by Vicki Hinze
“No, it’s not okay.”
She shot him a glare that he’d be feeling in his grave. “It’s my choice, Jonathan, and I’ve made it.” She reached for the doorknob.
He leaned against the door, shoulder to wood, and stared at her. Jonathan. Only Bess had ever called him that. He’d missed it. And he hated that he’d missed it. Hated that he’d missed her. She was stubborn, strong, and so damn beautiful it hurt him to look at her. His stomach curled and he fisted a hand in his coat pocket. “Your choice affects me, too, yet you’ve locked me out of the decision-making process. That’s hardly fair.”
“So who said life was fair?” Her eyes widened, and her pupils dilated. “Life is not fair, John. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but this is the real world, and one day you’re going to have to live in it just like the rest of us. In the meantime, could you please move aside so I can open the door?”
A barrel of anger bounced around in his gut. He should let her have it, but he couldn’t. He’d done this to her. How, he wasn’t sure. But Bess had never been this way before and, Lord knew, before her death, Meriam Richards sure never missed a chance to tell him he was to blame. Bess and Meriam had been close. Bess hadn’t told him why she’d left him, but she’d evidently told Meriam. “So you’d rather go to jail than to touch anything of mine—or of ours?”
“Jail?” Bess’s jaw fell slack.
He nodded.
“Why in the world would I go to jail?” She snorted. “I hate to break it to you, darling, but me not taking your money isn’t a crime to anyone but you.”
Darling. Once the endearment had struck him nearly as powerfully as her Jonathan. It didn’t anymore. Now it rang as empty as an echo. As solid as a reflection. But his hunch had been right. She didn’t know about the judge’s order. “I hate to break it to you, darling, but it is a crime—at least according to Judge Branson.”
“Don’t call me that.” She clamped her jaw shut and shuttered the anger from her eyes. “Judge Branson? What have you done to me?”
“Me?” How typical that even this was John’s fault.
“Well, who else?” She jerked at his coat sleeve to tug him away from the door.
“Don’t get physical, Bess, unless you’re serious about it.” He lifted his brows.
She jerked back as if he’d burned her. “Would you just move?”
“Not until you apologize. I haven’t done anything to you, and I don’t appreciate your saying I have—and I don’t appreciate your darling, either. You walked out on me.” He started to object to her calling him Jonathan as well—his name was John and what once had been her pet name for him and had made him feel so special now grated at his ears—but he couldn’t bring himself to actually do it.
“Here we go again.” She let out a sigh that could power a substation for a week.
“If you’d talk to me just once about this, it’d be done. But, no, not you. You walk out and consider yourself above even giving me an explanation.”
“If you don’t mind, can we get back to this jail business?” She swept her hair back from her face. The wind tore more of it loose from the bow at her nape and she held it back with a cupped hand. “Why is Judge Branson jailing me?”
“Call your lawyer, darling.” John slid away from the door.
She frowned at him, deliberately holding it so he wouldn’t miss it. “You know exactly why and you’re just being contrary by not telling me. I never liked that about you—your being contrary. In fact, I hated it.”
She’d hated it. She’d hated him. And maybe it was time she regretted both. Yeah, maybe it was past time. “You loved it.” He gave her his best killer smile. “And me.”
“I hated it, I said.” Pain flashed through her eyes. Anger chased it and burned. “And at times, God forgive me, I’ve hated you, too.”
She meant it. He nearly staggered from the blow. Both blows. That she’d felt these things and that she’d admitted feeling them. Bryce had said she’d changed, but . . . Double-checking, John baited her. “Liar.”
“Don’t you wish?” She grumbled then shoved past him and strode into the house.
John watched her back. Well, for the first encounter on a reunion meet, it could be going a lot worse. Could be better, too. She had let him peek inside her. That was a plus. But she had no right to still be beautiful to him. No right to still make him ache. And no right to make him remember how good the good times had been between them. Why did just looking at her still turn his gut inside out?
A champagne-colored mop of a dog, sporting a jiggling pink bow atop her head, ran across the entrance floor, nails clicking, tail wagging, and tongue hanging out. It passed the registration desk, where Bess stood flipping through mail, and came straight to John. Smiling he scooped up the tiny ragamuffin. It couldn’t weigh more than three pounds.
“That’s Silk.” Bess tossed an envelope back onto the counter between a green banker’s lamp and a wooden pen holder, then reached for the dog. “She’s mine.”
Silk whined at Bess and licked at her wrist, sending her a pleading message: Look but please don’t touch. I’m comfortable right where I am. John rewarded the pup with a good ear scratch.
“Stop being rude, you ungrateful vagabond.” Looking miffed, Bess grabbed the dog.
Poor Silk would pay for her loyalty lapse. Did Bess send her subtle messages, too? “Judge Branson is ticked because you left town without having the property settlement finalized. He’s holding you in contempt.”
Bess looked up at him, clearly surprised John had told her. She couldn’t be any more surprised than he was. Why had he told her?
The dog, he figured. Being met at the door by someone—well, something—glad to see him. He shrugged and took back the dog. “Save you a call to Francine.”
“Contempt is absurd. The dispute is settled.” She frowned at Silk, who was licking at John’s hand, then snatched her out of his arms, tucking her into her own. “The dog is mine, Jonathan.”
“Half-right.” He leaned against the wooden registration desk. “The dog is yours, but the dispute isn’t settled—and it won’t be until you agree to take half of our assets.”
She stared at him. The house grew oddly silent, almost as if it were waiting. The stately grandfather clock opposite the desk ticked, and a soft whir of the ceiling fan’s spinning blades overhead pulsed out a humming thump, thump, thump.
“I can’t do that.” Bess looked over at the ceramic boxes atop the desk.
“Well, I guess we won’t be getting a divorce, then.” He met her puzzled stare with a rock-hard, steady one. He wasn’t going to bend on this, and the woman had best realize it right up front.
“Fine.” She turned, hooked a left, and then started up the stairs. “It’s just a piece of paper and doesn’t change a thing.”
What the hell did that mean? Ending their marriage was no more than a formality to her?’ His ego took another stab. Hadn’t she bludgeoned it to death already?
He frowned up at her, her slim hips swaying step to step. His groin tightened, and his deathbed promise to Elise flitted through his mind. “You can’t just walk out this time, Bess. You’re going to have to face me sometime and tell me why.”
She stopped on the landing, below the two portraits of Seascape’s original owners, Collin and Cecelia Freeport. According to Miss Hattie, their love was a legend. And, simply put, John envied them. Even after one of them died, they’d known more of love than he’d ever known in his life and, from all indications, more than he ever would know of it.
Silk squirmed in Bess’s arms. She absently patted the dog, and glared down at John. “I’m not walking out. I am, however, leaving.”
Figured. Cut-and-run. Vintage Bess. “Bad idea, but no surprise.” John grabbed the banister. She was upset, all right. All cashmere and eel-skin and cool elegance on the outside, but mad as hell inside. About an eight on the scale, he figured. “When you’re packed, yell. I’ll carry your bags down.”
She lifted h
er chin. “I can take care of myself, thank you.”
“Fine.” He started up the steps. When she reached the top and he the landing, he stopped beneath the portraits. The temperature dropped ten degrees and a cool breeze that seemed to come from nowhere chilled his skin. He shivered and walked on, prickly and feeling . . . watched.
Seeing no source for that either, he pushed the feeling aside. Imagination, no more than that. Only he and Bess were in the house. Miss Hattie was still having tea with Miss Millie at the Antique Shoppe. “In case you’re interested,” he topped the stairs and turned the corner, “the fine is ten thousand dollars.”
At the end of the hall, Bess stumbled against a hand-carved bookshelf, then collapsed onto a plump window seat cushion. Tall Ships tumbled to the floor. The mullioned windows above her head let in soft gray light that swept over a white Berber rug and on down the shadowy hallway of closed doors.
“Ten thousand dollars?” She sounded breathless.
Oh, boy. A ten response if ever he’d seen one. Definitely a ten. He returned the book to the shelf, straightened its spine to match the others, then sat down beside her on the bench. Now that he had her attention—she was as pale as a ghost—what did he do with it? “Or jail.”
“Good grief.” Silk scooted off her lap and crossed the cushion to John.
“Only you would do this to me.” Anger flashed in Bess’s eyes. “Only you.”
“Hey, Doc,” he used his pet name for her without thinking, “I haven’t done a thing here, except to try to pay your fine.”
“You didn’t.” She dragged her lip between her teeth but still failed to hide her frown.
“I did. Ask Bryce.” John gave Silk’s back a stroke. “Branson refused to let me cover it—even though it was our money.”
“You set me up, didn’t you? You paid off Branson to make this divorce even tougher on me.” She stood up, stiff-spined and hands fisted, but her voice remained oh-so-cool. “I knew you were a jerk, John Mystic. I didn’t know you were vicious or crooked.”
She knew better. It was anger talking. Bess’s rendition of pulling out the heavy guns. “Now why would I do that?”
“To punish me.”
“What for?” As if he ever had punished her for anything.
“For divorcing you and wounding your overinflated ego by refusing to touch your fortune.” She blew out a breath reeking of frustration. “That really galls you, doesn’t it? That you can’t buy me off to soothe your conscience just eats you up inside.”
Buy her off? Soothe his conscience? She’d walked out on him. God, but this infuriated him. How could she stand there looking so beautiful, sling arrows that cut right through his heart, and look so unaffected and calm? She more than infuriated him. And her accusation made him sick. What kind of man did she think he’d become? “I never tried to buy you, Bess. Never.”
“Admit it. That is what this is all about. You. Mr. Hotshot Private Investigator who’s got it all. Looks, money, the whole nine yards. You’ve always had everything your way—until now. Well, consider this reveille. I will not bend and take your money, Jonathan. Why in the world your mother—”
He snapped his head up. “Don’t!”
“Oh, right.” Bess slapped at a crease in her slacks. “I forgot that your mother is a forbidden topic. Excuse me, Mr. Mystic, for breaching yet another of those areas of your life where you shut out everyone—including your wife.”
His chest went tight. This wasn’t getting them anywhere. Her standing there huffing with righteous indignation, him sitting here feeling like a put-upon slug. “Let’s stop this, okay?” What in God’s name had come over her? In all their time together he’d never seen her act like this. So . . . emotional. And again the secret about his parents weighed heavily on his soul. If not for knowing what the truth would do to Selena, he could risk telling Bess. But he couldn’t afford the risk because Selena could have to pay the price.
“Gladly.” She visibly grabbed control and slid back behind her sleek mask of porcelain-skinned indifference. “You can lie to me, but you can’t lie to yourself. This is about ego—yours. And about money.”
“Listen to you.” He shook his head and stood up. “You’re an intelligent woman, but do you realize how stupid you sound right now?”
“Jonathan, do not insult me.” Her chin quivered.
Whether near tears or near committing murder, he couldn’t decide. “Okay. Yeah. Yeah, you’re right, Bess. You’re exactly right. I’ve busted my buns to turn a modest inheritance into a fortune and, thanks to Elise’s investment advice, I succeeded. Now, I just can’t stand the thought of not giving half of it to you to spend on that sorry Spaniard.” He shrugged. “Makes perfect sense to me.” Silk yapped. “Makes sense to her, too.”
“You leave Miguel out of this.” Bess narrowed her eyes. “And knock off the sarcasm. It’s counterproductive.”
“And not telling me why you’re ending our marriage isn’t?”
“Would you stop already? What’s the difference anymore?”
Their relationship really was over. There wasn’t a shred of hope. A sick feeling settled in his stomach. Anger, denial, rose to fight it. He’d promised Elise. “No difference at all. In fact, you should check with Francine. Maybe there’s some obscure legal precedent set where a man wanting his wife to be financially secure qualified as abuse. You could sue the socks off me. Humiliate me some more—though with you being seen all over town hanging onto Santos, you’d have to work hard at it. What are the odds of pulling it off, do you think?”
She rolled her gaze ceilingward. “I do not hang all over anyone, and I refuse to listen to this. Miguel is my friend and he has nothing to do with this. You’re making a mockery of—of this entire situation.”
John stepped closer. Her back to the wall, they stood chest to breasts, and he dropped his voice. “This situation is our marriage, darling. And if anyone is making a mockery of it, it’s you.”
She shoved against his shoulder, passed him, then entered her room—the Great White. Just inside the door, she spun around to face him. “You are making a mockery of this, John. You’ve told me I’m going to jail.” Hopping on one foot, she tugged at her sandal strap, then slung the shoe to the floor.
It hit the planks with a firm thunk that sent Silk scurrying under the bed, diving for cover. John half-considered joining her.
Bess reached for her other shoe. “You’ve had your fun. Now would you please just . . . go away?”
“Fun?” Taking five to cool down, he glanced around the large room decorated in blues and soft greens. The adjoining turret room windows were open. The shades were up and the sheer curtains billowed in a sea-scented breeze. “Right. I always thought the idea of you behind bars was a real hoot, Bess. Hey, if Francine pulls off the abuse bit, maybe we can get adjoining cells.”
“That’s one of the most ridiculous things I’ve ever heard come out of your mouth and there have been some real winners.”
He stepped closer and looked down his nose at her. “Another thing we have in common.”
She glared up at him. The fire died in her eyes. They went soft, vulnerable, and she was trying so hard not to let him see either. The anger drained right out of him and the urge to kiss some sense into her, to kiss her until she understood he only wanted reassurance she’d be independent and cared for, slammed into him with the force of a sledge. “God, why do we still have the ability to hurt each other so much? Why?” He didn’t want to hurt Bess. He’d never wanted to hurt her.
“Jonathan, don’t,” she whispered breathlessly, her chest lifting with rapid breaths and brushing against his, the pulse at her throat pounding against her creamy skin.
Sliding his hand up her arm to her bare shoulder, he gave her a puzzled frown.
“Don’t kiss me.” She swallowed hard and her lips parted. “Please.”
She feared him kissing her. Feared it. And yet her lips parted invitingly and the tip of her tongue touched the back of her teeth. Rem
embering the feel of her mouth mating with his, his body hardened. God help him, the magic was still there. He’d hoped it wouldn’t be—prayed it wouldn’t be. But it was. And he’d never expected it’d be so . . . strong. “Bess, I—”
“Please.”
There is hope. See it in her eyes. Give it time.
John let her go then stepped back, damning his conscience and himself for wanting that kiss. The look of relief on her face stung. “When you’re ready, I’ll, um, carry down your things.” He nodded toward the neat row of tapestry luggage just behind her.
She turned to look, then went rigid.
Silk parked on her haunches at the foot of the bed, alert, ears perked. She, too, sensed Bess’s sudden tension. John frowned. “What’s wrong?”
No answer.
“Bess?” A creepy feeling slithered up his back. “Answer me.”
“My bags.” She stared at them. “They’re packed.”
“You did say you were leaving.”
She looked up at him, her eyes wide. “I didn’t pack them. When I left here, my luggage was empty and in the closet.”
This rattled her. Why exactly, John didn’t know. But he didn’t like it. “Maybe Miss Hattie packed for you.”
“Why would she?” Bess frowned at him then looked back at the bags as if they were betrayers. “I’m booked here for another two weeks.”
“I arrived.” Seeing her upset got to him. Okay, they’d once loved each other, so upset was natural, he supposed. But it sure shouldn’t produce an almost irresistible urge to take her into his arms and kiss her until her fear gave out. That it did irritated him. She’d walked out on him, damn it. What more proof did he need that she couldn’t care less about him? And knowing that, why couldn’t he care less about her?
You promised.
He frowned at his conscience. It’d become a real nuisance lately.
For Elise, you swore you’d set matters right with you and Bess. Have you sunk so low that you’re comfortable lying to Elise and breaking your word? A man’s word is his bond, Jonathan.
