Ben's Wife

by Charlotte Douglas

  Reassured by Harper’s endorsement of Josh, Morgan folded the garment, tucked it next to the door and snuggled against it. Enveloped by the jacket’s aroma of leather and Josh’s soap, she drifted off to sleep.

  MORGAN AWOKE when the car stopped before the soaring gates of Ben’s waterfront estate.

  “Sleep well?” Josh asked.

  Yawning and stretching, she observed the delicate coral light playing on the high brick wall, the cool dawn breeze ruffling the leaves and the violet dome of sky above the gray slate roof of the house. She looked anywhere but at Josh to hide her pleasure at waking up to his heart-stopping smile.

  “What time is it?”

  “Almost six.” Josh rolled down his window and punched a code into the security system panel beside the drive.

  “It took six hours to drive thirty miles from Tampa?” Her sleepiness vanished.

  He shrugged. “I wanted to be sure we weren’t being tailed. I traveled south past Sarasota, then circled back over the Skyway Bridge.”

  An electronic hum sounded, followed by an audible click, and the gates swung wide in a slow arc. As Josh drove through, Morgan relaxed, safe again in Ben’s haven on the bluff above the Gulf of Mexico. Formidable ten-foot brick walls, softened with tropical greenery, surrounded the grounds. The wrought-iron gates provided the only access to the multiacre estate. Lashner would need a small army to breach Ben’s barricades.

  She climbed out of Josh’s ancient car on wobbly legs and surveyed the house, a Norman chateau set incongruously on Florida’s gulf coast. Bougainvillea twined around twin turrets that flanked the main house, and the prolific vines, heavy with magenta blossoms, covered the front walls and clambered onto the high-pitched roof.

  Taking three steps to Josh’s one, she approached the double oak doors of the front entrance. Josh raised his hand, but the doors opened before he could knock.

  Harper, his impressive six-foot-six bulk immaculately attired in a dark blue suit and tie, greeted her with a neutral expression that looked carved from honey-colored wood. “Welcome home, Mrs. Wells. Good morning, sir.”

  Accompanied by Josh, she stepped past Harper into the entry. Her vision adjusted slowly to the dimness of the dark-paneled entrance hall with its wide, soaring staircase, and her footsteps echoed against the terra-cotta tiles.

  Harper preceded them and flung open double doors opposite the entrance. Daylight flooded the foyer, blinding her as it had a week ago when she first met Ben Wells. With Josh at her elbow, she entered the airy living room with its western expanse of glass walls offering a panoramic view of the terrace and gardens, distant sand dunes fringed with sea oats, and finally the shining waters of the gulf. Several glass panels had been rolled into their wall recesses, and draperies of English chintz billowed in the sea air.

  “Mrs. Denny,” Harper said, “is preparing your breakfast.”

  Morgan nodded. Everything, the overstuffed furniture in rose-patterned chintz, the vases of fresh flowers, the subdued colors of the Aubusson carpets, appeared normal. But something was—different. Her nerves tingled with alarm.

  Something was wrong.

  “Is Ben awake?” she asked.

  “No, madam, Mr. Wells is sleeping in this morning.”

  She would have accepted his statement if she hadn’t detected the peculiar glance that passed between Josh and Harper. Anxiety ballooned in her chest.

  Before either man could stop her, she rushed to the far end of the room and flung open the door to the guest wing, which Ben had appropriated for easy wheelchair access after the accident. In the massive bedroom, sunlight streamed past open draperies, illuminating the brocade coverlet of the empty bed, and the motorized wheelchair, also empty. The door to the adjoining bath stood open. It, too, was empty.

  Tears stung her eyes. She spun back toward the door, where Josh and Harper blocked the way.

  “He isn’t—” She couldn’t say the word. “His injuries didn’t—”

  “Mr. Wells,” Harper said, “is alive and well.”

  Relief rushed through her, but suspicion came hard on its heels. “Then, where is he?”

  Harper observed her with his usual immobile expression, but Josh’s face reflected guilt, discomfort and another emotion she couldn’t name.

  The aura of safety that had surrounded her since entering the gates evaporated like mist beneath a hot sun. Ben, her protector, was gone, and the pair who might have conspired against him stood between her and her only route of escape.

  Almost crippled by terror, she refused to give them the satisfaction of knowing they’d frightened her. She balled her hands on her hips, lifted her chin in defiance and stared straight into Josh’s deceitful brown eyes.

  “Where’s Ben?” Anger blistered her voice. “What have you done with my husband?”

  “What have I done?” Josh rolled his gaze skyward, spread his hands and shook his head. “Why are you asking me? I’ve been with you all night, remember?”

  He turned to Ben’s bulky manservant. “Where is he, Harper?”

  The valet’s inscrutable countenance melted into an expression of bewilderment. “Mr. Wells—”

  “Never mind,” Josh said. “You’re a man of few words under the best of circumstances, and you’ve already been up all night. Go on to bed, and I’ll fetch Mrs. Denny to explain.”

  Before Morgan could object, Josh was striding toward the kitchen wing.

  Harper’s emotionless mask was back in place. “If there’s nothing else, Mrs. Wells—”

  “No, thank you, Harper.” She dismissed him with a tired wave.

  He executed a dignified semibow and withdrew.

  Certain something was out of sync but unable to put her finger on it, Morgan wandered back into the living room. She longed for rest but was too agitated from unanswered questions to remain in one place. She crossed the threshold of the sliding glass doors and paced the flagstone terrace.

  Dazzling sunlight exploded like laser bursts on the gulfs gentle swells, and the calm perfection of the early morning made last night’s terror seem only a bad dream. Leaning on the stone balustrade that surrounded the terrace, she inhaled the salt air and attempted to analyze her fears.

  The tranquil setting did little to calm her jitters. She flinched as if she’d been slapped when a hand grasped her elbow.

  “Come and sit,” Josh said.

  She followed him to a table in a shaded corner. The heavy fragrance of honeysuckle vines from a nearby arbor filled the air, and her rebellious stomach lurched at their cloying sweetness.

  “Mrs. Denny is bringing breakfast,” Josh said. “She’ll explain about Ben.”

  Breakfast was the last thing Morgan wanted. Skittish with forced wakefulness and the curious excitement Josh’s presence aroused in her, she perched on the edge of a patio chair.

  Josh slipped onto a seat across from her, and while she avoided his eyes, she could feel his gaze assessing her.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “I’m fine.” Unable to target the source of her skittishness, she couldn’t have explained it, even if she’d wanted to.

  Mrs. Denny appeared with a silver coffee service. Behind her, a middle-aged maid carried a breakfast tray. The housekeeper poured their coffee in silence while the maid arranged plates and silverware, bowls of sliced melon and a basket of miniature blueberry crumb cakes on the linen-draped table.

  After the maid left, Mrs. Denny spoke. “You are not to worry about Mr. Wells, ma’am. He has checked into the hospital for more tests—”

  “But he didn’t tell me,” Morgan protested.

  The housekeeper’s mouth flexed into a thin line of disapproval, and her gray eyes glittered like dirty ice. “Begging your pardon, ma’am, but you did not give him time to tell you anything before you left last night.”

  “Which hospital is he in?” Josh asked.

  “Only Harper knows,” Mrs. Denny replied. “Mr. Wells checked in under a false name in the middle of the night, so n
o one, except his doctor, knows who he really is. He says he is safer that way.”

  Morgan felt a stirring of fear for her protector. “Are you sure he’s there only for tests? He isn’t worse?”

  “Mr. Wells has suffered no setback,” Mrs. Denny assured her in a softer tone.

  With an odd expression, Josh continued to scrutinize Morgan. “Don’t tell me you’ve grown fond of your new husband.”

  “Of course I’m fond of him. I—” Heat rose to her face, and she changed the subject. “Can I phone him, Mrs. Denny? Did he leave a number?”

  The older woman shook her head. “He said if Mr. Josh was successful in bringing you home, he would call you later today. Now, if you have everything you need…”

  “Yes, thank you,” Morgan said.

  The housekeeper, her back ramrod straight, pivoted and marched back into the house.

  Josh drank coffee and eyed Morgan over the top of his cup. “Satisfied now?”

  “About Ben?”

  He nodded. A sliver of sunshine pierced the shade and illuminated the web of lines at the corners of his eyes. A fine white edge bordered the taut set of his mouth, and the usual bronze cast of his tan had paled. He was as worn-out as she was.

  Embarrassment stung her. He had risked his life to save her, been up all night, and she had thanked him by accusing him of kidnapping Ben.

  But she couldn’t conquer her distrust. Something about Josh continually stirred her suspicions as well as her senses. As weary as he appeared, he remained cautious and aloof, as if he guarded secrets no one else could share. He had refused to divulge his last name. What else was he hiding?

  “Why do you do this?” she asked.

  “This?”

  “Work for Ben.”

  He inclined his head toward her plate. “You’re not eating.”

  Automatically she selected a cake from the basket and placed it on her plate. “Is it the money?”

  “I wouldn’t relish this particular assignment for any amount of money,” he said with a grimace of distaste, “although Ben always pays well.”

  She forced a smile and tried not to take his rejection personally. “Is it the danger you find attractive?”

  “No, not the danger.”

  His eyes, a honey brown flecked with the gold of reflected sunlight, probed hers, and she experienced the ridiculous whimsy that she could tumble into their depths and fall forever without hitting bottom.

  Fidgeting beneath his concentrated gaze, she grasped her fork and picked at her crumb cake. “It’s none of my business—”

  “Since my job involves protecting you, you have every right to ask.” His voice was warm. Turning away, he stared across the gardens toward the gulf and displayed the stunning profile that had impressed her the night they met.

  His words indicated a willingness to respond to her queries, but his detached demeanor emitted the reticence she had come to expect. She was too tired to attempt to drag answers from him now.

  Exhaustion, grief, concern for Ben, memories of last night’s terror at the airport and a primal attraction to the enigmatic man across the table converged in a wave of vertigo. She clasped the fine china cup with both hands and gulped hot black coffee, which hit her roiling stomach like molten lava.

  Josh rose to his feet with a sluggishness that proclaimed his weariness. Leaning across the table, he traced the curve of her cheek with his finger. “Get some sleep. When we meet tonight, I’ll answer your questions.”

  He turned to leave, and his leather jacket fell open. Below his right collarbone, a dark, spreading stain soaked the front of his chambray shirt.

  He was bleeding.

  Fatigue forgotten, she jumped from her chair and rushed to him. “You’re hurt!”

  “What?”

  “There—” she shoved aside his jacket “—you’re bleeding.”

  He glanced at the bloodstain without surprise. “Lashner’s creep must have nicked me with his knife when we struggled in the parking garage.”

  He flashed her a self-deprecating smile, as if being knifed was an unremarkable occurrence, and once more turned to go.

  “Shouldn’t you take care of that?” She grabbed his arm. “I could clean and bandage—”

  “I’ll see to it.” He spoke with unfamiliar sharpness, wrenched from her grasp and strode away across the terrace.

  When he reached the living room, he didn’t turn to say goodbye.

  WHEN MORGAN AWAKENED later that day, she threw back the coverlet and slipped from the queen-size bed. Her luggage, delivered by the airline, sat on a blanket chest at the foot of the four-poster.

  She drew open pale rose draperies and stepped through French doors onto a broad balcony that faced the gulf. The sun neared the horizon and colored clouds and surf with amazing tropical hues of tangerine, mango and papaya.

  Sunset.

  She had slept more than ten hours.

  A freshening wind whipped her thin cotton gown and drove away the last dregs of sleep. Her body felt rested, but her spirit struggled with the same burden of questions and emotions she had carried to bed.

  Abandoning the balcony, she surveyed the enormous bedroom that had been hers since her arrival more than a week ago. She could fit her entire Memphis apartment between its walls. Her little place in Tennessee seemed a million miles and a hundred years away.

  Had it really been less than two weeks since her father’s funeral? She fought back tears, remembering the man who had been both mother and father after her mom had died of breast cancer when Morgan was fifteen.

  Sinking onto the edge of the bed, she buried her face in her hands. In the past ten years, she had spent only summer and Christmas holidays with her father, believing they had a lifetime ahead to enjoy more time with each other.

  Now Robert Lashner had murdered him and stolen all their days together. Frank Winters would never walk his daughter down the aisle, hold his first grandchild, enjoy the well-earned retirement he had saved for all his life.

  Anger crowded out her grief and overran fear. Since the attack at the airport, she had abandoned the idea that she could simply walk away from Lashner. Motivations jammed her mind, bunching and overlapping. She attempted to arrange them by priority, but they were so intertwined, sorting seemed futile. If anyone were to ask why she wanted to fight Lashner and prove his guilt, her answer had to be threefold: to avenge her father, to stay alive and to make certain Lashner, either through his assassins or his misuse of her father’s discovery, didn’t murder anyone else.

  Working with Josh made her uneasy, but if helping him was the only way to bring Robert Lashner to justice, she would do whatever he asked.

  Tonight she would meet with Josh again. This time she would agree to his plan.

  Chapter Four

  “I haven’t picked so much shrapnel out of one man since Vietnam,” Dr. Tom Hendrix, Ben’s longtime friend and physician, stood by the hospital room window, shaking his head at his patient.

  “I feel like I’ve been to war,” Ben admitted.

  “You were lucky to survive that explosion, but that doesn’t mean you’re out of the woods. Bust that wound open again and you could bleed to death.”

  Ben smiled at his friend’s ferocity but said nothing. After Tom’s intensive tests and treatments, talking hurt.

  “Go home to bed,” Tom said, “and stay in bed until that wound is completely healed.”

  “Can’t do that. I have too much to do.”

  The doctor with the build of a marine and the bedside manner of a porcupine uttered a disparaging noise, somewhere between a growl and a snort. “Then you can add burial plans to your to-do list, because if you don’t take better care of yourself, you’ll be the star attraction at a funeral.”

  Ben swung his legs to the side of the bed, taking care not to flinch at the pain, shrugged into his shirt and began fastening buttons. “I’m counting on you to keep me going.”

  “In the immortal words of Bones McCoy, I’m a doctor, not a
magician.” Tom raked his fingers through his shaggy gray mane. “Why are you so intent on making that new wife of yours a widow?”

  Ben failed to suppress a wince as the shirt rubbed his bandages. “Frank Winters was your friend, too, Tom.”

  Memories of Frank deluged Ben. Long, lazy evenings of chess, congenial conversation, imported beer. Grueling, sweaty racquetball duels. Frank’s astute counsel over problems at Chemco, and his warm, gut-deep laugh, often at himself as the butt of his own jokes.

  Frank had treated him like a son, had even tried to include him in family celebrations when Morgan came to visit, but Ben had always declined, reluctant to intrude. If he’d known how Morgan would affect him, he would have accepted Frank’s invitations years ago.

  Now Frank was gone.

  Forever.

  “I’ve told you Frank’s death was no accident,” Ben said. “If I can’t prove Robert Lashner’s behind it, Morgan and I both will die, no matter how much care I take.”

  Tom perched on the broad windowsill and crossed his arms over his white coat.. “You’re still convinced the police can’t handle this?”

  “Lashner leaves his dirty work to hired thugs, and I want Lashner to be the one to pay. When I have evidence that ties him directly to Frank’s death, then I’ll go to the police.”

  “And in the meantime?”

  “I’m not in this alone. And I’ll rest as much as I can.”

  Tom’s mournful expression brightened. “I met Frank’s daughter at the funeral. She’s a knockout.”

  “I won’t argue with that.” Ben gingerly tugged on a pair of chinos and tucked in his shirt.

  “I guess I should be thankful your marriage is a sham.” Tom’s vivid eyes flashed above his leering grin, and he wiggled his thick brows. “If you were a bona fide newlywed, you’d be overexerting yourself day and night and wouldn’t live out the week.”

  Ben laughed, and the action skewered him with fresh agony. “You’re not a doctor, Tom, you’re a dirty old man. Now, get out of here so I can call Morgan and tell her my tests came out fine.”