Free Malcolm and Ives 02 - Trouble With Air and Magic by Patricia Rice Page B

house. Just park in their drive.” He nodded at a bungalow with a For Sale sign in the yard.
    To Dorrie, that was trespassing, but she needed out of this tiny car brimming with too much attractive male and too many unanswered questions. They’d both suffered tragedies in their lives. Were they simply fighting the fact that they’d shared another?
    She parked and checked to see that Toto was sleeping as she climbed out. The day was cool. If she left her windows open a bit, he’d be fine for a few minutes.
    Conan unfolded his tall frame from her tiny car and strode beside her like a badly-dressed security guard.
    If she had the time, she’d like to learn more about a man who lived in a luxury mansion but who seemed equally comfortable in suburbia, one who’d lost his mother young and his father too soon. But she didn’t have time. Her list of responsibilities was too daunting.
    Before she could knock on the aluminum screen door, it flew open, and a colt-legged young girl raced out, followed by two shaggy-haired younger boys. Dorrie jumped backward to avoid collision. The kids didn’t appear to notice. They flew like a flock of panicked birds into a neighbor’s yard and behind the house, out of sight.
    “I could catch them,” Conan said, taking off his sunglasses and following their flight, “but do I want to?”
    Looking harried, Amy Franklin appeared in the doorway in time to catch his words. In exasperation, she swept a straying golden-brown curl from her face and shook her head. “No, they will go to ground like rabbits. Take them. They’re all yours.”
    She slammed the door in their faces.

Chapter 7
    “ Foxes go to ground,” Conan ruminated, following Dorrie around the house to the back. It was easier to ponder semantics than what the hell they were doing here. “Rabbits freeze like possums. That bunch strikes me as wilier than stupid rabbits.”
    “Shut up, Oswin,” his companion muttered, peering over a battered wooden fence. “They think spies stole their father and you might be one of them.”
    “Do I look like a spy?” he asked indignantly, glancing down at the designer jeans some girlfriend had persuaded him to pay a few hundred bucks for. Had to be the stupid blazer. Or maybe the shades.
    “Yup. They’re kids. You’re an adult and a stranger. That’s all it takes. Don’t you remember what it was like to lose a parent and have your whole life turned upside down?”
    Conan supposed he might, if he thought about it, but ancient history was irrelevant. He considered all kids little better than gerbils that belonged in a cage—cute to watch but useless. He’d accompanied dotty Dorothea because he didn’t want her tires slashed again, and he really needed to keep an eye on her until he figured her out. And probably because he was hoping to get into her pants. He had not hired on to talk to kids. He had no magic wand to produce them from hiding.
    But he did speak their language. “McDonalds,” he shouted over the fence. “Big Macs all around.”
    He shoved his hands in his pockets and raised his eyebrows when Dorrie shot him a sharp look. What was there to say? Even Oz’s pipsqueak adored Big Macs, much to the dismay of his vegetarian stepmother. Conan knew how food worked.
    While Dorrie reassured the kids that he wasn’t a big bad meanie, Conan moved on to the next problem—they wouldn’t easily fit three kids and a dog in the backseat of a Prius if he meant to keep his promise about Big Macs.
    Heeding instinct, he left Dorrie persuading the kids out of hiding while he jogged back to the street, just in time to catch some junior car thief testing his limited skills. “Amscray!” Conan shouted, figuring that sounded assertive enough not to need translation.
    He didn’t bother chasing the skinny kid, just sauntered toward him as if he might be concealing a big bat in his pocket. The kid scrammed. Who needed muscle? It was all in the attitude. Well, size might have influence as