Without A Trace

  hoped there were.

  "All right, but before you do, I want you to know I didn't come to spoil Chantel's wedding. If we can't do anything else, I'd like to call a truce for one day."

  The calm strength surprised Frank. His boy had grown up. Pride and regret pulled him in opposite directions. "It's not a war I want with you, Tracey. It never was." Frank pushed a hand through his hair in a gesture that surprised Trace because it mirrored one of his own habits "I—I needed you." He stumbled on the words, then cleared his throat. "You were my first, and I needed you to be proud of me, to look up to me like I had all the answers. And when you wanted to find your own, I didn't want to listen. Knowing I was a failure to you—"

  "No." Appalled, Trace took the first step forward. "You never were, you couldn't be."

  "You sent your mother money."

  "Because I wasn't around to give any thing else."

  The old wound remained, gnawing. "I never gave you—any of you—the things I promised."

  "We never needed things, Pop."

  But Frank shook his head. "A man's meant to provide for his family, to pass some legacy on to his son. God knows I never gave your mother half of what she deserved. The promises were too big. When you left, saying what you said, I had to be bitter. Because if I stopped being bitter, I couldn't have stood knowing I wasn't the father you wanted, or being without you."

  "You've always been the father I wanted. I didn't think…" Trace let out a long breath, but it didn't steady his voice. "I didn't think you wanted me back."

  "There's not a day that's gone by I haven't wanted you back, but I didn't know how to tell you. Hell, didn't know where you were most of the time. I drove you away, Tracey, I know that. Now you've come back a man and I've lost all those years."

  "There are plenty more. For both of us."

  Frank put his hands on his son's broad shoulders. "When you leave, I don't want it to be in anger. And I want you to know that just by looking at you here, I'm proud of what you've made yourself."

  "I love you, Pop." For the first time in twelve years, he embraced his father. "I want to stay." He closed his eyes because the words brought such tremendous relief. "I need you. I need all of you. It's taken me too long to figure that out." He drew away. "I want my father back."

  "Ah, Tracey, I've missed having you." Frank reached for his own handkerchief and blew smartly. "Damn girl ought to keep a bottle in here."

  "We'll find one. Pop." Trace looked into his father's damp blue eyes. "I've always been proud of you. What you gave me was the best. I just had to see what I could do with it on my own."

  "This time, my boy, we kill the fatted calf." He put his arm around Trace's shoulder. "And we'll have that drink, you and me. When this hoopla of your sister's is over, I might even risk your mother's temper and get a little drunk. A man's entitled to celebrate when he's given a son."

  "I'm buying."

  Frank's damp eyes sparkled. "That's my boy. Made a bundle, did you? And you saw all those places you wanted to see?"

  "More than I wanted to see," Trace said and smiled. "I even sang for my supper a time or two."

  "Of course you did." Fresh pride burst through him. "You're an O'Hurley, aren't you?" He gave Trace a slap on the back. "Always had a better voice than you had feet, but that's no matter. I expect you've got stories to tell." He winked as they started out. "Start with the women."

  That hadn't changed, either. Though he hadn't expected it, it made him glad. "It might take a while."

  "We've got time." He had his son back. "Plenty of it."

  They were halfway down the stairs when Trace saw another tuxedoed figure. "I'll check it out," the man said in a phone with his back to the stairs.

  "Quinn, my boy." Frank's call could have brought down the roof. "I want you to meet my son, Trace."

  Quinn turned. He and Trace stared at each other. The shock of recognition came, but it didn't show. "Nice to meet you." Quinn held out a hand. "I'm sure Chantel's thrilled you're here."

  "It's interesting meeting all my in-laws in one fell swoop."

  "We need a drink," Frank announced. "Guests'll be trooping in before we know it." And he was going to show off his family. All his family.

  "Pour me a double." Trace patted his father's shoulder. "I'll be right with you."

  "We'll make it a quick one for now. I still have to straighten out those musicians."

  "Small world," Quinn commented when they were alone.

  Trace shook his head, studying the man who had once, in his early days with the ISS, been his partner. "It's been awhile."

  "Afghanistan was what—eight, ten years ago?"

  "That's the ballpark. So you're going to marry Chantel."

  "Come hell or high water."

  "Does she know what you do?"

  "I don't do it anymore." Quinn pulled out his cigarettes and offered one. "I've got my own security business. You?"

  "Recently retired." Trace pulled out matches. "I'll be damned."

  "You know, I'm amazed I didn't put it together, O'Hurley."

  "We weren't using names in that operation, not real ones."

  "Yeah, but the thing is, you look more like her than either of her sisters."

  Trace blew out a long stream of smoke and laughed. "If you don't want to sleep on the couch for the next six months, I wouldn't mention that to her."

  The O'Hurleys overwhelmed her. Gillian had never met anyone like them. She found herself sitting with the family as Chantel was married in the warm California winter under a white silk canopy while some five hundred guests looked on. There was champagne by the bucket, flowers by the truckload, and tears enough to swim in.

  For hours she was caught up in the whirlwind they created until, head spinning, she sought out a quiet spot to let it all settle. She wasn't sure it was quite proper for her to slip into the parlor, but the music was muted here. And she could put her feet up.

  "Sneaking out?"

  With a gasp, she pressed a hand to her heart. "You scared the life out of me." She relaxed again as Trace came to sit beside her. "You shouldn't creep up behind a person."

  "I've been doing it for years." He stretched his own legs out. "Feet hurt?" he asked as he looked at her discarded shoes.

  "I feel like I've danced my toes off. Doesn't your father ever slow down?"

  "Not that I've ever noticed." God, it was good to be back.

  Gillian snuggled back against the pillows. "He likes me."

  "Of course he does. You're Irish. Then there's the fact that you can do a fairly adequate jig."

  "Fairly adequate?" She sat up straight again. "I'll have you know, O'Hurley, your father said I could go on the road with him and your mother any time I wanted."

  "Packing your trunk?"

  She sat back again with a sigh. "I don't think I could keep up with either of them. They're all wonderful. Every one of them. Thank you for bringing me."

  "I think I've figured out who brought whom." He lifted her hand and kissed her palm, leaving her speechless. "Thank you, Gillian."

  "I love you. I just wanted you to be happy."

  When he let her hand go again, she curled her fingers into the palm he'd kissed. "You said that before." Rising, he walked to the window. From there he could see the tables ladened with food and wine and hundreds of people milling around and dancing.

  "That I wanted you to be happy?"

  "That you loved me."

  "Did I?" Very casual, she studied her nails. "Isn't that interesting? As I recall, you didn't have much of a reaction then, either."

  "I had things on my mind."

  "Oh, yes, saving my brother and Caitlin. We haven't quite finished there." She reached in her purse and drew out a piece of paper. Standing, she offered it to him. "The hundred thousand we agreed on. I had my lawyers send the check." When he didn't move, she walked over and pushed it into his hand. "It's certified. I promise it won't bounce."

  He wanted to jam the check down her pretty throat. "F
ine."

  "Our business is over, then. You've got your retirement fund, a house, your family." She turned away, knowing she was very close to murder. "So where do you go from here, Trace? Straight to the islands?"

  "Maybe." He crumpled the check and jammed it in his pocket. "I've been thinking."

  "Now there's good news."

  "Watch your mouth. Better yet, just shut up." He took her by the shoulders and kissed her hard. As he hadn't, Gillian thought, in much too long.

  The door opened. Abby took one step in and stopped. "Oh, excuse me. Sorry." Just as quickly, she was gone again.

  Trace swore lightly. "Maybe you are in love with me. And maybe you're plain stupid."

  "Maybe." This time she swore, too, and made his brow lift. "Maybe I'd like to know how you feel."

  "We're not talking about how I feel."

  "Oh, I see."

  Before she could move away he had her close again. It was amazing how quickly panic could come to someone who'd lived his life one step ahead of danger. "Don't turn away from me."

  She gave him a straight, level look. "I'm not the one who's doing the turning, Trace."

  She had him there. And, damn it, his palms were damp again. "Listen, I don't know how attached you are to New York, to that place you work. I could sell the house in Chicago if it didn't suit."

  She felt the gurgle of laughter—or triumph—but swallowed it cautiously. "Didn't suit what?"

  "Didn't suit, damn it. Gillian, I want—"

  This time Maddy burst through the door and halfway into the room. "Oh, hi." At the expression on Trace's face, she rolled her eyes. "You didn't see me," she said as she began to back out. "I never came in. I was never here. Now I'm gone." And she was.

  "Some things never change," Trace muttered. "I never in my life had a minute's privacy with those three around."

  "Trace." Gillian put a hand on his cheek and shifted his face back toward hers. "Are you asking me to marry you?"

  "I'd like to muddle through this in my own way, if you don't mind."

  "Of course." Very solemn, she sat on the window seat. "Please go on."

  Did she think one of her long, quiet looks was going to make it easy for him? He could write down how he felt, he could put it to music. The words would come then. But now, just now, he was fresh out.

  "Gillian, I think you're making a big mistake, but if you're set on it, we could try it. I've got some ideas about what to do with myself now that the ISS is history." His hands were in his pockets again, because he didn't know what else to do with them. "Maybe I could pitch some of my songs—but that's not really the point," he went on before she could speak. "The point is whether or not you could handle—that you'd be willing to—You know, you really have no business getting tangled up with me."

  "This time you shut up."

  "Wait a minute—"

  "Just shut up and come over here." He scowled, but crossed over to her. "Sit," she said, then gestured to the seat beside her. She waited until he sat down, then took his hands. "Now, I'll tell you exactly what the point is. I love you, Trace, with all my heart, and I want nothing more than to spend my life with you. It doesn't matter where. The house in Chicago is special, I know, and there are laboratories in the Midwest. What I have to know is that you'd be content. I won't start the rest of my life by holding you down."

  There was no one else like her. And there would never be anyone else for him. He wished he had the right words just now, something soft and sweet. One day, he thought, they might come easily.

  "I told you when we first met that I was tired. That's the truth. I don't need to climb mountains anymore, Gillian. I already know what's at the top. I'll probably be a lousy husband, but I'll give you the best I've got."

  "I know that." She took his face in her hands and kissed him lightly. "Why do you want to marry me, Trace?"

  "I love you." It was a great deal easier to say than he had thought. "I love you, Gillian, and I've waited a hell of a long time to make a home."

  She rested her head on his shoulder. "We'll make one together."