Page 69 of Angel In Armani

Sara was worth getting attached to. He admired her determination to work hard and solve her own problems. He admired her guts—she’d flown in war zones, for Christ’s sake—but the fact that she was strong didn’t mean she couldn’t use a hand now and then. He could make things easier for her.

Don’t bring home strays, Lucas. He could almost hear his mother’s precise tone in his head. His parents had never understood his impulses to try to save baby birds and feed the feral cats that he’d found hiding out under one of the garden sheds any more than they’d understood his love of baseball.

Odd when his mother was so big on charity work. Though Lucas had come to think, perhaps unfairly, that his mother did charity work because it was expected and because, in the world of the Angelos, the men ran the business and the women ran the home and made sure some of the money went to good causes so that they could all sleep easier at night. It was stupid and antiquated and yet another reason why he’d run like hell into the arms of first baseball and then medicine when he’d gotten the chance to get out.

Maybe after all, it was the fact that his mom didn’t really like anything that took his attention away from the things she thought were important. Which didn’t include saving strays.

All the more reason to help Sara out. Because she wasn’t a stray. She was his. She deserved a life that wasn’t a struggle all the time.

As Sara took the plate from in front of Lucas and he smiled at her, her father pushed his chair back and rose from the table.

Lucas didn’t miss the wince that crossed his face or the unevenness of his gait as he carried the salad bowl into the kitchen, following his wife.

Beside Lucas, Sara stilled as her eyes tracked her dad’s progress.

“How recently has your dad seen his surgeon?” Lucas asked, keeping his voice soft so Sean and Liza wouldn’t hear.

“It’s been months,” Sara said. “He’s been doing physical therapy mostly.”

“And he’s not improving?”

He reached for the lasagna dish and saw Sara bite her lip.

“He was at first but he’s been like this for a while now. Though today seems like it’s a bad one.”

Lucas couldn’t argue with that diagnosis. Sean Charles was too thin for a man of his height, and there were light-gray patches in his brown hair that Lucas suspected were new. The dark circles under his eyes meant he wasn’t sleeping well. He hadn’t eaten much of his wife’s delicious lasagna but he had downed two beers. Plus another during the somewhat awkward small talk they’d all exchanged before dinner. The man was obviously in pain.

Something wasn’t right. Discomfort was to be expected from a major injury—hell, even his shoulder ached now and then when he overdid it, and that was from nearly twenty years ago—but the type of pain that required self-medicating with three beers before eight p.m. was something else. “He should go back and see his ortho guy.”

“I’ve tried to get him to,” Sara said. “But he’s worried about the money.”

“Who was his surgeon?”

“Garth Nixon. Do you know him?”

Lucas nodded. He’d met the guy a couple of times. Nixon was competent but hardly brilliant. He didn’t work at Lucas’s level. And from what Lucas had seen of Sean Charles, he hadn’t brought his A game to this particular case. “He’s good,” he said. But just good. And in Sean Charles’s case, maybe just not good enough.

“But you’re better?” Sara said softly. “Do you think you could talk to Dad, convince him to get it looked at again?”

He didn’t think Sean was ready to take any advice from him. The looks he’d been getting from the older man over dinner had confirmed his earlier suspicions. Sara’s dad wasn’t impressed with the hotshot doctor who was screwing his little girl.

Lucas couldn’t blame him for that. If he ever had a daughter, he’d probably want to wring the neck of any male who tried to put a hand on her. But Sara was looking at him with hope in those gorgeous blue eyes. So he had to try.

“I’ll try,” he said. “But if he’s as stubborn as his daughter, then I’m not making any promises.”

“Just try,” she said. She took the lasagna dish from him and balanced it on top of the stack of plates. “I’ll send him back out here.”

Sure enough, a minute or so after she disappeared into the kitchen, Sean reemerged, looking grumpy. A blue checked dish towel was flung over his shoulder. “Sara has suddenly expressed an irresistible urge to dry the dishes. I expect that means she wants us to do some bonding or something.” He looked Lucas up and down. “Come into the den, we can have another beer.”

“I wouldn’t say no,” Lucas said. He’d only had one. So another wouldn’t hurt. Manly and responsible, that was the impression he needed to give. So he would have one more beer and then switch to coffee.

Sean led the way, still limping, and Lucas studied him from behind, walking slowly to accommodate the older man’s halting walk. The den was small but Sean had managed to squeeze in two well-stuffed brown leather recliners that looked well used along with a reasonable-sized flat-screen TV. The walls were lined with photos of helicopters and grinning men who were obviously former generations of Charleses.

There were several of Sara, too, both alone and with a young guy who looked like a more rugged version of her.

He walked over and took a closer look.

“That’s my son, James,” Sean said with another wince as he lowered himself into the left-hand recliner.

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