Found: One Marriage

by Laura Parker

  “Where are you staying?”

  He saw the light go out of her eyes but she didn’t protest this time. “A motel on 1-20.”

  “You left your things there?”

  She only nodded but he felt her draw even further into herself.

  “They should be safe.” He shrugged and left the room.

  When he returned a few minutes later with a pillow, sheet, and blanket in hand, she was standing by the open door, gazing out through the screen.

  She looked so remote, so lonely, so lost standing there with her back to him, her elbows cupped in her palms and her legs crossed at the ankles. Looking at her he could almost believe she felt all alone in the world.

  He knew about loneliness, knew what it felt to be so alone that he wanted to stretch his neck and howl like a dog at the moon. So lonely that his stomach clenched and his eyes ached and the blood inside his veins whispered his isolation to the night. But if she felt that way, for whatever reason, it was her own doing.

  He dumped the bundle of linens onto the sofa. “Lock up when you’re done.”

  She started at the sound of his voice. Her skittishness was beginning to affect him. His stomach quivered as she glanced at the bedding and then at him, a smile of gratitude brightening the shadowy places in her eyes. “I thought—”

  He shrugged off the impulse to smile back. “If anything you’ve said is true, it will keep until morning.”

  She came toward him, reaching out to touch his arm before the coldness in his gaze made her it draw back. “Thank you.”

  Joe turned away without any offer to help her make up the sofa or even a good-night.

  He had every right to be angry and defensive and resentful. He didn’t want her to touch him again, not for any reason. It made him feel things he was better off not feeling. But as he closed the door to his bedroom, his heart felt a little lighter than it had in a long time. It couldn’t be Halle’s presence. Could it?

  Strange, that he should feel comforted by her presence. But then, nothing about them had ever made sense.

  Chapter 4

  “Halle. Halle? Halle Hayworth. Hi, Halle!”

  Halle stared at her face in the bathroom mirror as she tried different inflections of the name—her name. She watched the mirrored mouth, wide and generously lipped, slowly form the syllables. “Hal-lee.”

  It wasn’t the kind of name that would inspire nicknames. She suspected that anyone named Halle would always be called Halle and nothing else. So why,. then, didn’t the name sound even the least bit familiar?

  She concentrated on her reflection. Average nose, straight but not prominent with an abrupt almost chipped tip. Oval face, average chin, no dimples, no scars if one discounted the bruise fading at her right temple. She was not a raging beauty but neither was she plain. She supposed she would be thought in the middle somewhere; attractive.

  Only her large almond-shaped amber eyes with veins of celadon radiating out from the center were vaguely familiar. More than likely that was because she had stared into them often enough this last week, like a newly hatched duckling imprinting on her only friend-herself.

  She continued staring a moment longer, as if she might discover some revealing shadow, freckle or expression she hadn’t noticed before. Her arched brows were a shade lighter than her mahogany tresses. That struck her as odd. But this time she noticed that her hairline seemed to be disappearing. Well, not disappearing exactly but lifting.

  She leaned forward until she was practically nose to glass then combed her fingers through the just-shampooed hair at her hairline.

  “It’s blonde!” she whispered. There was no mistaking it: the new growth was definitely much lighter than the rest. What blonde would dye her hair darker? Unless, she didn’t want to be recognized. Goose bumps rose upon her skin.

  “You planning to spend the day in there?” Several heavy thumps on the bathroom door accompanied the shout.

  Halle jumped and spun around at the same time, knocking the plastic toothbrush holder into the sink. It clattered against the porcelain, making an awful racket.

  “You okay?” demanded the masculine voice on the other side of the door.

  “Yes, fine. Nothing broken,” she added in afterthought.

  As she scooped up the container and placed it back on the sink rim she decided that her adrenal system would soon need an overhaul if she didn’t stop jumping at every unexpected sound.

  Yet it was more than Joe Guinn’s bombastic tone that made her nervous this morning. It was his voice. The moment she’d heard his voice the night before it’s edgy quality had struck a responsive cord in her.

  “But of course, it should,” she murmured. After all, he knew her. She was the only defective personality operating beneath this roof.

  Rattled by that thought, she stripped off the towel she had wrapped herself in after her shower. As she did so she spared the towel bar a rueful glance. Her rinsed out underthings should have dried overnight. They hadn’t. After a moment’s debate over the discomfort of wearing damp clothing, she simply slipped back into the blouse and skirt in which she had slept. The clothes weren’t hers but had been given to her by a friendly hospital pink lady. She would have nothing of her own until she could pick up her suitcase from the sheriff’s office where all unclaimed baggage from the accident was being kept.

  When she opened the bathroom door a minute later, Joe was lounging against the opposite wall, his thumbs hooked into the belt loops of his jeans.

  Though his face was lost in the shadow, a slat of early morning sunlight had partially wedged its way into the hallway. It contoured the planes of his chest and abdomen in golden light. Even at rest the heat and energy of his body was a palpable presence. She suspected he had pulled on jeans as a begrudging concession to her presence because they weren’t snapped and only half zipped. Provocation or arrogance?

  Like an unexpected breeze on a sultry summer day, a sense of familiarity again brushed her consciousness. Was it possible she remembered his body?

  Startled by the thought she followed the narrow path of sleek black hair arrowing from his rugged chest down past his navel as if it were the path to knowledge. It led instead into the V of his fly which the weight of his hands had dragged open to near indecent dimensions. Again tantalizing hints of lost memory shifted beneath the veil of her conscious thought. Just how well had she known this man?

  “Don’t get too worked up, sugar. I’m not making you an offer.”

  The rude remark spurred her gaze to make the short trip back to his face where his hooded dark eyes of fered no possibility that his words had been said in jest.

  “I didn’t mean to stare,” she began coolly. “It’s just that I can’t remember...” She cut that off immediately. The excuse that she was only trying to determine if she’d ever seen his body before didn’t seem a good idea. How could she possibly think she remembered the pattern of body hair swirling about his navel when she didn’t even recognize his face?

  For a moment longer they regarded one another in wary silence. Only now did it occur to her how odd her behavior must seem to him. The night before she had felt perfectly safe in this house. She had wanted to throw her arms about him in thanksgiving for allowing her to stay. This morning, the idea that he knew her when she didn’t know him made her very uneasy. What on earth had she been thinking to beg a night beneath a strange man’s roof? So far, he had behaved with perfect decency if not good grace. Did he dislike her, or was that only her imagination working overtime ? She couldn’t simply ask him, not when he was scowling at her as if he suspected she had used up all the hot water.

  “The water’s nice and hot,” she said defensively.

  “Then why don’t you move aside so I can make use of it?”

  His hand shot out and caught her by the elbow as she quickly sidestepped away. “Stop jumping every time I speak to you!” he growled. “You’re giving me the heebie-jeebies.”

  “Sorry,” she murmured and looked up at him f
rom a much closer angle. Beneath the jut of dark brows his molasses-dark eyes revealed nothing. She felt no corresponding sense of recognition like the night before, no hint of familiarity. This morning, nothing about Joe Guinn’s gaze connected in her synapses.

  Disappointed, she looked away. Her confused brain was about as useful as a bowl of scrambled eggs.

  When he released her, she brushed hurriedly past him down the narrow hall. At the end of the hall she glanced back. He hadn’t entered the bathroom but was watching her with a more sullen look than before. Embarrassed to have been caught stealing yet another glance at him, she turned and moved into the living room.

  Joe scowled as he watched her retreat. The urge was strong to go after her, grab her from behind, and boot her out on his porch. He must have been closer to being drunk the night before than he had thought. It was the only explanation he could think of for why he had allowed her to stay beneath his roof.

  It was bad enough he had tossed and turned all night, unable to settle into anything like sleep while she occupied a room in his house. He should never have kissed her. Even though he had brushed his teeth before going to bed, he would swear he could still taste her. Now this morning he’d had to lie in bed and listen to her humming to herself on the other side of the wall while she took a long hot shower in his bathroom, using his soap, and his towels. Torture. Pure torture.

  That’s when he had decided to teach her a lesson in provocation. He had set out to be deliberately vulgar, daring her to check out what his zipper barely kept hidden. Wrong move. She had stared at his crotch as if he were a prize stud bull on fair day. To his chagrin, he had become excited under her gaze. Dammit! She was like an itch he couldn’t scratch. She had to go.

  Annoyed with himself, he turned and entered the bathroom. The first thing he spied were her panties, pale pink satin trimmed in lace, hanging on the bar by the door. The second thing he noticed was her bra. It was lying on the floor.

  He picked it up. Halle had a healthy chest, as his father had liked to describe a well-endowed woman. He stuck his fist into the damp half-moon cup and grinned in spite of himself. This bit of elastic and lace wouldn’t cover much. It was mostly lace and mostly for show. Too bad she wasn’t flat-chested and skinnyshanked. It might have made keeping his mind off her easier.

  Hell! Who was he kidding? His passion for Halle had never had much to do with body parts. Not that she didn’t have lovely breasts and a rear end ripe enough for his every fantasy; it was just that those attributes weren’t separate in his mind from the woman herself. Never had been. He had fallen in love with everything about Halle Hayworth, a woman greater than the sum of her parts.

  From the day they married Halle had been forever draping their tiny Manhattan studio apartment with assorted articles of feminine clothing; panties, panty hose, garter belts, slips, teddies, bustiers and more. He’d liked the feeling of having gained access to his very own harem. Had liked her in that lingerie and out of it. But that was another life.

  “Women,” he muttered and slung the bra across the nearby towel bar. Come to think of it, if her bra and her panties were in here that meant she wasn’t wearing —

  He quickly twisted the knobs in the tub until the water beat down like bullets and steam rose as if in a sauna. He knew better than to let his thoughts linger on the fact that Halle was sitting in his living room wearing nothing under her blouse and skirt.

  Yet, as he stepped into the shower and water sluiced down his body he couldn’t block the sudden erotic image of her standing naked and wet in this very spot just minutes earlier. Steamy thoughts fogged his mind like mist on the bathroom mirror. She still sang offkey. Aretha Franklin, she was not. Yet he liked it because her singing reminded him of the times when he would slip in with her and—

  “Cut it out!” he muttered to himself. Forgetting her was going to take work.

  He banned all thoughts of her while he toweled off. Even so, his body tinged with latent desire. He didn’t let himself think about her while he shaved but he still managed to nick himself. He didn’t even glance down the hallway as he crossed back to his bedroom.

  By the time he began dressing he actually found other things occupying his mind. For instance, how he was going to tackle the McCrea case. He had looked at his accumulated bills last night and knew how badly he needed the job.

  He reluctantly pulled a charcoal dress shirt with a cream pinstripe from his closet. After a moment’s consideration of a fresh pair of jeans, he reached instead for the charcoal gray slacks he hadn’t worn for nearly two years.

  Thoughts of Halle slipped in under his guard. She had bought the slacks, the shirt as well, saying he needed to augment his wardrobe which had consisted before their marriage of regulation blues or T-shirts and jeans. Casual chic, she had called the additions.

  He’d need every ounce of his dubious charm as he went to talk to the McCreas this morning. After that, he would go by Lauren’s house and thank her personally for the birthday cake. Last night had proved one thing. He needed in the worst way to get on with his own life.

  He was still tucking his shirttail into the back of his pants when he came out of the bedroom.

  “You look nice.”

  His head jerked up. He saw her gaze travel over his shirt and slacks and then to his clean-shaven face and combed hair. Her approval rankled as did everything about her. “Let me guess. You were expecting the local private investigator to be a potbellied burnout whose only exercise consisted of hoisting a can of beer.” He patted his flat belly. “Sorry to disappoint.”

  She rose from the sofa. The sunlight slipping into the room through the window beyond backlit her. The shadow of long slender legs reminded him that she was naked beneath that flimsy material. He looked away. “You might want to collect your lingerie before you leave.”

  “Sorry, I’d thought they’d dry overnight.” She looked right and left, anywhere but at him. “I assume you have a dryer?”

  “I use the laundry in town.” He scowled in her general direction. “You want me to drop them off on my way in?”

  “I don’t think that will be necessary,” she replied primly. “I’ll just hang them outside to dry.”

  Joe shook his head. “Don’t have time for that. I’ve got a business appointment in about—” he checked his watch and though it said 6:45 and he knew Mr. McCrea wouldn’t be expecting him a minute before nine he said “—twenty minutes.”

  “I hope that means you’re going to check out my story.”

  Another head shake. “I’ve got real business, paying business, to attend to.”

  “I’m paying business,” Halle maintained in a level voice. She had succumbed to hysterics enough to last her a while. “You know I can afford it.”

  He shrugged, his gaze rising no higher than her chin. “Not interested.”

  Halle made herself calmly survey him. For the first time she could see all of his face. It was rugged, arresting and downright handsome even if the contours were stiffened by disapproval. His mouth was a hard unfriendly slash. There was an old sickle-shaped scar on his chin and another above his brow. The scars bothered her. Were they badges of a violent nature or had he gotten them falling off a bike, a rock, playing sports?

  It didn’t matter, she reminded herself. While he had been showering, she’d had a serious talk with herself. She didn’t have to like Joe Guinn. She didn’t have to recognize him. He was her lifeline and she wasn’t going to give that up until he told her everything he knew about her or provided her with another source.

  She took a challenging step toward him. “Why aren’t you interested, Mr. Guinn? Just exactly what is it you know about me that makes you so reluctant to look me squarely in the eye?”

  He didn’t answer, just headed toward the kitchen.

  Halle made a detour before following him.

  Joe was pouring a cup of coffee when she caught up with him, coffee she had made without even asking him if it was okay. It tasted pretty good, which surp
rised Joe. She hadn’t known how to boil water when they met. Kitchen duty wasn’t what a woman like Halle learned in prep school. There had always been maids and cooks and caterers in her world.

  As she approached, he saw that she had put on her shoes and tucked her damp underwear into the side pocket of her skirt. “I’m ready,” she announced stiffly.

  He nodded slowly. “Be right with you.” He was glad she was going without further argument. He gulped down his coffee, refusing to admit that he burned himself in the process. He just had to get her out, get away, forget.

  He banged his cup on the counter, not looking her way. “A bit of friendly advice. Don’t wave that wad of hundreds under anybody else’s nose. This may not be New York but you shouldn’t sell the backwoods short. We have our share of criminals. You could end up a statistic even here.”

  “Why did you mention New York? Am I a New Yorker?”

  He turned quickly to her, crossed the three steps between them and thrust his face into hers. “Don’t push me, Halle. I didn’t ask you to come here. I don’t want you here. In fact, I don’t ever want to see you again.” He hurled the sharp words at her like a carnival knife thrower. He was so close she could see the red veining in the whites of his eyes, evidence of a bad night’s sleep.

  His hostility, which she half suspected she had fabricated in the pit of her own personal paranoiac hell, was impossible to miss this time. His anger was real, and personal and aimed point-blank at her. “What have I done to make you dislike me?”

  He snorted. “You came back into my life. Until last night you were history. I liked it better that way. Is that plain enough for you, or do you want me to go into the ugly details?”

  Halle shook her head. Suddenly she knew she couldn’t handle any more bad news before she had had a taste of the good, if there was any good in her life.

  She met his gaze. It was as hard and tense and opaque as his expression. So now she knew. They shared a history. But learning its exact nature didn’t seem nearly as important as getting out of the range of his temper.