by Adrianne Lee
As she waited in the kitchen for him to return from stoking the fire, she felt no warmer than she had outside. She shoved off her hood and glanced around, marveling again at the equipment, the gadgets, the appliances. If her mother saw this she would think she’d died and gone to heaven. Heaven intruding once again on her thoughts pulled Livia up short, yanking her back to the situation at hand, twisting the knot in her stomach tighter.
“Why don’t you go into the main room,” Mark said, coming through the swinging door. He had shucked his jacket and wore a white dress shirt tucked inside faded jeans. He rolled the sleeves toward his elbows. “There’s a fire going. I’ll join you in a few minutes with coffee.”
“Sounds good.” The fire sounded especially good. Even her knee-high boots felt damp from standing in the downpour. She might have had stress-flu this past week, but she’d have the real thing if she didn’t warm up soon.
“Go,” Mark said, his gaze landing on her mouth, his eyes going dark. “Before your lips turn blue.”
Before I have to kiss them warm, he seemed to be saying.
The moment shimmered with awareness and memory and Livia moved before it became an invitation. She hurried into the next room, the main salon where she’d been the night they’d chosen most of the dishes for the wedding, and on to the foyer. She hooked her wet coat on the hall tree, then glanced at her reflection in the mirror. She looked less like a drowned rat than she’d figured. She fluffed her short hair with her fingers, thumbed a smudge of mascara from beneath one eye. The tip of her nose was red and her cheeks were high with color.
Weather or nerves?
Probably both.
She smoothed her damp, calf-length skirt, straightened her sweater and went to the matching Victorian love seats that faced each other in front of the fireplace and settled on one, embracing the heat emanating from the burning logs. She could hear Mark in the kitchen, moving around, judged he’d be a while yet before joining her, and withdrew the copied articles from her purse.
The first thing to catch her attention was a black-and-white photograph of Ethan Marshall. He was a large man. A chef. Like Mark. Maybe that was the connection between them. Maybe that was how Mark had known Ethan. Maybe he’d worked with him. For him.
Though they shared the same profession, the men were opposites. Ethan had the girth of a man who not only cooked, but ate whatever he produced. Maybe even most of what he produced. He was as round as a pancake, as heavy as a deep-dish pie. But there was also an innocence about him. Something naive. Around the eyes. A look like the proverbial deer caught in headlights, a man in shock, wholly oblivious to the penalties he would pay for the crime he’d committed.
Oddly, she could not imagine the man pictured here killing anyone, let alone the mother of his son. But he had. They’d proven he had.
As she continued staring at the photo, a strange and deep sense of pity for Josh’s father sifted through her. God help such a man in the prison system.
“What’s that you’re reading?”
Mark had crept up on her so quietly she started at his words. She breasted the pages and shook her head. “Nothing important. Something to do with the wedding.”
This was not good. She was starting out their heart-to-heart with a lie. She hadn’t meant to, had intended to use these articles as a conversation opener. She groaned at her cowardice, and felt a sheepish grin tugging at her mouth.
He placed the tray he carried on the coffee table. It held two mugs of coffee and a plate of pastries dripping with frosting. The aromas wafted into her, through her. Tantalizing, tempting, causing her mouth to water. Long ago, she’d trained herself not to give in to such urges, but since the day she’d sworn off sweets, she’d never felt the desire to indulge so strongly as she did at this moment—to just fill her mouth so full of sticky, gooey, cinnamon roll and frosting she couldn’t speak.
He handed her a mug and only then did she realize it wasn’t regular coffee. She lifted her gaze to his questioningly. The confidence left his face. “It’s what you like, right? Latte with skim milk?”
He’d remembered after being with her once when she’d ordered it. She didn’t think Reese, if asked, could name her favorite drink. But this man knew. Damn Mark Everett. She didn’t want to be touched by him physically or emotionally, yet she longed for the former and couldn’t avoid the latter. Why did he have to know which coffee she liked? Photographic memory? Observant? Or had he made a point of knowing?
She clutched the papers tighter against her chest. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Never mind.” She shook her head. She wasn’t going to ask about the latte. For all she knew, Bridget had told him her coffee preference. Besides, that was not why she was here. She lowered the papers to her lap, making no effort to hide them from him as he sank onto the seat across from her.
She said, “I lied. These are copies of newspaper articles about Wendy Marshall’s murder and Ethan Marshall’s subsequent arrest and trial.”
He paled, his gaze falling to her lap, his hands curling around his mug, his mouth slipping into a hard straight line. He stared at the photograph of Ethan Marshall. “And what did you learn from those? That…that Ethan murdered Wendy?”
The defensiveness in his voice brought her head up with a jerk. “You don’t think he did?”
“I know he didn’t.”
She recalled her own reaction to that photo. The innocent look in Ethan Marshall’s eyes. She gazed at the picture again, then up at Mark, and felt a jolt of shock. His eyes were very like Ethan’s. “You’re related to Ethan Marshall, aren’t you? A brother or cousin?”
Mark’s expression went stony, unreadable. “Neither.”
“Then what is your connection to him? Why do you have a framed photograph of Josh’s parents in your bedroom?”
He stared into his mug a long, tense moment, then lifted his head and pushed back a wayward lock of his ebony hair. “Because I’m Josh’s father.”
She set her latte down on the coffee table, trying to take this in. “Are…are you saying you and Wendy Rayburn Marshall…had…were…lovers?”
He blew out a loud breath. “I’m telling you that I am Ethan Marshall.”
Her mouth dropped open, and she glanced from the obese man in the news clippings to this flesh-and-blood one—whose body fat was nil—trying to reconcile the paper face with the one in front of her. “No way. Except for a slight resemblance around the eyes…no way.”
“Yes, way.”
“Are you having some sort of delusion? Ethan Marshall is in prison for life.”
“I’m not delusional.” He snorted. “I was released a few months ago on a technicality.”
She shook her head. How was that possible? “If…if that’s true, why hasn’t the state notified Reese’s family?”
“For all I know, they have.”
“No. They think you’re still in prison.”
“Really?” He frowned at that. “I know news coverage of my release was lost in the media feeding frenzy over the governor’s sexual misconduct, but I figured the state would let them know, or some zealous reporter.”
Livia didn’t understand it either. “When were you released?”
He gave her the date.
“Ah,” she said. “They were in Chicago for the basketball playoffs. Jay had gotten tickets and we all went.”
“I didn’t know, but I wasn’t taking any chances of incurring further harassment from the Rayburns. I disappeared, had my name legally changed and reemerged as Mark Everett. Even if the Rayburns should learn of my new identity, I doubt any of them would recognize me if we met face to face—since at the time of my release, the local news chain used an old photograph of me before I…I looked as I do now.”
She glanced again at the black-and-white photograph of Ethan Marshall, then back at Mark. “How did you…?”
“Go from the Pillsbury Doughboy to Arnold Schwartzenegger?”
She blushed. “Yeah.”
“But your face is so…different.” She understood the metamorphosis that occurred losing a great deal of weight. She’d lived it. But it hadn’t altered her face the way it had his. “No longer recognizable…as Ethan’s.”
“No longer the pretty boy of my innocent youth.” His laugh was biting, clipped, filled with self-derision. “Nose was broken twice. Jaw once. Doc put me back together as best he could, and I took care of the rest—by funneling my anger into exercise. Prison reshaped me physically and mentally. My enemies even began to respect me. Fear me. Avoid me.”
Livia cringed as her imagination ran wild at the horrors he’d suffered, things he’d described, things he hadn’t, at the scars that showed, at the scars that didn’t. She wanted to reach out and touch him, but feared he’d take it as pity and would resent her for that, think she was being condescending. But she did pity him. Did hate all that he’d been through.
All that awaited him.
Despite herself, she said, “I’m sorry.”
But he didn’t get angry. Instead he seemed surprised that she accepted his story at face value, and she realized he wasn’t used to people taking him at his word. How difficult would that be to live with? Her heart ached for Mark. For Josh. Oh, God, the little boy’s room upstairs. The unused toys, the empty dresser and closet. The dinosaur theme throughout this man’s living quarters. Confusion settled over her. “If you’ve been free all these months, why haven’t you reclaimed Josh?”
“I can’t.” He put his head in his hands.
She struggled the urge to go to him, to gather him in an embrace. “I don’t understand. A court order or something?”
“No. My choice.”
She straightened. His choice? He chose not to reclaim his son? No. She didn’t believe that. “Then why were you following us that day in the park? Spying on us?”
He lifted his head and his eyes were so tortured she caught her breath. “I can’t stay away from him, but I must.”
“I don’t understand. Why must you?”
Mark leaned toward her, his forearms on his thighs. “He was only three when he lost his mommy, then his daddy, every sense of security he’d ever known snatched away from him. Can you imagine how that felt? I can. And I’m not risking his going through it again.”
“Why would he, now that you’ve been released?”
“I’ve been released on a technicality of the law, but I haven’t been proven innocent. My son thinks his father killed his mother. The whole world thinks that. But it’s not true.” His gaze implored her to believe him, conveyed that it was important she believe him. “I didn’t kill Wendy.”
Livia did believe him. But then, she knew something no one else did. Cold-blooded murderers reserved an eternal spot in damnation. This man was slated for Heaven, not Hell. But if he hadn’t murdered his wife, who had? “So, you want to prove your innocence before claiming your right to Josh?”
“Yes. I won’t risk putting him through more torment. But it’s hell. I see him so lonely—” his voice cracked “—and I almost give it up.” His expression tightened. “But I can’t. Not until I figure out who killed Wendy and why.”
She let this sink in for a while and finally understood. “You need to get back into your wife’s social circle in order to find her killer. Who do you think that is?”
“If I knew the answer to that…” He blew out another breath and finished off his coffee.
She took another sip of her latte. It was no longer warm. She drank it anyway, needing to cool the hot suspicions tripping through her. She set down her mug and peered at his ruggedly handsome face, her heartbeat escalating. “The reason you’ve insisted on catering my wedding to Reese Rayburn is that you believe someone in the house, in the family, is the real killer.”
He sighed, but nodded. “Yeah, I do. It’s the best bet.”
Livia felt as though someone had settled an espresso machine on her chest. Not only was it possible that Reese or someone else in his family had killed his sister, but Josh, poor sweet lonely Josh, was going to lose his daddy all over again in eighteen days—maybe to his mommy’s killer—if she and Mark didn’t find the real killer before he or she shot that fatal bullet.
Her hand went to her mouth.
“I know this is a lot to digest.” Mark stood and gathered their mugs. “I’ll get some more coffee.”
Livia nodded. She lurched off the love seat and went to the fireplace, added another log, then stared at the flames as they took hold.
Mark returned with a fresh latte for her and something strong-scented and black for himself.
As she sat opposite him again, Livia held the hot mug in both palms, the searing heat keeping her centered. “Tell me about her. About Wendy.”
He grimaced.
“O-ka-a-y, that was way too insensitive.” Oh, God, why had she asked him that? Obviously the memories were too painful. He’d loved Wendy. She reached to the plate of pastries, tore off a piece, then put it in her mouth. The delight of flavors, sticky dough, cinnamon and vanilla icing, meshed on her tongue, would go straight to her hips—fair punishment, she decided, for wounding this man she wanted to save not hurt. “You don’t have to talk about her.”
“Maybe I do. Maybe it would help me figure out why someone would kill her.”
Livia grabbed the papers and shuffled through them until she came to a photograph of the dead woman. Wendy Rayburn Marshall had been lovely, elegant and thin in that way some people are naturally. It must be nice.
She reached for another piece of pastry, having to admit—as the savory flavors exploded on her tongue—that Sookie hadn’t been kidding when she’d said Mark Everett made sinful pastries. These were absolutely sensuous. She licked her fingers, caught Mark watching, his eyes darkening. Her pulse shivered sweetly.
Mark cleared his throat. “I was going to culinary school when I met Wendy. I was surprised she’d have anything to do with me.” He pointed to the photograph on her lap. “I mean, look at her. It’s easy to see why I fell in love with her, but I never understood what she saw in me.”
He gave a sarcastic laugh. “I thought maybe it was my cooking. I’ve never known a woman who could eat so much and not gain an ounce. I didn’t know then that she was bulimic. I’d never heard of bingeing and purging. I didn’t know then that she’d sought me out. Didn’t know that in picking me, she’d chosen the least acceptable groom for a Rayburn bride that she could find, who still met her purposes and criteria.”
“What criteria?”
He took a long swallow of coffee, then leaned forward onto his thighs again, coming closer, causing the air between them to feel charged, electric. She felt like a magnet being pulled toward its mate. “Wendy’s college major was business, and when she faced graduation, she discovered that her father, Phillip, would not be making room for her at Rayburn Grocers. Her grandfather had set up the corporation to pass through the male family members, and if there were no male heirs the business was to be sold. Phillip concurred with his father. He said women belonged in pursuits other than running companies.
“Wendy was furious, but she had money of her own, left to her from her mother’s estate. She decided if her father wouldn’t let her work at the company business she would start her own business. A restaurant. But first she needed a chef. A man she could manipulate, someone who could cook cuisine that would make all of her wealthy friends steady patrons of her restaurant, someone her family would find totally repellent. I fit that criteria perfectly.”
The hurt Livia had suffered overhearing her classmates joke about her eating her entire birthday cake clawed her heart with sharpened talons, the ache new again, fresh, n
ot old, not dealt with. She knew exactly how Mark had felt discovering how the wife he adored actually found him repellant.
“I’m sure she…” But his don’t-go-there look made Livia regret the attempt at empathy. How could she be “sure” of any motive Wendy Marshall might have had? She’d never met the woman. Knew her only through recollections contributed by Reese, and those were few and far between. As she thought of that now, she wondered why her soon-to-be-ex-fiancé seldom mentioned his half sister.
“It says in the papers that you discovered she was having an affair with someone and that’s why…why…you…or whomever…”
“There was no affair. If anything, Wendy was asexual. She could take it or leave it.” His features clenched as though he thought that might have been because of some inadequacies on his part.
The image of his naked, aroused body flashed into her mind, along with the other memory: the feel of him large and hard against her belly, the sheer sizzling need his kiss aroused. Granted, she hadn’t known Ethan, hadn’t kissed him, or seen him naked, but Mark had no cause to fear his sexual prowess was lacking in any area.
She considered telling him, but decided it might end up in a “prove it” battle of wills, and that was a war she could too easily lose. Or win. She blushed and clamped her lips tight.
Mark ran his hands through his hair. “I didn’t kill her. I hardly saw her. I was readying Marshall’s—our restaurant—for our grand opening. She was handling the business end, the books, the money. I was in charge of the kitchens, the menus, the food, the wines.”
“What happened?”
“That’s just it…I don’t know. I wasn’t there. I was at the restaurant.”
She nodded, drank latte, then said, “What can I do to help you find out the truth?”
His eyebrows arched. “Why would you want to?”
“Because I have to.”
