by Maggie Price
That the thought was like a dart to her heart had her blinking against a sudden ache. What was wrong with her? Hadn’t it been that acceptance that had compelled her to contact a lawyer? To have Bran served with divorce papers? Although he hadn’t said, she sensed he would soon sign them without further prodding from her. Why did the prospect of that suddenly make her heart feel as if it had started bleeding?
“Good grief, look at the time,” Morgan said. “If I don’t leave now I’ll be late for line-up.” She pecked Tory on the cheek, then her mother.
“Dear, on your way out tell Mrs. Jacobson that Tory’s ready to have her hem pinned as soon as she’s done with her other customer.”
“Ten-four.” Morgan grabbed her coat and purse, then dashed out the door.
Roma gave a light laugh, her dark eyes sparkling. Today her honey-brown hair was scooped into a neat twist and she wore a tidy jacket and trousers in rich chestnut flannel. “What Morgan means is she might not be half an hour early for line-up. That child has never been late for anything in her life.”
Pulling in a steadying breath, Tory returned her mother-in-law’s smile. “You and Mr. M raised six great kids.”
“Yes, we did.” Stepping forward, Roma met Tory’s gaze in the mirror. “The one sitting out in the living room right now strikes me as very unhappy. As do you. I worry about you both.”
“I’m sorry.” Tory turned, taking care not to step on the dress’s raw hem. “The last thing Bran and I want is to worry you.”
“It’s my job to worry about my children,” Roma said quietly, cupping her palm against Tory’s cheek. “All of them.”
The tears stinging her eyes caught Tory off guard. What would it have been like to have a wise, compassionate, giving mother like Roma McCall? she wondered. “Bran says while he was growing up, there was no slipping anything past you.”
“With six headstrong children, I couldn’t afford to let much get past me.” Roma shifted her hand, smoothed it over Tory’s long blond hair. “Would it help to talk about it?”
“Yes. No.” The thought of discussing her marital problems with Bran’s mother had Tory’s palms going damp. “I don’t know what to say, Mrs. M. When Bran left, I was stunned and hurt. So hurt. The other night I said some things that hurt him.” A frown tightened her brow. “And now I’m not even sure that what I said is how I really feel.” She shook her head. “I have no idea if that even matters. I guess the bottom line is Bran and I just turned out to be a bad match.”
“How so?” No matter how mild they were, Roma’s eyes were sharp and searching.
“Do you remember what I told you about how it was for me growing up?”
“Of course. Your mother shirked her responsibility, leaving you to fend for yourself, for the household. You had to raise your brother.”
“I watched her neediness drive my father away. In the end, he couldn’t stand to be around her. He left her, us, before Danny was even born.”
“Which is something you had no control over.” Roma’s eyes softened with compassion. “And now you don’t want to lean. On anybody.”
“I’m not sure I can bring myself to do that.”
“Do you think that’s what Brandon needs? A woman who leans on him?”
“I don’t just think it, I know it.” Tory dipped her head. “To be honest, Mrs. M, your son needs another Patience.”
“I can tell you my personal observations if you’d like to hear them,” Roma began quietly. “I don’t know if they will help, but they might.”
“You and Mr. M have been married nearly forty years. All of your kids turned out super. I have to figure you have a very good handle on people.”
“Believe me, a lot of things were hit and miss for me when it came to marriage and raising a family,” Roma said. “But when Brandon was born, I knew nothing about raising children. I relaxed after Nathan and Joshua came along. Then the girls. A lot of my being able to relax had to do with Brandon’s stepping naturally into big-brother mode. He was always a fierce protector, especially of the girls. With me getting my landscaping business off the ground and Ian working his shift at the department, the girls got into the habit of turning to Brandon when toys needed to be fixed and knees got scraped.” Roma’s mouth twitched. “Or some boy got overly friendly. Always, Brandon took control, dealt with whatever came along and generally made things better. When he met Patience, she was happy to have him do that for her, too.”
“And he was happy doing that.” Tory raised a shoulder, shifting a thin, blue-silk strap against her flesh. “Then she died and I came along—”
“And I’m thankful you did.”
“Even though your eldest son is sitting out there on the couch right now, brooding?”
“Even though. Tory, I loved Patience with all my heart, and I grieved when she died. It was a terrible time for all of us. But in my heart I always wished she had been a little more strong-willed. Like you. You’re a much better match for Brandon.”
Tory wouldn’t have been more surprised if her mother-in-law had picked up a bolt of fabric and hit her over the head. “I’m…excuse me?”
“Brandon and Patience started dating when they were in junior high. With her, he didn’t have to change from big-brother role, he just continued in control, dealing with whatever came along. It was Patience’s nature to shy away from confrontation and she deferred to Brandon without what I’m sure was conscious thought. I don’t believe they ever even argued. For myself, I can’t begin to imagine being married to a hardheaded Scotsman and not finding anything to argue about.” Roma shook her head. “At times I’ve been so angry with Ian that I’ve been tempted to order him outside to spend a few nights with the dog.”
Tory’s mouth twitched at the image of her tall, strapping father-in-law huddled in the doghouse with the McCalls’ German Shepherd, Fiona. “Arguing is one thing Bran and I seem to excel at.”
“Because you’re so much alike,” Roma said simply.
“Too much. That’s the problem.”
“Not the way I see things, Tory. In my mind, equals make the best marriage. You’re equals, yet you have different strengths, which complement your different weaknesses. What you’re not good at, Brandon is. What he’s not good at, you are.”
“If we’re such a good match, how come we want to brain each other with the handiest blunt object most of the time?”
“I can’t give you a definitive answer,” Roma said gently. “All I can say is that marriage is a school of learning all to itself. You learn about compromise, not only about where your spouse is willing to bend, but yourself as well.”
“What if neither is willing to bend? Or can’t bend?”
“In that case, I’d say the love necessary to hold a marriage together just isn’t there.”
The memory of how good things had been between her and Bran when they’d first met rose inside Tory, taking her breath. “I…wouldn’t have married your son if I hadn’t loved him. I think the same goes for Bran where I’m concerned.”
“I saw how the two of you were together before the problems started crowding in. It was obvious how much you loved each other.”
“And now?”
Sighing, Roma pressed a kiss to her cheek. “I don’t think either of you would be so unhappy if your feelings for each other had changed.”
“Bro, you have to keep in mind Tory knows what she’s doing,” Nate McCall said that night when he edged in beside Bran’s barstool. Clad in gray wool slacks and a crisp white shirt, its sleeves rolled up two careful turns, Nate looked more like a mid-level executive than a homicide cop.
He caught a bartender’s attention, ordered a bottled beer. “She’s a pro,” Nate added, his voice low enough to negate any remote possibility of being heard over the band’s steady beat.
“If I didn’t think she could handle herself, she wouldn’t be where she is right now.”
Keeping his eyes on Tory’s reflection in the mirrored pillar in the center of the island bar, Bran felt adrenal
ine bolt into his bloodstream while he watched her tug the professor onto the dance floor. The greasy pool of emotion that churned in his gut had him tightening his fingers on the glass of Scotch he’d yet to drink from.
As she had last night, she wore the dark, spiky wig and brown contact lenses. Instead of the miniskirt, she’d opted for a pair of skinny black slacks that missed covering her navel by a good inch. The hem of her red sweater stopped short of her waist. The tiny silver bar in her belly button glinted when the light was just right.
Against his drink glass, Bran’s fingers itched to touch that small piece of silver.
Nate raised a brow. “So, that’s my point. Since you know she can handle herself, you ought to relax.”
“I am relaxed.”
“Is that why you look like you’ve got a metal rod for a spine?”
Biting back a curse, Bran forced himself to loosen up, muscle by muscle.
“Nothing’s going to happen to her,” Nate said. “We’ve got undercover cops outside. There are three cop couples mixed in with the other dancers on the floor. I’m here. You’re here. Tory’s safe.”
“Yeah.” The band’s melodic, druggy rhythm seeped into his brain. “I don’t like the fact he’s got his hands on her.”
Nate paid for the long neck the bartender delivered, then shot Bran a smug smile. “Because we’re pretty sure Harry Smith’s connected to Heath, or because she’s your wife? Or maybe a little of both?”
Bran slicked a cool, killing look his brother’s way. “Back off, Dr. Phil.”
Nate sipped his beer. “Guess that answers my question.”
“I wish to hell other answers were as easy to dig up.”
“Like what?”
“Earlier today, I took Tory over to that seamstress’s house. The one who’s sewing all the wedding dresses? Anyway, it’s obvious she and Mom had a talk.”
Nate glanced at the dance floor, then caught Bran’s gaze. “What about?”
“My gut tells me you’re looking at him.”
“What got said?”
“Who the hell knows? But it was something that made Tory get real quiet the rest of the day. A couple of times I caught her watching me. Giving me this unreadable look.”
“Maybe she was admiring your great physique.”
“Yeah, you got to figure she and Mom talked about what a stud I am,” Bran drawled.
Keeping his gaze locked on the dance floor’s mirrored reflection, he raised his hand to scrub across his jaw, and stopped short at the feel of the fake beard. Dammit, he didn’t think he’d ever get used to wearing the disguise.
“The looks Tory gave me were more in the line of thoughtful. Deep and thoughtful.”
“Those generally mean trouble for the male species,” Nate advised.
“This observation from a guy who doesn’t have relationships, just encounters.”
“You got it. I get more than one deep, thoughtful look from the same woman, I have to figure she’s decided our ‘encounter’ ought to shift gears. Develop strings. That’s when I know it’s time to move on.”
In the mirror, Bran watched Tory smile at something the professor said.
You have lost me, Bran.
Her comment had been eating at his gut like acid since the instant she’d made it. Now, sitting there watching her dance with another man, he felt an imperceptible shift inside him, and he knew without a doubt his walking out on their marriage had been the biggest mistake of his life.
His life, which down the corridor of the next fifty or so years suddenly looked desolate.
No more Tory, turning over in the middle of the night and reaching for him. No Tory to share quiet Sundays with. No Tory to debate him, to stand toe-to-toe with him and take him to the wall when she disagreed with his views.
He set his jaw. It had taken him so long to come to his senses. Too long to realize his mistake that now there was nothing he could do about changing her mind.
No way he could see to gain her trust again.
No Tory.
“Song’s over,” Nate murmured. “Let’s hope she found out something we can use about Harry Smith, aka the professor. I’m ready to get Heath and all his pals in a cell and wrap up this case.”
“Yeah,” Bran said. “The sooner everything’s over, the better.”
“Where you going, dollface?”
Tory glanced at the couples moving off the dance floor, then looked back at her partner. He was again clad all in black, his T-shirt and jeans showing off his well-disciplined physique.
“The band’s taking a break,” she said while attempting to untangle her fingers from his.
“That doesn’t mean I want a break from you.” Keeping his hand firmly linked with hers, he inclined his head toward the bar. “That guy over there you were dancing with last night?”
Tory flicked a look at Bran. Although he hunkered on a barstool with his back to the dance floor, she knew he was watching them in the mirrored pillar. Nate stood beside him, grinning while he chatted up a petite undercover cop.
“What about him?”
“He going to slam a fist in my face if you and I have a drink?”
“Well, I did come here with him.” She adjusted the strap of the small leather purse that hung off one shoulder. “But he and I met just the other night so we’ve got no claim on each other.”
“A woman with no strings is my favorite kind.” His gaze traveled down, all the way to the sharp heels of her black ankle boots, then back up again. “Especially a tall, lean one with legs up to her ears. Let’s you and I go over to my booth and have that drink.”
“Sorry, sugar, I just don’t drink with a man who hasn’t properly introduced himself.”
When he grinned, his poet’s face took on an edge of charm. Tory had to admit that all that shaggy black hair, piercing eyes and dark stubble went a long way to drawing a woman’s gaze.
“I told you to call me Lucky.”
“You said that’s because I asked you to dance.”
“Yeah.” In one smooth move he released her fingers and wrapped an arm around her waist. When his palm settled on the bare flesh between her sweater and slacks, she held back a shiver. She gave thought to the small black crow tattooed on the web of that hand, and suppressed shiver number two.
“I’ll make you a deal,” he said.
“What sort of deal?”
“You let me buy you a drink and I’ll tell you all about myself.”
She squelched the nerves she felt creeping in. She would let her system jitter later. “Well, I never could resist a handsome man.”
“I doubt there’s a man alive who could resist you,” he said as he prodded her across the now-empty dance floor.
She slid into one side of the booth, remaining close enough to the end of the seat that he couldn’t slide in beside her. Shrugging, he settled across from her.
“You shy, dollface?”
“Just like to keep my distance.”
It took the blond waitress about five seconds to move in with her order pad. Kandy Krutchfield’s expression was as cold as winter. “Get you something?”
Seemingly amused, he grinned at her. “Now, Kandy, don’t get upset. Tracy and I are just going to sit here and chat.”
“Better be all you’re going to do, lover.”
Tory arched a brow. The professor’s girlfriend was sending a clear message she’d already staked a claim.
After ordering tonic water with a slice of lime, Tory slid a hand into her purse. While the professor ordered for himself, she pulled out her compact with the small camera embedded inside, then a tube of lipstick.
“I get the idea you’re not a single man,” she said after Kandy stalked off.
“Kandy and I are sort of like you and the guy at the bar. We’ve got no claim on each other.”
“Doesn’t sound to me like she knows that.”
He shrugged. “She’ll get over being mad.”
“Hmm.” Tory gave him a slow smile. �
�So?”
His brow furrowed. “So, what?”
“You promised to tell me all about yourself. Let’s start with your name.”
“My friends call me the professor.”
Her eyes widened. “You’re kidding, right? I was around a guy the other night who was talking about you.” She opened the compact, then pulled off the cap on the lipstick and swivelled up the hot-red tube. “Well, or some other guy who goes by that same name. I suppose there could be more than one man calling himself the professor.”
Over the top of her compact, she saw the caution kick into his dark eyes. “Just who was doing the talking?”
“A salesman named George.” She snapped two close-ups of the professor while she applied an arc of red to her lips. “We were playing poker at the same table. At a game run by a big man named Jazz. You know him?”
“Jazz.” He visibly relaxed. “I’ve played in a couple of his games since I’ve been back.”
“Back from where?” She laid the compact and lipstick tube on the table between them.
“Houston.”
Kandy appeared and served their order. After spearing them both with a warning look, she moved off.
“Houston’s a nice place,” Tory observed. “What business are you in?”
“Oil-field work.” He sipped the whiskey he’d ordered, then raised a brow when she left her tonic untouched. “Have you changed your mind about what you want to drink, dollface? I’ll be happy to buy you something that’s got more kick than tonic water.”
“You’d just be wasting your money. Like I said, I don’t drink with a man who won’t tell me his name.”
“I told you, all my friends call me the professor.”
“You and I aren’t friends.”
He settled his hand over hers. “We will be. So we might as well start out on a friendly basis.”
Clearly, he wasn’t going to be more forthcoming on the subject. Since she didn’t want to spook him with additional questions, she shrugged.
“I think there’s just one small problem with our becoming friends.” Sliding her hand from under his, she picked up her glass.
“What’s that?”
“Kandy won’t like the idea.”
