MADIGAN'S WIFE

by Linda Winstead Jones

  Grace hadn’t been working for Dr. Dearborne all that long, but she recognized fear when she saw it. The poor, personality-challenged dentist was so anxious to get out of the room he tripped over his own feet. After a quick recovery, he disappeared down the hallway.

  “What on earth did you do…” she began.

  Ray stood, quick and graceful. “How about I buy you dinner?” he interrupted.

  Just as well. She didn’t need to hear how he’d so gallantly defended ex-wife number two from the man he insisted on calling Dr. Doolittle.

  But dinner sounded too much like a date. “I don’t feel like going out,” she said as she reached into the bottom drawer of her desk for her purse. But oh, she didn’t want to be alone. Not yet. “I can cook you dinner.”

  He made a face, screwed up his nose and squinted his eyes until she could no longer see the vibrant blue. “What have I done to deserve this?”

  She smiled as she stood. “I’m a much better cook than I used to be. Give me a break. I was just nineteen when we got married. At the time all I could do in the kitchen was make macaroni and cheese out of a box and open a can of soup.”

  She wished she could take the statement back, or at least reword it. Suddenly she remembered the times they’d made love in the kitchen. On the table, against the counter, on the floor. Ray would come home and find her trying her best to hone her abysmal domestic skills, and with a touch and a whispered word or two the recipe was forgotten. He’d lift her up or lower her down and she dismissed everything else. Everything. How many pots had she burned? How many leathery roasts had they laughingly tossed in the garbage? It was no wonder she hadn’t learned to cook until after the divorce.

  Her face felt warm. Once the memories came they were hard to shake. She tried to put the heated recollections in perspective. So, they’d had great sex. She’d learned the hard way that you can’t build a lasting relationship on lust. Eventually you need stability, commitment, compromise. Ray didn’t know the meaning of the word compromise.

  “And if it was the kind that said ‘add water’ we were in trouble,” he said.

  “What?”

  “The soup,” he clarified.

  If he knew what she was thinking about he didn’t show it. But then, Ray was a master at concealing his feelings. No wonder working undercover came so easily to him. He could become whomever and whatever he wanted; he revealed only what he wanted to reveal.

  “Steaks,” she said, headed for the door with her purse clutched in her hands. “Salad and baked potatoes. We’ll have to run by the grocery store, though.” She glanced over her shoulder to see that Ray followed; close but not too close.

  “No problem,” he said, as he ushered her out the door and to his car.

  *

  Ray hadn’t expected he’d ever find himself sitting on the couch in Grace’s new house. Sure, they saw one another now and then, but she always managed to keep her distance, to keep things casual. In order for her to actually invite him here, she had to be either really scared, or else desperate to keep him from going to Mobile.

  He wondered, as he watched her work at the bar that separated the long, narrow kitchen from the living room, just how far she’d go to keep him around.

  He had no illusions about Grace. She’d loved him once, and she still cared for him; at least a little. She cared for him enough to worry on occasion, and she trusted him enough to come to him when there was trouble. Enough of a spark remained between them to provide the occasional uncomfortable moment, like in her office just a short while back.

  But she didn’t care enough to stay. Sometimes he had to remind himself of that fact.

  In a flash he knew Luther’s suppositions about the murder story being concocted just to keep him in town were bull. Grace hadn’t made anything up. She didn’t care enough to stay; she sure as hell didn’t care enough to fight.

  Annoyed at himself for studying Grace so intently, he turned his attention to the room. This house was old, but had been recently remodeled. Instead of a small parlor and eat-in kitchen, there was now one main room that consisted of a living area with a sofa, chairs, television and small stereo; the open kitchen and the bar that separated it from the living room; and a smaller space for a round oak dining room table with four chairs. The layout was simple and practical.

  He saw Grace in this room, in the comfortable caramel-colored furniture, in the fat pillows scattered about the seating area. He saw her in the thriving plants and the lace curtains and the knickknacks on the single bookshelf. Snow globes. She loved snow globes. He recognized a couple of them as gifts he’d given her, years ago. A big snow globe with a white carousel horse, given to Grace for her twentieth birthday; a smaller one with a little boy and a little girl leaning forward for an innocent kiss, presented on their fourth anniversary.

  She chopped vegetables for a salad while the potatoes baked, keeping her eyes on the knife and the cutting board and the vegetables. A strand of hair fell over her cheek, a long, dark strand that looked so soft and tempting his fingers itched.

  What would she do if he walked into the kitchen, put his hands on her face, and kissed her long and hard? If he pulled that body up against his and quit pretending he didn’t want her? He had a feeling that before this crisis was over, they were going to find out.

  When they’d come in from their trip to the grocery store, she’d declared microwave potatoes “not the same,” so they waited for the real thing: big fat potatoes baking in the oven. The steaks were marinating, a gas grill awaited on the patio out back, and the ice cream he’d sneaked into the grocery cart sat in the freezer. And if Grace chopped those vegetables much more they would be baby food, not salad.

  “Gracie,” he said softly. “Come in here and sit down. I’m not so old that I can’t chew my own food.”

  Her hands stilled, and she looked down at the vegetables on the cutting board as if she hadn’t realized what she’d been doing to them. Very carefully, she laid her knife aside. “I guess I’m still a little distracted by what happened this morning,” she said as she wiped her hands on a dish towel and tossed it aside.

  She stepped out of the kitchen and headed straight for the chair adjacent to the couch. Ray had no illusions that she might actually sit on the couch next to him. That would be too close, much too dangerous. Did she think he didn’t notice the way she reacted when he touched her? The way her eyes went wide and her lips parted and her heart raced? But no matter how Grace reacted, she continued to manufacture a false barrier between them. She hadn’t even taken the time to change out of her work clothes, as if to slip into something more comfortable would send the wrong signal. She wore a straight, knee-length brown skirt and a tan blouse, very businesslike, very professional. On coming home she’d taken off the matching jacket and hung it in the closet, but she still wore panty hose and low-heeled shoes. She hadn’t even let her hair down. Just that one stubborn strand touched her face, one misbehaving lock of dark hair that had fallen from her oh-so-sensible hairstyle.

  A nervous Grace didn’t settle back into the overstuffed chair, but reached for the remote control that sat on the coffee table and turned on the television. “Maybe there will be something about the murder,” she said as she returned the remote to the table.

  The news was on, and investigative reporter Sam Morgan’s face filled the screen. Ray’s instinctive reaction was to snag the remote for himself and turn the television off. “There won’t be. Luther will contact us if anything comes up.”

  “Still,” she said, snatching the remote off the coffee table and switching the TV on again. “You never know.”

  And, of course, if the television stayed on she wouldn’t have to talk to him. She could keep her eyes and her attention on Morgan and pretend nothing was going on, here. This time after Ray turned the television off, he placed the remote on the couch beside him. It would be safe there.

  “Do you want to talk about what happened this morning?” he asked, managing to make Grace even
more skittish.

  She placed luscious big brown eyes on him while she twiddled her thumbs in her lap. Her knees were clamped together, her spine straight; she looked like she’d just finished a class on how to sit like a little lady. She looked like a scared little girl.

  “Not really. I’ve told you everything already. Talking about it isn’t going to make me feel any better.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Grace gazed longingly at the remote control. “I’m sure,” she said softly. Poor girl, she was about to jump out of her lovely skin. “You know, I’d better check those potatoes,” she said, practically jumping to her feet.

  Without thinking, Ray reached out and snagged her wrist. With a gentle tug, she fell back and into his lap, landing there soft and wonderfully, arousingly heavy. She didn’t stay there long, but slid off his lap to sit beside him. As she landed on the remote, the television came back on. At least Morgan wasn’t on camera anymore.

  “The potatoes won’t be ready for at least another half hour, and you know it,” he said, refusing to release her wrist when she tugged gently.

  “But I really should…” she began weakly.

  “What are you afraid of?”

  He hovered over Grace, and she lifted her face to him. She didn’t tug against his grip again, or try to slide any farther away. He reached out and tucked that strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers brushing lightly against her face and grazing her ear as he accomplished the task.

  “I’m not afraid of anything,” she whispered, but the fear in her eyes told him she lied.

  “Not even the man who chased you this morning?”

  Her eyes widened. “Him? Of course I’m afraid of him. I’m not stupid.”

  Her short slide across his lap had caused her skirt to ride up, just a little, and when he glanced down he caught a glimpse of shapely, silk encased thigh. He placed his hand there. Grace trembled.

  No matter how hard he tried he couldn’t forget how it had been with them. He touched her and she was his. She laid her head against his chest and he forgot everything. When they came together there was power, and heat, and lightning. Like a spring storm, they lit up the sky and rocked the world.

  He lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her, soft, tender, tentative. He felt the tremble of her lips, the gentle sigh of acceptance that touched his mouth. His mouth lay over hers, fixed for a long moment. God, she tasted good. Warm and soft, sweet and real and hungry. There was something akin to relief in the kiss, like he’d had an itch in the middle of his back for six years and someone had finally scratched it. The unexpected comfort of the kiss terrified him, but he didn’t move away.

  Feeling bold, fearlessly greedy, he moved his lips against hers, ever so slightly. Grace answered with a soft, gentle draw of her own. A tender sucking, a deep and arousing reception. Everything inside him tightened and heated, as if a bolt of lightning coursed through his body.

  His hand, resting on her leg, inched higher until his fingers brushed her inner thigh. The flesh he stroked was giving, soft and warm, enticing and irresistible. This was familiar territory, even though it had been years, six long years, since he’d touched Grace this way. She trembled, but didn’t take her mouth from his.

  Ray Madigan was not a complete fool. He didn’t love Grace anymore; how could he? She’d left him, she’d hurt him in a way no one else ever had or ever would. She’d taken a world he’d thought was safe and happy and blown it apart. No, he didn’t love her, but he did want her. Yes, dammit, he did want her.

  If the response of her mouth against his was any indication, she wanted him, too. She moved her lips against his and inhaled as if gently sucking the life out of him, as if she wanted to taste deeply but was afraid. Soft and hesitant and almost innocent, she brushed her lips against his.

  He leaned over her, pressing her back into the soft cushions of the couch, and deepened the kiss. When he slipped his tongue into her mouth she gasped, and her hands went to his face, his head. She touched his cheeks and speared her fingers through his hair, and she answered the kiss, for an all-too-brief moment.

  And then she pushed his head back, forced his mouth from hers. “I can’t,” she whispered. Unshed tears made her dark eyes sparkle, the flush on her face made her look nineteen again.

  “Why not?”

  She shook her head. “I can’t sleep with you, Ray. I can’t.”

  “I wasn’t exactly thinking about sleeping, sweetheart,” he said huskily as be moved closer. Her thighs fell slightly apart; she had to feel his arousal pressing against the inside of her thigh. He could so easily take her, here and now. He needed it; she needed it.

  “You know what I mean.”

  Ah, she was serious. “What’s wrong? Have you gone back to your ten date rule?” he asked lightly, as if it didn’t make any difference one way or another if they finished what they’d started. As if he didn’t want to ask her, here and now when there was no escape for either of them, why she’d left him.

  He’d never understood the way she’d left. A damn note on the refrigerator, like a grocery list. Milk. Eggs. Goodbye.

  He would never ask. The question would sound too much like pleading, and he would not grovel in front of Grace. Not now, not ever. He wanted her as much as he ever had, right now he hurt for her, but by God he did not need her.

  “Don’t you think a ten date rule is a little excessive in this day and age?” he asked casually, holding his body against hers. He felt and savored every breath she took, the tension in the length of her bewitching body.

  He remembered how she’d explained it to him, the first time he’d tried to make love to her. Still a virgin, she’d concluded that she wouldn’t know a man well enough to sleep with him until they’d had at least ten dates. Never a patient man, he’d asked her to marry him that night, on their third date. She’d said yes and they’d been married three days later. He’d been so sure that what they had was real and deep and lasting, that Grace was the one person who would always be there. He’d been young and stupid.

  “And if that’s it, do I have to start all over?” he smiled as he delivered the joke. “Can’t I at least get credit for the dates we had before we were married? How about all those lunches at Pop’s?” Suddenly he knew why she’d never allowed him to buy her lunch. “Is that why we always go dutch these days?” he teased.

  “Be serious,” she said, as she tried to gently push him away.

  He wasn’t going anywhere. Not yet. He pressed his body to hers, hovered above her so close he could feel her intense warmth and the beat of her heart, the slight tremble of her legs. Already she was inside him, as if he’d inhaled her, as if she seeped beneath his skin when he held her tight.

  “Tell me, Gracie, when was the last time you had a tenth date?”

  She pursed her lips, a sure sign she wasn’t going to answer. He raked his body against hers, moving slowly, and kissed the side of her neck. When he did let her go, he wanted to make damn sure she left with the same torturous longing he felt growing inside him. He allowed his lips to linger, tasting her, feeling her heartbeat beneath his lips and his tongue before he released her.

  As soon as he let her go she scrambled off the couch. “I imagine,” she said, almost steadily, “that a ten date rule does seem excessive to you.” She tried to hide her anxiety, but she couldn’t disguise the faint quiver in her voice. “You probably wish willing women would just show up at your door naked.”

  “Bearing food,” he added lightly.

  She turned to stare at him. Her face was flushed, her lips damp and slightly swollen, well kissed and, like it or not, craving more. And such pained incredulity lurked in her luscious eyes. What had she expected, that he’d give her some romantic song and dance about wanting her and no one else? He didn’t wear his heart on his sleeve; he didn’t lie or make promises he wasn’t prepared to keep.

  “Preferably pizza,” he added. “After all, it’s good hot and cold.”

  His smile faded as she spun
away to return to the task of mutilating the vegetables. Damnation, he wished he was already in Mobile. No good could come of this, no good at all.

  If Grace actually thought they were going to get through this without ending up in bed together, she was crazier than she was making him.

  *

  Chapter 4

  «^»

  Freddie hated to run, and blamed the woman for this unpleasant morning jog. It was early and as cool as the day would be, and still he’d already worked up a sweat.

  As he ran he glanced down side streets, watched the park trails, eyed the other runners. Betting, all the while, that the woman who’d witnessed the hit had been running a regular route. She must live in the area.

  His hair was now blond and much too short, cut close to the scalp. He wore brown contact lenses, in case he should come face-to-face with the witness. The pale gray-green eyes, his mother’s eyes his grandfather had always told him, were too distinctive. It was his one curse. A touch of expertly applied makeup covered the small bruise on his jaw, completing the facial transformation.

  He no longer wore the conservative clothes he favored, and his trench coat had been packed away, for the time being. For this part of the job he would take on another look. The sleeves of the T-shirt he wore on this warm morning had been ripped out to display his muscular biceps and a tattoo that read Martha. The bicycle shorts he wore were too tight and too bright a shade of red. From a distance he looked like a punk. Up close he probably appeared to be a middle-aged man going through some kind of midlife crisis, trying to look younger than he was. To keep up the front, and because she was pretty, he grinned and winked at a shapely redhead who ran past, going in the opposite direction.

  She looked away, ignoring him with her nose in the air. Bitch. Freddie spun around to glare at her bobbing red ponytail. For a moment he ran backwards, his eyes on the woman’s back.

  His irritation at her rebuff didn’t last long, and he soon turned about and resumed his recon. He had collected the second half of payment for the job yesterday afternoon, as planned, and the body was planted at the foot of a small mountain at the south end of town. The victim’s car, the one he’d been driving when Freddie had stopped him, was well concealed. He’d pushed it over a cliff on a deserted, curving stretch of road, so it would appear that the victim had driven over, missing the sharp turn and plummeting down the embankment. The car had rolled down noisily, through and past and over saplings and thick bushes, landing brilliantly behind a thick copse of trees. If the body wasn’t found for a while, it would be impossible to tell that the driver’s neck hadn’t been broken in a tragic car accident.