Ben's Wife

by Charlotte Douglas

  “Why didn’t you tell me then?” She glared, unforgiving.

  “You were angry at Josh, and I wanted to convince you not to leave. If you had known Josh and I were one and the same, I would’ve had no chance of persuading you.” He dragged a chair close, sat and leaned toward her, elbows on his thighs, hands clasped between his knees.

  “But I left that night, in spite of your protests,” she said in a softer tone.

  “Yes, and too quickly for me to explain. When I rescued you at the airport, you knew me only as Josh, so I maintained the deception until I could bring you back here safely.”

  “You could have told me then.” Her expression and voice hardened.

  “I had intended to tell you the afternoon I returned from the hospital.”

  She pressed her fingers against her temples, as if her head hurt. “Why didn’t you?”

  He straightened and raked his fingers through his hair. “You confronted me immediately with your suspicions and distrust of Josh, because your father hadn’t mentioned him in the journals. But you still trusted Ben. If I had confessed then, you wouldn’t have had faith in Ben, either.”

  “Clearly with good reason.”

  He winced at her bitterness. “If I had confessed, you would have left again. I knew Lashner had a killer waiting, watching for you.”

  She stiffened. “You also knew you’d have no one to bait the trap for Lashner if I left.”

  He recoiled at the sting of her accusation, unable to refute it. If he lived to be a hundred, he would never forgive himself for the danger in which he’d placed her. “I underestimated Lashner. Had I foreseen how many men he has working for him, I would never have put you in such jeopardy.”

  He stared past her toward the gulf, where the running lights of a boat bobbed about two hundred yards off the beach, too close for good fishing. As a precaution, he leaned over and blew out the candle so that darkness protected them from prying eyes on the distant vessel.

  “Why choose now to tell me?” she asked. “You could have pretended to fire Josh, and we could have gone on as before.”

  Because I love you.

  But he couldn’t confess that now. She wouldn’t believe him. He settled for half the truth.

  “From now on, I can’t allow you to go out alone. And I must shed my bandages and wheelchair to look strong and well when we confront the board members. My appearing in public will draw Lashner into the open. Eventually he’ll make a mistake, and when he does—”

  From the corner of his eye, he saw a sphere of eerie green light materialize on the fishing boat and float above the deck like St. Elmo’s fire. Then the strange glow abruptly disappeared, and a chrysanthemum of red flame blossomed in its place.

  He lunged from his chair, grabbed Morgan and slammed her to the terrace beneath him as bullets whined overhead and spattered the house’s brick facade.

  “What happened?” Morgan attempted to rise.

  He held her fast, lifting his head only far enough to signal Harper, who rushed indoors from the upper terrace. “Lie still. The shooter’s on a boat off the beach.”

  “Let me up.” She struggled against him. “It’s pitch-dark. He can’t see us.”

  The warm, soft curves of her body melded with his, and the sweet fragrance of soap and her singular scent filled his nostrils. Despite the present danger, heat cascaded through him, pooling in his groin.

  “The shooter is using a starlight scope.” He focused on the old pain in his chest and his freshly bruised elbows and knees to cool his desire. “The scope’s green glow cast light on the sniper’s face.”

  “I never heard of a starlight scope.” She squirmed beneath him, and her movements taunted him with agonizing pleasure.

  “It draws light from the stars to provide night vision. If we raise our heads above this balustrade, he’ll blow us away.”

  “What do we do?” Her sudden stillness indicated she had finally grasped the gravity of their predicament.

  “Harper’s calling the police.” To shield her from the cold surface of the terrace, he wrapped his arms around her, drew her closer and tucked her head beneath his chin. “We wait.”

  “For what?” she mumbled against his chest. “Daylight, so the gunman will have a clear shot?”

  “The sniper can’t chance hanging around. For all he knows, the police are on the way.” He caressed the silky softness of her hair and shuddered at how close he’d come to losing her.

  A siren wailed on the distant highway and amplified as it approached the house. On the water, the boat’s powerful engines surged to life. From the direction of the receding sound, Ben estimated the vessel had headed south, toward town.

  Unwilling to risk a parting shot from the sniper, Ben refused to release Morgan, even when the sirens arrived and tires squealed to a halt at the front gate. A few minutes later, running feet sounded on the upper terrace and strong arms lifted him off her.

  “You okay, Mr. Wells?” Harper’s inscrutable mask had slipped, replaced by tight-faced concern.

  A policewoman assisted Morgan to her feet.

  “Everybody inside, fast,” Ben ordered. “There’s a sniper out there with a night-vision scope.”

  He herded them up the stairs to the terrace and into the living room, where Harper flipped a switch that closed the drapery electronically.

  The policewoman’s partner, a tall, rangy man, entered the room. “Another team is searching the grounds, and I’ve called the marine patrol. Now, will somebody please tell us what the hell’s going on?”

  Ben glanced at Morgan, curled white-lipped and shivering in the corner of the sofa. “Harper, bring us coffee, please. Officers, have a seat. It’s going to be a long story.”

  FIGHTING EXHAUSTION, Morgan packed her suitcase. Whatever action she decided on, she couldn’t stay here. She had sat for hours while Ben reported to the uniformed officers his suspicions against Lashner, starting with her father’s dying words and ending with the sniper attack from the boat. Later, when Detective Paxton arrived, Ben repeated everything, but she paid scant attention to Ben’s details or the detective’s responses and had spoken only to answer questions directed at her.

  Ben’s treachery had preoccupied her. Her mind still boggled at the fact her gentle husband and the fascinating private investigator she’d fallen in love with were the same person. Ben had lulled her with kindness and consideration. As Josh, he’d attempted to make love to her, undoubtedly hoping to insure her continued help in catching Lashner.

  What a fool she’d been not to see it.

  But Ben hadn’t been alone in his deception. He’d had Harper, Mrs. Denny and Dr. Hendrix as coconspirators. Ben’s frequent absences had failed to raise her suspicions, because his unavailability fit the pattern he’d established the first week she’d spent here, before she’d ever met Josh.

  She’d been duped by an expert.

  Ironically, Ben hadn’t comprehended that her resolve to apprehend Frank Winters’s killer sprang from her love for her father and her intention to stay alive, not from some romantic attachment to the admittedly handsome private investigator.

  That doesn’t mean you don’t love Josh, her rebellious heart mocked.

  “How can I love someone who’s not real?” she muttered with a scowl.

  She flung the last garment in the case and slammed the lid. After the police had left, she’d faced three choices: return to Memphis, go into hiding alone until Lashner was convicted or continue to work with Ben to bring her father’s killer to justice.

  Detective Paxton had promised to investigate Lashner, but Ben’s wily partner would have covered his tracks well. Without solid evidence, the police couldn’t charge Lashner. Even if they did detain him, his hired assassins had their orders. Going home with killers on her trail would be suicide.

  Hiding on her own didn’t offer much more security. Without Ben’s financial resources, she would quickly exhaust her limited funds. As soon as she used her credit card, Lashner could tr
ace her and his killers would close in. She’d been lucky to survive until now. She wouldn’t push her luck by striking out alone.

  Brushing her hair off her face with her fingers, she rolled her shoulders to ease her knotted muscles. Pain shot through her right shoulder where Ben had slammed her onto the terrace. She closed her eyes and tried to forget the pressure of his warm, hard body, the strength of his arms as he shielded her. According to the police forensics team, the bullet dug from the house’s exterior wall was in a direct line from the boat through her chair on the terrace. If Ben hadn’t knocked her down, she would have been seriously wounded. Or killed.

  She owed her life to Ben. Again.

  Finally she narrowed her options. She had no choice but to remain with Ben until Lashner and his assassins were behind bars, both for her own safety and the debt she owed her father.

  But staying didn’t mean she would trust Ben with her heart. After his monumental deception, she couldn’t be certain whether he actually cared for her or valued her only for her usefulness in nailing Lashner.

  She twisted her mouth into an unhappy smile. Two could play at Ben’s game. She would take advantage of his contacts and resources to avenge her father, keep the flawed formula off the market and stay alive in the process. After she’d accomplished those goals, she’d annul her marriage to Ben and walk away.

  With a broken heart.

  “Nobody dies from a broken heart,” she grumbled without conviction, taking a last look around the room that had been her home for the past few weeks. Straightening her shoulders, she lifted her suitcase and opened the door. Ben would be waiting at the foot of the stairs.

  BEN ROLLED OVER and turned off the alarm, illuminated by morning sunlight curling around the edges of the curtains beside his bed. He’d slept straight through since yesterday afternoon. Sweeping back the covers, he stood and stretched, amazingly rested after his marathon session with Detective Paxton the night before last.

  He had needed sleep. His body was still healing, and with lives at stake, he couldn’t afford errors caused by fatigue. One slip, and Lashner’s killers would have him and Morgan in their sights.

  Yesterday he and Morgan had given their pursuers the slip. Dressed in gardeners’ coveralls and hats, they had escaped the mansion undetected in the landscaper’s van. After shucking their disguises and taking a circuitous route with multiple cab changes, they had met Tom Hendrix in a crowded mall parking lot. The doctor had driven them to the secluded cottage on the bay, which would serve as their base of operations until Lashner was caught.

  Or until they were discovered and forced to move again.

  Tom had insisted Ben go straight to bed, and he had been too worn out to protest. During their flight from the house, Ben couldn’t talk to Morgan without curious cab drivers or Tom overhearing. She’d had more than thirty-six hours now to contemplate his deceit and the reasons for it. He wasn’t proud of tricking her and wouldn’t blame her if she had decided never to forgive him.

  However, the choice between keeping her safe and keeping her trust had never been a tough one. He’d deceive her again, if deception meant keeping her alive.

  He pulled on jeans and a shirt, slid his feet into deck shoes and headed for the kitchen. The aroma of coffee brewing announced Morgan had preceded him.

  When he stepped through the doorway, she stood at the sink, gazing out the window at the gulf. If she’d heard his approach, she gave no indication.

  “Good morning,” he said. “I hope you slept well.”

  “Well enough.” Her equable tone gave no hint to her frame of mind.

  When she turned and the violet smears beneath her eyes belied her claim, he swore inwardly at the pain his deceit had put her through, then added a second, stronger curse for Robert Lashner.

  After he had poured a cup of coffee and sat at the table, she slid into the chair across from him and cradled a coffee mug in her hands. She studied the steaming liquid as if its surface held clues to her fortune and refused to look at him.

  A long, uneasy silence stretched between them before she spoke. “Were you really injured trying to save my father, or was that part of the hoax, too?”

  Her skepticism skewered him with fresh remorse. His charade as Josh had thrown everything he’d told her into question. No wonder she doubted him.

  As Ben, he’d kept his hands bandaged. As Josh, he’d worn gloves or kept his fists in his pockets or otherwise concealed. Now he laid his hands palms down on the table in front of her. Pink scar tissue from multiple burns and the wounds he’d suffered from flying debris stood out against his tanned skin.

  Her breath whistled through her teeth as she inhaled at the sight.

  She might as well see it all. He pushed himself to his feet, yanked his shirt from his jeans and undid the buttons. “I promised I’d never lie to you again. You should know the whole truth. Neither my lungs nor my eyes were damaged by the fire. The oxygen mask and dark glasses were only to disguise my voice and cover my eyes.”

  He tugged off his shirt, and an unidentifiable emotion deepened the blue of her eyes to navy.

  “When I found your father in the burning lab, he warned that Lashner had planted a second explosive. I hoisted Frank on my back in a fireman’s carry and covered him and my head with a flame-retardant blanket to protect us from the fire.”

  She pressed her fingers to her lips but said nothing.

  He skirted the table and stood beside her. “When the second explosion hit, the blanket shielded your father and my head and face. The lab counters screened my legs, but my hands and chest caught the brunt of the blast.”

  She gazed at the scar tissue covering his chest and pointed to the bandaged wound near his collarbone. “Is that where the man at the airport stabbed you?”

  He shook his head. “When I carried you across the parking lot that night, the sutures gave way in a wound caused by a shard of flying glass in the lab explosion. I had to return to the hospital to have it restitched.”

  “So you really were in the hospital?”

  “Except for sneaking out, against Tom’s orders, to accompany you to Frank’s condo.”

  She reached out and touched his puckered flesh with cool, gentle fingers. “I’m so sorry.”

  He covered her hand with his. “The explosion wasn’t your fault.”

  “But I put you through so much exertion when you should have been recuperating. I should have listened to you instead of trying to run home.”

  “You mustn’t blame yourself.” He tightened his grip on her fingers and tugged her from the chair. “You’d just been asked to do some pretty scary things. Your reaction was understandable.”

  She lifted her face, luminous with regret. Wrapping his arms around her, he drew her against his injured chest and lowered his head to claim the delicious pressure of her lips. He groaned with pleasure when she reached up and threaded her fingers through his hair, and the movement forced her closer, until the tautness of her nipples scorched his bare. skin through the thin fabric of her blouse. Enclosing her tighter in the hot, tense circle of his arms, he deepened the kiss with a gentle flick of his tongue.

  He wanted their embrace to go on forever. How could he live without this woman in his arms? Without her touch, her smile, the sweetness of her breath mingled with his? Without joining his body with hers?

  As if sensing the direction of his thoughts, she withdrew, flustered, and slipped into her chair. An attractive blush colored her face. “So what do we do now?”

  Love each other senseless, his heart answered.

  But Lashner and his killers were still stalking them, and Ben’s first priority would always be to keep Morgan safe. He clamped a lid on his desire, circled back to his chair and shrugged into his shirt. “We begin gathering support from the board members before the meeting. We’ll need every vote, in case we can’t put Lashner behind bars before the meeting.”

  “Isn’t going out risky?” The breathlessness in her voice, like the glint in her
eyes and the rosy glow of her cheeks, could have been fear or an after-effect from their kiss.

  He forced himself to concentrate on business. “Lashner probably has someone watching Rhonda’s house, hoping we’ll show up, so we won’t go there.”

  Her expression reflected conflicting emotions, as if she, too, battled desire. His hopes leaped at the prospect that she might love him, even after his trickery.

  Her face settled into sober lines. “Where are we going?”

  “Do you play tennis?” he asked, and laughed at her expression of shocked surprise.

  AFTER CHANGING into white shorts, a powder blue knit shirt and sneakers, Morgan joined Ben in the old Chevy for a ride to a quiet residential street several miles away. From there, they walked a few blocks to a grocery store thronged with early shoppers and caught a cab to the Gulfside Country Club.

  Earlier, her anger at Ben had melted away at the sight of his hands and chest, scarred by his efforts to save her father, and she had allowed emotions to override her common sense. Ben had tricked her, after all. She couldn’t give her heart to a man she couldn’t trust.

  Not even when her head argued his good qualities and her body craved him the way an alcoholic lusts for drink.

  Sitting beside her now in the back of the cab, his long, bare legs stretched before him, he looked tanned and fit. Except for the scars on his hands, no one could tell the handsome executive in tennis whites had ever suffered an injury.

  They reached the country club after a long drive up a private, palm-lined road that bisected one of three golf courses. The cab dropped them near the tennis complex, and Ben, outwardly relaxed, gestured toward the pro shop’s second floor.

  “There’s a spectators’ balcony up there,” he said, “with a beverage bar.”

  They strode quickly along the narrow lane beside the rows of courts. Only the plunk of tennis balls against racket strings and an occasional call of score broke the morning stillness. Morgan preceded Ben up the pro shop’s exterior stairs to the second floor, enclosed on three sides, its fourth open to a sweeping view of the courts. A quartet of ceiling fans circulated air above several small tables, and a snack bar occupied the back wall.