough to expect more from a man than cold duty. "I am not a drug addict. I have diabetes, and you, Lucas Quade, can go straight to hell."
Go to hell? It felt pretty much as if he was already there.
Diabetes? Lucas stifled the urge to kick himself for being an idiot. He had simply reacted and dug himself into a deep pit with a tiger at the bottom. Their past. And right there in the middle of it was a syringe of insulin, this child and whatever had happened to Sara in the past five years. None of which could be taken care of here and now.
Commanders also knew when peace was more important than fighting, and God knew, he needed some peace to quiet the frustration roaring inside him over wanting... what?
Wanting to be the kind of man who could handle this with more diplomacy than he had in his whole freaking arsenal. He scratched the back of his neck, itchy from sweat, bug bites and the sense that something was about to go way wrong. Talking wouldn't accomplish anything today except delay their departure.
Footsteps sounded behind him. Damn. He definitely needed to get his head out of his ass and focus on the here and now. His hand went to his waist, curved around his M9 as he twisted to look behind him at...
Lucia.
Relief jetted through his veins, along with a hefty dose of what-the-hell-was-I-thinking. He'd all but forgotten the kid was there.
"Mama?" Lucia dropped to sit beside her mother, her narrowed eyes clearly broadcasting an us-against-him alignment.
"What, chica?" Sara thumbed a hint of banana from the corner of Lucia's mouth as the little girl poked her tongue against the inside of her cheek.
Lucia picked up the small black leather case from where it had fallen into a pile of moss. "Is somethin' wrong with your die-a-beasties?"
Die-a-what? Lucas tried to decipher the sometimes garbled syntax of kid-language, doubled by the occasional bilingual blends.
Diabetes. Even the kid had known.
If he performed this piss-poorly at work, his squadron would be wiped out in a week. But with Sara, he never could hold on to his objectivity for more than five seconds.
"Lucia Maria Carmelita." Sara's stern tones, unlike any he'd ever heard from her, yanked Lucas back to the moment. "What is that in your mouth?"
Her tiny tongue poking against her cheek slid away. "Nuffin'."
Lucia gulped.
Parental instincts he hadn't even known he possessed went on full-scale alert. He forced his voice to stay soft, unthreatening. "Lucia, did you eat a bug?"
Her feet turned in until the toes of her hiking boots touched. Staying too silent, she glanced away.
Guilt stamped all over her heat-flushed face.
Knuckle under her chin, he tipped her face toward him. "Didn't I tell you that I like bugs, too? I only want to be sure it's the right kind of bug that won't make you sick."
Finally, Lucia met his eyes, hers wide and dark and heartbreakingly scared. "You're not gonna get gwumpy?"