“Daddy,” the girl whispered again in the same soft, timid voice.
Lisa’s mind raced. Either the little girl was telling her that she was afraid of her father—so many women and children here had been abused—or that she wanted her father. She couldn’t tell by the girl’s expression, which had not changed. Lisa took a chance and focused on the fact that she had used the word “need” when she’d spoken to the little girl.
“Do you want me to find your daddy for you?”
The dark head bobbed up and down. “Yes.”
Was the man here somewhere at the shelter? Or had he abandoned his family before they ever found their way to this place? She needed more input, but right now, there was no one else to ask for details. “Can you tell me what your daddy looks like, honey?”
Before the little girl could answer, a tall, thin woman with premature lines etched into her face entered the room. She looked relieved to see the little girl sitting there. And then she looked angry.
Crossing to her, the woman wrapped her arms protectively around the child’s shoulders and pulled her to her feet. She pressed the girl to her, as if to absorb her. Or at the very least, keep her out of harm’s way.
“There’s no sense in you looking for him,” the woman snapped at Lisa. Her anger at the invasion, at being stripped of everything, even pride, pulsated in the air between them like barely harnessed electricity. “Monica’s daddy left us almost two years ago. Couldn’t stand watching us do without anymore. Like leaving helped.” Bitterness twisted the woman’s pinched mouth. “He’s the reason we’re here. Monica thinks he’ll come back even though I keep telling her he won’t.”
Lisa knew all about hanging on emotionally even when logic dictated otherwise. “Everyone needs to be able to hope,” she said, gently touching the little girl’s cheek.
“What everyone needs is to be prepared for disappointment,” a deep male voice rumbled behind her.
There was no malice in the voice, no overwhelming cynicism. Only resignation to the facts.
Swinging around, Lisa found herself looking up at a tall, darkly handsome man with intense ice-blue eyes. The sensual smile never reached his eyes or any other part of him.
She’d never seen him before.
He was dressed casually, but the dark-blue pullover and gray slacks looked expensive. The man seemed as out of place here as a genuine pearl necklace in a drawer full of costume jewelry.
Here comes trouble.
She had no idea where the thought had come from, but it flashed across her mind the second she saw him. The second his eyes touched hers.
“Who are you?”
Her voice sounded a little sharp to her own ear, but she didn’t like his philosophy. Liked even less that he expressed it in front of a child.
Behind her, she heard Monica and her mother leaving the room. She made a mental note to bring a small doll with her for Monica the next time she came.
If Monica was still here. Every little girl deserved to have a doll.
She looked at the stranger, still waiting for an answer. Was this some kind of a game for him? She was aware of his scrutiny. As if she was someone he needed to evaluate before answering. Just who did he think he was?
“Well?” she asked.
She had a temper, Ian thought. Probably helped her survive what she had to deal with in a place like this. “Ian Malone, at your service.”
He waited a moment to see if there was a glimmer of recognition. He didn’t write under his own name, but it wasn’t exactly a state secret that Ian Malone and B. D. Brendan were one and the same.
But there was nothing in the woman’s face to indicate that the name—or he—meant anything at all to her. Good. Even though writing was the only lifeline that he still clung to—and even that had been failing him for the past nine months—there were times when fame got on his nerves. It made him want to shed his skin, a snake ready to move on to the next layer.
She wasn’t saying anything, so he added, “I was told to report to you for instructions.” Marcus had dropped him off here, promising to be by later to pick him up. Marcus had made it seem like a feather in his cap, getting him this community service gig. Looking around, he was beginning to think a little jail time wouldn’t have been such a bad thing. “You are Lisa Kittridge, right?”
“Right,” she fired back at him. She didn’t like his attitude, she didn’t like him. One of the privileged who’d come here, slumming, to atone for a social transgression. She’d seen his kind before. “Who told you to report to me?”
“A little bird-like woman at the front desk.” He turned in that general direction. “British accent, bad taste in clothes.”
“That would be Muriel.” She took offense for the other woman. Muriel ran the shelter and had a heart as large as Dodger Stadium. “And for your information, I think she dresses rather well.”
“Can’t help that,” he murmured under his breath, then asked, “Is she a friend of yours?”
He asked a hell of a lot of questions for someone who’d been sent here in lieu of jail time, she thought. She felt her back going up even more. “We don’t go on retreats together or braid each other’s hair, but yes, you could say we’re friends.”
“Then I’d clue her in if I were you. Better yet,” his eyes washed over her and there was a glint of appreciation in them, “you could take her shopping with you the next time you go.”
She wasn’t flattered. She was annoyed. “Is this an effort for you, or does being obnoxious just come naturally?”
The smile gave no sign of fading. If anything, he looked even more amused. “It’s a gift,” he told her dryly.
“One you should return,” she countered. Because she was short of funds and long on work, Muriel had gotten to the point where she relied on Lisa heavily, so Lisa knew she had to make the best of this conceited misfit they’d been sent for however long he was here. “Let me guess, community service, right?”
Ian inclined his head, giving her the point. “The lady gets a prize.”
The shelter saw its share of first-time offenders whose sentences were commuted to volunteering a number of hours working for either the city or a charitable organization. Most of the time, the men and women came, did what was required of them and left without any fanfare, wanting to get it over with as quickly, as quietly as possible.
This one was different. This one had an attitude. Terrific.
“And just what was it that they found you guilty of?” she asked.
The answer came without any need for thought. “Living.”
“If that were the case, the shelter would never be shorthanded. What did the judge say you did?” she pressed. The sooner she got him to admit accountability, the more readily he would move on. Or, at least she hoped so.
He shrugged carelessly. He’d never liked giving an account of himself. It reminded him too much of being grilled by his grandfather. “My car had a difference of opinion with a tree. They both wanted to occupy the same place. The tree won.”
Her eyes swept over him. There were no signs that he’d even been in an accident. He had one small scar over his left eye, but that had long since healed and grown faint with time, so she doubted that he’d sustained it in an accident. “You don’t look any the worse for it.”
His mouth twisted in a semi-smile. “Too bad my car can’t say the same thing.”
Her eyes darkened like a sudden storm sweeping over the horizon. “You were drunk.”
He watched, fascinated by the