Page 34 of Kiss of Wrath

“Who?” she demanded, her face heating with color.

Just then, Darla exclaimed, “Oh my God!” as she stared at the laptop screen, which he could not see from his position.

He was about to tell her that it was unwise to take the Lord’s name in vain, but, before he could speak, she turned to Miranda and said, “He’s former CIA and a decorated special forces hero with two tours in Afghanistan.”

“I am?” he said, then quickly amended to “I am.” He was always surprised to learn how Michael changed the vangels’ credentials with all his special connections.

“And you’re here to protect me . . . and the children?”

“Did I not say so afore?”

She bared her teeth at him, before curbing her temper.

“Did my lawyer send you? Bradley Allison? That’s it, isn’t it? Oh, the dear man!”

Mordr said nothing. Let her think her lawyer sent him. Better that than for him to mention St. Michael the Archangel.

He noticed that Darla had set aside the pistol, no longer considering him a threat. Foolish woman. He could be a villain pretending to be someone else.

Well, he was pretending to be someone else, but that was different.

“Do you have a résumé?”

“A what?”

“A résumé. You know, a summary of all your education—.”

“I never had any education. Leastways not formal schooling.”

“Your skills?”

“I can fight like a mad grizzly with his foot in a steel trap. There isn’t a weapon I can’t use and do it well. When I say I will protect someone, I will do just that. I never fail.” Except for the one time when it mattered most.

“Whoa! Someone has a high opinion of himself,” Darla commented, but she was eyeing him like a hungry bitch for the new dog in the neighborhood.

He was not interested. Not one bit. “Before this goes any further, exactly what or who would I be protecting you from? The children’s father?”

The two women nodded.

“He’s been released or about to be released,” Miranda explained.

“Has he threatened you?”

“Not lately,” Miranda admitted, “but the first year he was in jail he sent me numerous threatening letters. He blames me for keeping him in prison. For adopting his children. For not letting the children visit him while incarcerated; that was their decision, by the way. For stealing his house.”

“And you think he will come here?”

“Absolutely,” Miranda and Darla said as one.

“I’m a psychologist . . .” Miranda started to say.

Oh, wonderful! A mind doctor. Another person to pick at his brain, digging for hidden emotion.

“. . . but you don’t have to be a professional to conclude that Roger has serious emotional problems. At the least, rage issues and the need for anger management. At the worst, he’s psychotic and unable to control his impulses.”

Mordr wondered what she would think of his “rage issues.” That’s all he would need, a psychologist probing his mind, trying to discern the cause of his “problem.” Asking questions, like “Did you suck your thumb as a child?” He knew this because he watched Dr. Phil on the television when he was bored between missions. It was either that, or watch Armod’s endless Michael Jackson videos until he wanted to hurl the contents of his stomach. Even so, he saw an amusing picture in his head of Armod teaching three little trolls and two girlings how to moonwalk. If he were not so somber, he would smile at the image.

Mordr called his attention back to the present. He had to stop these mind wanderings.