Risk of a Lifetime

by Claudia Shelton

  He settled back on the sofa and waited. Still no Marcy. Where was she? How long could it take to shove a few things in a backpack? He headed down the hallway and found her leaning against the wall. A backpack on one side of her feet, a duffle on the other side. How much stuff did she think he’d let her take?

  Grabbing the backpack, he walked over to the window in the guest bedroom and dropped it next to his on the floor. The thud as the thing landed told him the book was inside. Aw, hell. He moved the book to his backpack.

  But, for damn sure the other bag she had in the hallway wasn’t going.

  “Marcy?”

  “I’m in the living room.”

  He walked to the sound of her voice, turned the corner, and caught a glimpse of the other duffle sitting by the front door. Looked like his big bag. Looked like the bag she packed years ago. The one he’d returned to Crayton with.

  “I’ve decided I’m not going.” She sat on the arm of the sofa. “I’ve decided I don’t want you around here anymore.” She motioned to the bag. “I’ve packed your stuff, so it’s time for you to go.” She stood, defiant as hell, pointing to the door. “You promised you’d leave when this is over. Well, I don’t want you getting hurt for me, so go now.”

  “No.” He narrowed his eyes on hers. “We don’t have time for this right now.”

  She stormed to the adjoining dining room, pulled open a drawer in the china cabinet, and rummaged to the bottom. Returning, she slapped a big, white envelope on the coffee table. “Know what this is? This is the divorce papers you signed.”

  He glanced down fast enough to see the attorney’s name and return address on the label. “Yeah. I know all about us being divorced. You sent. I signed. I get it.”

  “But I never signed them.”

  “We’re wasting time here.” He turned to walk to the kitchen. Stopped. Something in her words jabbed him like a knife and twisted. He pivoted back to face her. “What the hell did you say?”

  “I never signed the papers.” Her face flushed, her chin issued an occasional quiver, and she blinked. “Never filed them. So we’re…we’re—”

  “Still married?”

  Biting on her bottom lip, she nodded.

  Sonofabitch. Damittohell. And every other curse word he’d ever used struggled not to come out of his mouth. “Me? You and me are still married?”

  “Yes, JB. We’re still married.” She dumped the envelope’s contents on the corner desk, then rummaged in the drawer and came up empty-handed. “Don’t worry. I’ll file the papers tomorrow.”

  What? What did she mean don’t worry? His whole world had just stopped with a magnitude eight earthquake hitting his epicenter. They were still married. Him. Her. This wasn’t good. Not good on so many levels. So worry was exactly what he intended to do.

  “Maybe I’m being a little slow on the uptake, but how did this happen?” He raked his hand through his hair. “Did you get busy with a hair appointment? Or shopping? Or maybe you just forgot where you put the envelope.”

  “Trust me, I didn’t forget.” She raised her chin in defiant rebuttal. “Like I said, I’ll file the papers tomorrow.”

  File them tomorrow? She’d file them tomorrow. Hell, by this time tomorrow, they’d probably be dead or fighting for their lives. He started to laugh. Couldn’t stop himself. Laughed louder. She was going to file the divorce papers tomorrow…then what? Have a pedicure?

  “Don’t you think that’s a little late, Marcy?”

  “Stop laughing. This is serious.”

  “Damn right this is serious.” He grabbed her shoulders, turning her toward him. “Why the hell didn’t you finalize the divorce when I sent the paperwork back?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Not good enough. Why?”

  “Because I couldn’t believe you signed the papers.” She wiggled out of his hold. “Why did you sign them?”

  “You sent them. I signed them.”

  She shoved her hands against his chest. “As you said a while ago, not good enough.”

  Covering her hands with his own, realization of this situation began to set in. “Because that’s what you wanted, Marcy. I always gave you what you wanted. You wouldn’t have sent the papers if you hadn’t really wanted the divorce.”

  She jerked her hands away. “Not fair. That’s not fair.”

  “Fair? You want to talk about fair?” He kicked the tote bag across the living room. Sure he’d never received the final divorce decree, but he’d figured those papers were waiting for him somewhere. “For over a year, I’ve believed I’m a divorced man. Single. With all the rights and privileges that word implies. What if I’d remarried?”

  Gripping her fingers in the front of his shirt, she shook the fabric with all her might, as her fisted hands bounced off his chest. “Did you? Did you get remarried?”

  “No. No, I’m not married. Except to you, that is.”

  Her fingers loosened, and she stepped aside.

  He focused on what to say next. What not to say.

  His marriage vows had been sacred to him. But once she sent the divorce papers, and he signed… Well, he hadn’t been a saint for damn sure. There’d been a lot of nights he’d searched for someone to take her place. None ever worked out in the light of day, though. Most hadn’t even worked out in a room’s darkness.

  “I can’t believe I’ve been in town all this time and not so much as a hint at us still being married. Who else knows about this?”

  That had to be what Sadie wanted to tell him back at the police station when Truman stopped her. The man would have realized that by JB knowing they were still married, it put another level of pressure on the whole survival gig. Anger he’d had from her divorcing him was null and void now. Didn’t mean they’d get back together, just meant they’d have time to talk in a civilized tone and walk away friends.

  “Doesn’t matter.” Again, she rummaged through the desk drawer.

  “What are you looking for?”

  “A damn pen.” She slammed the drawer closed. “I need a pen to sign the papers. That way, you’ll have to go before you get hurt because of me.”

  What made her bring this up now? He sure as heck didn’t know, but now wasn’t the time to argue. Plus, he damn sure didn’t intend to leave the house without her. So divorced or not was a moot point at the moment.

  He walked over, picked up the divorce papers, flipped to the signature page, and carefully ripped out the area with his signature. Looked at her blank line and ripped it out, too. “Now you don’t need a pen.”

  “What the heck do you think you’re doing?” Marcy’s voice raised at least an octave as he placed her signature section in her hand.

  He tore the divorce papers in half, then half again before placing them back in the envelope. “If you want a divorce, looks like you’ll have to process the papers again.” He ripped his signature into shreds before wadding it in a ball and shoving it in his coin pocket where Marcy’s ring had permanent residence.

  She stomped down the hall. “I’m not going with you.”

  JB followed. “Yes you are.”

  “Why? Why do you want me to go?” She leaned back against the wall. “You don’t even want to be here.”

  “What gave you that idea?”

  “On the phone. At the sheriff’s office.” Disappointment and anger filled her voice. “I heard you say you had to stay here until you got the mess with me figured out.”

  “Is that what this is all about? What I said to Wilson?” He grinned, tilted her chin up. “Are you my wife?”

  She nodded.

  “Do you agree the shooting, the bomb, your brakes, and everything else is a mess?”

  She nodded again. “What about the staying until it’s settled? When this is over, you’ll leave…I don’t want to…feel like that again.” Hiccups jerked her head like an animated bobble-head.

  His insides warmed with the thought she still loved him. Might not be enough to keep them together, but she at least car
ed what happened to him.

  He sighed heavily. They should be concentrating on surviving the night, not rehashing the past. He wouldn’t lie. He hadn’t come back to Crayton for her. He also wouldn’t lie to himself. He still cared. Might even care more than he wanted to admit. But, this wasn’t the time or the place to rationalize what that might mean.

  Hooking his thumbs in his jean pockets, he tried to say what needed to be said without making any long-term commitments. “Doesn’t matter if we stay here or if we go someplace else, I plan to protect you to the end. Not because you’re an obligation. Or because you’re just another assignment, so to say. I’m here because I want to be. Because I care about you. I care a lot.”

  “No. No.” She shook her head. “If that were true, you wouldn’t be treating me like I’m nothing but a friend.”

  “Now, what does that mean?” Raking his fingers through his hair, he tried to keep up with her assumptions. And listen for the beep if the audio detection device sounded.

  Her body seemed to sink into the wall instead of against it. She wouldn’t meet his eyes with hers. “You know.”

  That was the problem, he didn’t know. Had no idea. First, they were still married. Now, they were supposed to be friends. What the—? “Help me out, Marcy. What am I supposed to know?”

  She straightened away from the wall and marched to the kitchen, arms braced on her hips. “You haven’t kissed me once.”

  “Yes, I have.”

  Sure, they hadn’t been the kisses he ached to give her, because he’d promised himself he’d stay on good behavior. Keep his lips and his hands to himself. Much more of this, though, and his good behavior could go rot in hell. No, this wasn’t the time. The phone might ring and they’d have to go. Of course, they were all packed. And the sheriff still hadn’t called.

  “You call kissing me on the top of my head a real kiss?” She pointed to the spot, then regained her previous posture. “Or that peck on my cheek, my forehead? Those aren’t the kisses I remember. That’s how you’d kiss a sister…if you had one.”

  She was about to come undone, and his insides reacted with anticipation. Even in her agitated moods, the woman could take him places his willpower couldn’t block. Been a long time since she’d come undone in his arms. He relished the thought of holding her as she gave him her emotions, body, and soul. Everything.

  He stepped forward, and she stepped back, landing against the counter. His next step pressed them jeans to jeans, body to body. Then he leaned in, bracing his arms on each side of her. His hardness to her softness. “Does that feel like I think you’re my sister?”

  Her intake of breath answered his question even before she shook her head. He couldn’t stop himself from tilting into her even more. His mind had no control over his hands as they slid around to her backside and pressed her against him. Closer and closer. He groaned when she squirmed into him. She blushed, bit her lip, and then something flamed in her gaze.

  “For the record, I’ve wanted to kiss you ever since you walked out of that bank the day I got to town.” He brushed his fingers across the parted lips in front of him.

  “That still doesn’t account for the way you acted last night.” She whispered, moistened her lips.

  “What do you mean?” Sooner or later, he’d figure this out or the phone would ring or the perp would barge through the door or he’d give up and let her stay here. Which meant he’d stay, too. For now, he enjoyed the fact she was mad because she loved him.

  She wiggled her fingers, but her hands stayed on her hips. “I laid there all night, and you didn’t try one little thing. No nudging or coaxing. No hands. No fingers. Nooooo…well you get my drift. All you did was go to sleep and ignore me.”

  “I was sick.”

  “And this morning?”

  Should he tell her he almost crawled back under the covers to be with her? “I went to get donuts.”

  “Donuts.” She shook her head. “See, that’s what I mean. All you wanted was donuts.”

  He narrowed his eyes on her. Best not say what he’d really wanted. “What can I say? I was hungry, and donuts sounded good about then.”

  Damn, he thought he really did something wrong. Had him worried for a second. If she knew how hard ignoring her had been, she wouldn’t be worked up right now. The sense of rejection she felt flooded her expression. She thought he didn’t want her any more.

  He kissed her lips, soft and tender and slow. She nipped at his lower lip, and his tongue eased between hers as she invited him, teased him.

  “We should talk before we…” He brushed his hands from her shoulders down her arms to her fingers. Slid his arms through the looped stance of her own. “You’re the counselor here. Shouldn’t we take this slow, Marcy? Talk and…” The sensible side of his brain nodded yes, but the rest of his brain fought the idiotic, levelheaded idea.

  Her hand slid to the back of his neck and eased into a caress. The pressure he liked. The rhythm he liked. He moaned. His no-make-out plan was quickly going down the drain. Gripping her hair in his fingers, his kiss deepened. He grazed against her mouth, her ear, her neck. Hunger for her flooded his body, right along with any willpower he might still have left. Sensibility lost all meaning. Her head fell back, and she sighed, Marcy’s sign of yes.

  Control, he needed to regain control. Her thumb stroked up and down the side of his neck in lazy circles. Without thinking, he dropped his hands to her breasts, stroking and circling, as his mouth found hers again. Her firmness pressed against his fingers, against him, pushed him to the edge even before she slid her hand beneath the bottom of his T-shirt. Warmth from her palm grazed his skin, twitched his nerves all the way to his core. Broke what little resolve he had left.

  His breaths were heavy. Hers fast. He lifted her to sit on the counter as she tugged her top upward and off. Definitely not what he planned.

  “Aw, hell.” He ripped his shirt over his head and flung it to the corner. “Talking is highly overrated anyhow.”

  “Highly…” Her fingers fumbled with the clasp on her bra. “…overrated.”

  She fell loose in his hands, and his thumbs made their own stroking rhythms as he took his fill. He’d forgotten how beautiful his wife was. Her moans increased with the touch of his mouth, his tongue. She gripped him to her, her nails biting into his shoulders. He slid her closer to the counter’s edge, and she slipped her legs around him.

  Damn. They were still dressed from the waist down. Her thighs gripped against his sides as he fumbled with the top of his jeans. Buttons, zippers, he couldn’t get his mind to think. He realized how long it had been since he tasted her skin, and he couldn’t seem to get his fill. She arched and sagged against him, panting.

  Bed. He needed to get her to the damn bed. Get their jeans off. His hands slid beneath her bottom and lifted. She looped her arms around him as he carried her toward the kitchen door, her fingers tight in his hair as she tilted his head back to receive the deluge of kisses she planted on his face.

  “Oh, Marcy…Marcy.”

  “Yes, JB.” She sucked his ear, nipped. “Yes. You’re back. Nothing’s changed.”

  Nothing’s changed blared across his mind. He stopped. Eased her to the floor and unhooked her hands from behind his neck.

  Her breathing came in ragged pants as she reached to pull him back. He gently pushed away, took a step backwards. They needed space. Room to feel what was real. What wasn’t.

  “What? What did I say?” She grabbed her top from the counter, shimmied it over her head. “What’s wrong?”

  “You said nothing’s changed, and you’re right. We’re about to fall right back into each other’s arms.” His own breaths were heavy and deep. “Don’t you see? We can’t do that again. Pretend nothing’s wrong? This time we need to talk.”

  She crossed her arms over her sweater. “So talk.”

  He recognized her stance. Her tone. She’d already shut down to anything he might say. “Things can wait till you’re in a better mood.�
� He stepped to reach for his shirt.

  “No. Now.” She blocked his path. “You make it sound like it’s all my fault we never talk. How about the times I asked you questions about your childhood? How your day went? How it felt to arrest someone? You evaded every one of those questions.”

  She was right. There were things he kept so deep inside himself that they would never see the light of day again. Didn’t mean there weren’t things they needed to face as two people who cared about each other.

  “Forget I mentioned it,” he said.

  “No. Either we have a conversation right now, or I’ll be damned if I walk out that door with you.”

  “Okay. What do you want to talk about?” He’d give her a conversation she wouldn’t soon forget.

  She didn’t flinch, just reached out and pressed her fingers against the brand on his chest. “This. I want you to trust me enough to tell me about this and the marks across your stomach.”

  That whole topic was off limits. Way off limits. He might not be able to hide the scar, but reliving it was one of those things hidden in a compartment in his mind. “You couldn’t handle it, Marcy.”

  “Try me.” She leaned back against the counter. “Or maybe it’s you who can’t handle it.”

  Over the line. She’d stepped over his personal line. No one, not even her, said he couldn’t handle something. But there’d be no sugar-coating. This would be a telling point in any relationship they might ever have in the future. He sucked in air and blew it out.

  “Jennings, my partner from a couple years ago, was killed while on assignment. Once leads stopped trickling in, the homicide got turned into a cold case. Then, not long after I worked the meth case with Landon, I got a lead. A good lead from a trusted informant. Wilson even agreed I should do a follow up. So I went to meet the guy where he wanted. Waited an hour. He never showed.” JB filled a glass under the kitchen faucet, then chugged it down. Filled it again.

  “When I got back to the car, three men with masks were waiting for me. Shoved me in the trunk, right alongside my informant that they’d already killed. They’d took my guns and my phone, but I wasn’t worried. Might take a while, but I figured once I didn’t show up back at the office, the FBI would zero in on whoever was carrying the phone and follow them to my location through the GPS.”