When he was done, they each put together their own, spooned Swiss cheese sauce over the filled crepes, and carried them to the dining room table, already set in a casual way.
Natalie picked up her fork, but she had no interest in eating. "What's wrong?" she asked quietly.
John balled up his napkin and squeezed it in a fist. "I don't know any way to say this, except straight out. It looks like Stuart gunned down a couple of drug dealers and stole a hefty shipment of heroin. I think it's either the heroin or the money he sold it for that has people breaking into your house."
Natalie suddenly felt numb. The fork dropped from her hand. "Stuart killed men for drugs?"
In a frustrated motion, John threw the napkin and reached across the table to grip her hand. "I talked to a guy today who saw him do it. Stuart had arrested him a couple of years ago. My gut says this guy was telling the truth."
Still, shock held her immobile. "Stuart?"
Her husband? The man who kept an album of newspaper clippings about the arrests he'd made and the medals he'd won and the groups to whom he'd spoken? The hero with whom she'd fallen in love? The man she'd married, the man who had made love to her, was not only capable of cold-bloodedly killing for drugs or money, he'd actually done it?
John's mouth twisted. "I don't want to believe it, either."
"Stuart? It couldn't have been Stuart. He was a hero!" she argued, as much with herself as him. "Do you remember that boy he pulled from the lake? No." She shook her head. "No, not Stuart. He couldn't have."
John's gaze held compassion. "I'm afraid he did."
She tried again to grapple with the unimaginable. "But why?" she asked in complete bafflement. "I don't understand."
His grip on her hand tightened. "I've had more time to think about this than you have. Stuart had gotten bitter about our pay. Do you remember how angry he was when the city council denied the chief's request for additional budget to add five officers and give an across-the-board five percent pay raise?"
She did remember. Stuart had come home that day with his face contorted with rage. His ranting had scared her. When she'd set dinner on the table, he'd picked up his plate and flung it against the wall, stomping out, only to stagger home late that night and fall into bed drunk.
"A lousy five percent raise," she said softly. "He kept saying that."
John let out a heavy sigh and released her hand. "His reaction was way out of proportion. I don't think it was the money. He saw it as a slap in the face. He wanted respect. He wanted it more badly than I realized."
"Or than I did." Natalie stared unseeing at her untouched dinner. "How was doing something horrible like that going to earn him more respect?"
"Maybe it wasn't supposed to. Maybe it was payback. Or maybe he was just fed up, and the money was a way out. Maybe, once the heat was off, he would have handed in his badge."
She looked up swiftly. "But he loved being a police officer! That's who he was!"
John's jaw tightened. "Was it?"
An irrelevant realization diverted her, cracked the wall of numbness. "That's how he could afford to buy Foxfire. I thought about it today, while I was riding." Pain seeped through. "He bought me a present with stolen heroin. Drugs soaked in blood."
John said nothing, and she saw in his eyes that it was true.
"How would he ever have explained…" Throat closing, she stopped. He wouldn't have explained. She had known full well that Stuart had lost interest in her and their marriage. She had been an impulse. Or else she'd disappointed him in some way. She would never know now. But he had intended to leave her. No, to ask her to leave—the house was his, after all, as he'd made plain enough. She was the outsider. The one who didn't really belong.
"Foxfire was … a farewell gift." She laughed bitterly. "Like rich men with mistresses. He knew I wouldn't want a ruby necklace."
"You don't know."
"What else?"
John swore. "How am I supposed to answer that? Maybe he just didn't understand how you'd see it. He loved you and wanted to share his newfound wealth."
"Oh, no." She was shaking her head hard. "He knew. Why else didn't he tell me?"
John said nothing. She looked down at his hand, fingering his fork. Slow understanding built into shock that made her chest hurt.
"You think he did tell me, don't you?"
He blinked. "Of course not!"
"Oh, my God." She shoved back from the table. "You think I've known all along."
Swearing, John blundered to his feet. "No, I don't. Damn it, Natalie."
The hurt was blinding. "Did I kill Ronald Floyd because he wanted the money?"
"Natalie…"
She backed away when he reached for her. "Don't touch me! I…" She pressed a hand to her mouth. "I need to leave."
He blocked her way. "You're not going anywhere until you listen to me."
"I don't have to!" she shouted. "Why should I? You've … you've been playing me all along, haven't you? Keeping an eye on me. What were you doing? Waiting until I slipped out to check my stolen millions in my secret safe-deposit box?"
She'd moved away as far as she could. He grabbed her shoulders and gave her a firm shake. "Goddamn it, Natalie, listen to me!"
Sobbing for breath, she stared at his furious face.
Voice low and intense, he said, "I know damn well that Stuart didn't tell you. You're a woman of integrity. Do you think I can't see that? I'd trust you with my life. It never crossed my mind that you have that money."
Tears ran down her face, and still she stared.
"I promise," he said more gently.
"You … you believe me?" Her voice wobbled.
"Yeah. I believe you."
She swallowed. "Oh."
He growled something under his breath and yanked her up against him. Natalie went, burrowing into his shirt, instinctively seeking the powerful beat of his heart. When she found it and felt safe, she cried.
The sobs were deep and compulsive, beyond her ability to stop. It was as if she cried for every grief at once. Every pain swirled together in a kaleidoscope: her realization that her husband hadn't loved her; the loss of him, the thud of dark earth on the shiny casket; her loneliness, her bitterness, her denial; and, finally, this understanding that she had been so wrong about who the man she married really was.
She cried until her nose ran and her eyes swelled and the front of John's shirt was soaked. All the time, he squeezed her tight, his hands moving in a soothing rhythm on her back. He murmured something, probably nonsense. It's okay. It'll be all right. She felt his cheek against her hair, the small kisses he pressed to the top of her head.
Somehow, it was always John who held her. She didn't know why; she had no right. He wasn't a father or brother or husband. Stuart's friend, he had inherited her. She hated the sense that she was an obligation, like a pet he'd taken in because no one else wanted it.
She rested finally, forehead against the solid wall of John's chest. Her mind drifted. Was it true that he would trust her with his life? Was their friendship, then, not as one-sided as she had feared? Did he need those nightly calls as badly as she did?
He was still murmuring, his voice hoarse. Natalie took a shuddery breath and drew back. Only reluctantly, it seemed, did he let her go.
She kept her gaze downcast, not wanting to see his expression or him to see her swollen face. "I need…"
John thrust a paper towel into her hand.
Natalie blew her nose firmly. "I think I need to go wash my face," she said, and fled.
In the bathroom, she splashed cold water on her face over and over until the blotches paled and her eyes reappeared between puffy lids. Gripping the sink, the water still running, Natalie looked squarely at herself in the mirror and winced.
It was lucky she cried so seldom, since she obviously didn't have a gift for doing it prettily.
On one level, she knew she was examining herself carefully in the mirror to avoid thinking about John's revelation or John h
imself.
She didn't succeed for long. He would be waiting out there for her to reappear. They weren't done, she knew. Even if it was true that he trusted her integrity, the rest of his department had no reason to feel the same. Even the others who knew her would have to wonder. If her husband was a cold-blooded killer and a crook, what did that make her? They'd seen her mourn at his graveside, but didn't know that her marriage had essentially been over. How could John shield her?
Once they found the money, which she had no doubt they would, given their determination, how would she be able to prove she hadn't known about it? They might not be able to prove in a court of law that she had, but she was scared nonetheless.
Natalie washed her face one more time, brushed her hair and went back to the kitchen.
John stood almost where she'd left him, his head hanging, hands dangling at his sides. At the sound of her footstep, his head shot up.
"Did he sell the heroin?" she asked straight away.
"We don't know."
"Is it … is it the drug dealers he stole from who are looking for the drugs?"
His expression shifted, and for a moment she thought he intended to lie. Then he grimaced, rubbed a hand tiredly over his face, and said bleakly, "The informant insists there were two or maybe three cops. Stuart was the only one he got a good look at."
Now she gaped. "Two or three? Not just Stuart?"
"It would appear so." His expression had hardened. "Not necessarily Port Dare officers. He could have hooked up with a county deputy, maybe." He told her about the men dressed in black SWAT team uniforms who had raided the powerboat. "To salve his own self-respect, our guy wanted to believe there were at least three, but I'm guessing from his uncertainty that it was just Stuart and one other cop. Someone he worked well with."
"But you two were partners," she blurted, and then regretted immediately what sounded like an accusation.
A muscle jumped in John's cheek. "It has occurred to me that others will think the same. You're not alone, you know."
"So we'll both be investigated?"
"Eventually." He hesitated. "Unless we figure out first who he was working with."
"You mean, you and Geoff."
John said nothing for a moment, again seeming to battle with himself. At last he gave his head a shake and said, "Actually, Hugh's the one who uncovered the informant."
She absorbed that. Of course, his brothers knew everything. Taking a breath, Natalie asked, "Do they know you're telling me all this?"
"They assumed I would."
"They don't have any reason to trust me."
"You mean my brothers?" John shrugged, looking surprised. "One for all, and all that."
How easily he said that, she marveled. What must it be like, knowing so effortlessly that you weren't in any mess alone, that your word would always be accepted, your side of any story believed?
Natalie was friends with her sister, but their relationship was nothing like the one John had with Hugh and Connor.
Younger, Maryke had never resented their stepfather the way Natalie did. She was always good natured, malleable, less determined to fight than Natalie. "Why not just thank him?" she would say, not understanding her sister's truculence. Natalie had been left feeling alone, as she had felt ever since.
Until, she realized with slow astonishment, this very minute. John hadn't doubted her, and had implied that his brothers wouldn't, either. If John trusted her, they did.
Simple.
"I really didn't know." Natalie felt it needed to be said once.
He raised his brows. "Of course you didn't. You'd have left him."
Confession time. "I don't think we'd have been married much longer, no matter what. I should have told you that from the beginning. I'm sorry. You took care of me because I was Stuart's wife, and I didn't want to lose that. But the truth is…" Hesitating, she squeezed her fingers together and was grateful that she seemed to be cried out.
John was watching her with creases deepening between his brows. "The truth is…" he prompted, without giving away what he thought.
She moistened dry lips. "Stuart wanted me but had no real idea of what marriage involved. The house was always his, and I never felt like more than a guest." Humiliated at the admission, she said, "I … I tried so hard to pretend the marriage was more real than it was. But I think he was getting tired of me, and I was getting tired of pretending." She breathed at last, finishing starkly, "And then he died, and I didn't want to tell everybody that we weren't happy together." Natalie searched John's face for understanding. "It isn't that I didn't grieve, please don't think that. He was my husband! But the ending was just … just a different kind of ending than I expected. I felt sad for him more than for myself. I thought…" Oh, this got harder and harder to say. "I thought it was somehow my fault that our marriage didn't work better. That maybe I'm not very good at … at intimacy. You've said the same yourself."
He let out a gritty sound. "No, that's not what I said. I've been frustrated sometimes because I want to know you better than I do, and you don't make it easy."
"No," she said desolately. "I guess I don't."
A glow deep in his eyes, John gripped her shoulders again. "He couldn't possibly have been tired of you."
She tried to interpret his tone, hoping and praying he meant what she wanted him to. Lowering her gaze to the top button of his shirt, she said, "I'm not that exciting. I know that. I just wanted… I thought…" She made a face, finishing in a rush, "Marriage meant having one person who thought I was. Who always would think I was." She stole a shy look. "You know?"
His mouth had a tender twist. "Stuart was crazy."
Almost fiercely, Natalie said, "Now, I'm glad he didn't love me. I'm glad I already knew I'd made a mistake."
"The son of a bitch didn't deserve you."
The vehemence in John's voice widened her eyes and set her heart to drumming.
"Thank you." She tried to say it lightly. "What would I do without you to boost my ego?"
What would she do without him, period? If he tired of her?
He bent his head. His mouth a hairbreadth from hers, he said softly, with purpose, "Good thing you won't have to find out."
Natalie took that in, understood that he was promising … what? Eternal friendship? Or love?
Suddenly she couldn't bear to have one and not the other. Which was why she lifted her mouth to meet his, all her fears scattering.
This was a chance she had to take.
* * *
Chapter 11
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His mouth devoured hers, his body was hard, demanding. Natalie's mind blurred and she was instantly filled with urgency as powerful as his. She wound her fingers in the thick, fiery silk of his hair and kissed John back, her tongue sliding against his. A low groan started in his chest, and while one of his hands cradled her nape, his other gripped her hip and pulled her tightly up against him.
It was all happening so fast. Instead of a timid awakening of sexual response, she felt a desperate readiness that must have been building for days. Weeks. When his hips shoved against hers, Natalie's thighs opened to allow his knee to press between. He lifted her, and shamelessly she rode his powerful, jean-clad thigh. But it wasn't enough. She wanted him.
Natalie murmured wordless demands. His groan deepened and his hand moved from her nape over her collarbone to her breast, where he gently squeezed and weighed and rubbed. She whimpered, hearing herself in shock. One kiss, and she was ready to lie down on his kitchen floor if only he would take her here and now.
Instead he swept her up in his arms so suddenly she shrieked and grabbed hold. Above her, his face was taut, a flush darkening his cheekbones and his eyes glittering. She had never seen John McLean be anything but gentle and patient. Seeing his expression of tense, hot sexual need gave her a jolt of gratification. This was the face of a man desperate for the woman in his arms. Her.
He carried her effortlessly up the stairs to his bedroom. Her feet
brushed framed photographs on the walls of the hall, rocking and tilting them. John's long stride didn't check. She kissed his throat and loved the vibration she'd awakened.
Natalie had never been in his room. As he carried her the few steps to the bed, she had a kaleidoscopic impression of white walls and oak floor, Victorian oak dresser and dizzying circles in vivid colors on a wool hooked rug that hung on the wall.
At the bed, he paused. Natalie's mouth stilled on his jaw when she felt his muscles tighten, lock. After a moment, he let her slide exquisitely down his body, but instead of kissing her again or bearing her down onto the huge, comforter-covered bed, he looked searchingly at her with eyes that held a latent glow.
Alarm squeezed her chest. "What?" she whispered.
"Are you sure?" he asked hoarsely.
She didn't want to think. She would rather have been swept away. Of course she had her share of doubts! No, she wasn't sure. How could she be, when tomorrow and a month from now were so uncertain, so perilous?
But this very minute, Natalie couldn't bear it if he stopped, if he was gentlemanly and, while she straightened her clothes and retreated like the coward she so often was, said, Fine. No, it's okay. I don't mind.
Was she sure she wanted to do this, whatever her fears?
"Yes." She spoke more strongly than she'd known she could. "I'm sure."
The sound he made was raw, thankful. In one move he lifted her, put her on the bed and was on top of her, his mouth seizing hers. These kisses became less skilled, more frantic, his teeth nipping hard at her lower lip, hers at his neck, their every breath gasping. She struggled to tug off his shirt as he was pulling hers over her head. No, he hadn't lost his skill—the catch of her bra took one flick of his fingers, and he was murmuring a litany of pleasure as he kissed her breasts, suckled, rubbed.
Arching against his mouth, she cried out. She had never felt so beautiful, so powerful, so humble and needy.
So loved, and achingly aware of what she had missed all her life.
His patience snapped, and he rose above her to shed his khakis and slide her jeans and panties down her legs with that hot light in his eyes. He kissed his way back up her legs, shaven jaw rough against the soft skin of her inner thigh, breath molten as it ruffled her curls. He nuzzled only for a second, groaned and reached for the drawer in the bedside stand.
HIS PARTNER'S WIFE Page 15
