FrankPartTwo

When Frank Met Rosie

by Suzanne Brockmann

Part Two

Silence settled around them as the last notes of the song faded away. The singer didn’t open his eyes, he just launched into a bluesy rendition of an old torch song. Crazy...

The girl – woman – standing next to Frank cleared her throat. “See, I lost my jacket,” she told him, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I was with a group of friends and… It’s gone. I don’t know where I left it. I went back for it, but…” She shrugged, an action which did some amazing things to the plunging neckline of that barely there top.

“They let you come out here, all alone?” Frank had to ask, working to keep his gaze on her pretty face. What kind of foolish friends did she have?

“Of course not. But we only went a block when Betsy felt sick, so Jenn flagged down a cab. She told the driver to take me to the bar and then right back to our hotel, and the first part of that plan worked. But when I came out, the cab was gone,” she reported. “It was a toss up between staying there and trying to flag another while getting hit on by bozos, or walking back. I opted for walking. I attached myself to that group. They were from Ohio.”

“You just let them leave,” he pointed out, and it was weird as hell, because as he held her gaze, something shifted in his chest, something massive that hadn't moved in years.

“You know, I definitely look less like a, you know, hooker -- with my jacket on,” she told him.

“I am sorry,” he said again, “that I said what I said...”

“You reminded me of my best friend’s cousin,” she said. “Billy. When you walked up, for a second I thought you were him. Which didn’t make sense, but... He was Marine Recon. What are you? Navy, right?”

How the hell did she know? None of his tattoos showed.

She pointed to his dive watch. “I used to work for a catalogue company, and we sold much cheaper versions. Lots of knock-off K-bar knives, too. And chain mail. You ever need chain mail, I can hook you up with a supplier.”

Frank laughed at that. “Thanks.” Chain mail. “I probably won’t...” He shook his head.

“You never know,” she said, a sparkle in her eyes. Sparkle and spark.

“I pretty much do.” He smiled back. And had to ask. “So, you and, uh, Billy, um...?”

“A thing of the past,” she informed him. “And yes, it was tragic. He broke my heart -- he went and married someone else. Of course, I was twelve, so within a week I’d moved on to Chandler from Friends.”

From his storefront stage, the singer went smoothly into an old Elvis song. Love Me Tender. Another of Frank's mother's favorites.

“How long have you been out of the service?” the woman asked, but didn’t wait for him to answer. She somehow managed to read his eyes or maybe his mind. “You’re not out – you’re still in.”

Frank nodded. “You really should’ve stayed with that group from Ohio.”

“And missed the chance to be mistaken for a lady of the evening?”

“What if I was dangerous?” he asked, and there it was again. That spark of heat between them.

“Why Amazing Grace?” she countered.

Frank just looked at her, using silence to let her know that he wasn't going to let her change the subject. Damn, but she was pretty, with those dark brown eyes that shone with intelligence, even though she'd clearly had too much to drink.

But she met his gaze steadily, refusing to be intimidated, just letting the singer's beautiful voice wash over them.

Crazy for crying and crazy for trying...

Finally, he spoke. "Got a thing for livin' dangerously?" he drawled, purposely leaning heavily on his accent. But even though her cheeks again flushed, this time she didn't look away.

"Actually, no," she admitted. "I've always been careful. Sometimes too careful, I think."

Frank had always scoffed at the idea of love at first sight. How stupid was that? Giving your heart based only on the way a woman looked, without getting to know her...? But as he held this girl's gaze, he felt that same seismic shift in his chest that he'd felt before. "No such thing as too careful."

"Yeah," she said, dead serious. "There is. If I'd left with the Ohio squad, I would've regretted it. Badly. Maybe I'm crazy, but when I saw you..." Her voice trailed off, and she finally looked away. Laughed. "I am crazy. I must be. I just... I didn't want to regret not meeting you. Your turn to embarrass yourself. Why Amazing Grace?"

"My mother passed last spring." The words left his mouth as if on their own volition. What the hell...? There were members of his SEAL team whom he hadn't yet told of her death, and here he was, telling this stranger.

A stranger who just looked him in the eye and admitted that she was willing to risk her own personal safety just to meet him.

Like he was something special, like she'd seen his aura or some kind of halo hanging over his head.

Right.

My mother passed last spring, really wasn't a complete answer to Why Amazing Grace? but somehow she understood. Completely.

"Oh, wow," she said, her eyes sympathetic. "Happy Thanksgiving, huh? It must've been such a hard day for you."

Frank felt himself nod. Whatever it was that had shifted in his chest had moved to his throat. He tried to swallow it back down, but it was lodged there.

She put her hand on his arm, her fingers cool and soft against his skin. "I'm so sorry."

She meant it. Frank didn't know what to say.

Across the street, the singer finished his song. He started packing up his box. "Sorry, folks. Gotta run. Shelter starts filling this time of night, weather like this. If I wait too long, I won't get a bed."

Frank hadn't noticed until now, but it had started, again, to rain. It was coming down faster now. Harder.

The singer clutched his box to his chest. "Rosie, can I walk you to your hotel?" he asked.

Rosie. She only glanced briefly away from Frank as she answered the man. "No thanks, Odell. I'm okay."

The singer -- Odell -- still didn't trust Frank, eyeing him, edging closer, as if he could do some serious damage to the SEAL, who had way more than a hundred pounds on him. "You sure?"

"Yes." Rosie was sure.

And as the skies opened up, Odell was gone.

Rosie looked up into the deluge and just laughed. She must've been even more drunk than Frank had thought, so he grabbed her by the hand and pulled her, and together they ran for shelter.

It was pointless -- they were already soaked -- running wouldn't keep them from getting any more wet. Still, the sound of her laughter made him smile, and -- go figure -- he was laughing, too, when she finally pulled him into a narrow doorway.

She was breathless and soaked. Her face wasn't all that was glistening wet, but her smile was so damn infectious as they stood there, squeezed together in a space where he'd have barely fit on his own. She was warm and soft against him, the neckline of that clingy top truly amazing from his vantage point.

"This seems like a good time for introductions," she told him. "I'm Rosie Marchado. I'm from Hartford. In Connecticut."

"Frank O'Leary," he said. He couldn't look down into her face without getting an eyeful of her sonnet-worthy cleavage. Sweet Jesus, he loved full-figured women.

"Do you want to..." she started, then stopped. She made an embarrassed face. "God, I've never done this before. You're going to think that I'm..." She took a deep breath, which completely renewed his faith in a higher power. "I really never, ever do this, but do you want to..."

She didn't hesitate for more than a second or two, but that was all the time Frank needed to fill in the blank.

Have sex, right here in this shadowy doorway. He would kiss her, his hands sweeping her skirt up, her leg wrapping around him as they strained to get closer, even closer....

She was going to ask him for it, and he was going to have to turn her down because she was drunk, except, damn, he couldn't think of anything or anyone he'd rather do.

But then she finished her question with, "Maybe go get some coffee? With me?"

At first her words just didn't make sense.

She wanted hot, steaming...

Coffee.

She was looking up at him, her lower lip caught between her perfect teeth. She was feeling trepidation both at the fact that she'd been so bold as to suggest to a near stranger that they go get coffee, and because she thought he might actually say no.

Frank started to laugh. "I know a place we can go." He took her by the hand, and once again pulled her out with him, into the rain.

* * * * *

They talked. All night.

And by the time Frank walked Rosie back to her hotel in the French Quarter, he knew that even though she'd given him her phone number -- in Harford Freakin' Connecticut -- he wasn't going to call her.

He liked her too damn much.

She'd told him about her fiancé. Ex- fiancé. The sumbitch had dumped her two months before their wedding because -- the asshole had claimed -- that their lives together would be too boring.

Boring? In what dimension? She was funny and sweet and smart and -- God damn! -- sexy as all get out. The entire time they sat there, sipping their coffee and talking themselves hoarse, he couldn't stop thinking about how perfect and soft her lips would feel if he kissed her.

But when he'd told her -- just a little -- about being a SEAL, about being stationed in San Diego, about going TDY in places where American service persons weren't exactly welcome, Frank knew that even though she claimed to be looking for excitement, hooking up with a man like him, who risked his life as a matter of course, would be too much for her.

Oh, she didn't say it in so many words. And, in fact, it was just after that that she'd given him her business card with her personal phone number in curvy handwriting on the back.

But Hartford to San Diego ...? The sheer distance alone howled of unpreventable disaster.

And now here they were, with dawn lighting the sky behind them. Standing just outside of the ornate gilded doors of her hotel.

"So," Rosie said.

Yeah. So. Her flight home wasn't until that evening. She didn't have to run upstairs to pack. Not right away.

But she was tired. He might've been used to going without sleep for long periods of time, but she was unable to hide her obvious fatigue.

Still, she didn't move any closer to that fancy door.

She was looking, too, as if she wanted something more from him than a handshake and a "nice to meet you.

But no way was he kissing her. No way was he stepping hip deep into that temptation. Except, damn, he wanted to, and he knew she knew because he could not, for the life of him, stop staring at her mouth.

"Do you want," she started, and he knew she wasn't going to invite him to her room -- she had roommates. That just wasn't going to happen. Not tonight.

Not ever.

"I better go." He cut her off, unwilling or maybe just plain unable to turn down whatever she was about to offer.

But she spoke over him. "To meet for a late lunch?"

"I can't," he said. It wasn't a lie. "My flight's at oh-eight-thirty."

"Oh," she said. "Wow. You better..."

"Go," he agreed, yet still stood there, like a fool. Wishing for things he couldn't have. Knowing that he had to turn and walk away. He had to go back to the Sheraton and pack -- and toss her business card into the trash can under the bathroom counter.

"I know you aren't going to call me," she said softly. "It's okay. Don't feel bad. I know that... Well, maybe in another lifetime, you know? I just... I loved last night. I loved meeting you."

She touched him, only briefly, her fingers cool against his face, and then she was gone, the gilded door shutting silently behind her.

WHEN FRANK MET ROSIE PART THREE