The Perfect Husband (23 page)

He didn't have a chance. Two smartly delivered chops, and Marion had him writhing on the ground, holding his twisted arm and screaming curses. The charging man hesitated, not sure what to do with a woman. Marion decided the matter for him. Her foot hooked him neatly behind the ankles, and with a fierce yank she toppled him to the ground. A new cry rose up from the crowd.

Tess stopped thinking. She offered her hand to the fallen woman and helped her to her feet. The woman clutched her bloody head.

“Look out!” Marion cried.

Tess froze. The man who'd started it all was there, towering above them, his eyes bright with rage. He carried a chair leg in one hand.

Tess stared at the rounded wood. And she thought, It's not nearly so sturdy as a baseball bat.

The chair leg was raised up into the air.

Then Tess shivered, her gaze locked onto the images suddenly in her head. The baseball bat swinging down. The crack of her thigh. The burning pain. The scent of blood. The knowledge of all the other times the bat had whistled down and connected with human flesh and bone.

How did a head sound when hit by a bat? Like wood cracking? Or more like a melon going
splat
?

A dull roaring filled her ears.

Dimly she heard the chair leg whistle down. Dimly she saw the man tossed forward and J.T. standing in his spot. Then, as if from far, far away, Marion said, “God, J.T., she's going to faint.”

“Shit.”

Suddenly strong arms were around her, swinging her up. She went wild, fighting and clawing, and she couldn't even remember what she was fighting. She just had to fight.

J.T.'s hand caught hers, trapping them against his chest. “Shh,
chiquita
, I have you. I have you.”

She buried her face against his shoulder and prayed he wouldn't let her go.

J.T. carried her out of the building and into the cool, fresh night.

“ARE YOU ALL right?” J.T. asked half an hour later as he set her down on the sofa.

Marion had dragged the wounded woman out of the bar, entrusted her to the care of the few people in the parking lot, then they'd escaped the scene. Now J.T.'s thumb brushed Tess's cheek, then feathered through her hair. His gaze was intent as he searched for wounds.

“Yes. Yes, I'm fine,” Tess murmured, too embarrassed to meet his gaze. J.T. and Marion had been ready to take on the place. She'd seen one raised chair leg and almost fainted. Some bad ass she was.

“That wasn't how the evening was supposed to turn out.”

“I suppose it's a bad sign when your star pupil almost loses her lunch during her first brawl. Maybe next time Jim shows up, I can vomit on him for self-defense.”

“Tess—”

Marion returned from checking the grounds, snapping on the living room light. She'd already spoken to the police; they hadn't seen anyone lurking in the vicinity.

J.T. moved back. For the first time, Tess noted the scratch running down his cheek and his bruised knuckles.

“You're hurt.”

He glanced at his hands idly. “It's nothing.” He turned to Marion. “And you?”

“I'm fine.” Marion leaned against the doorjamb, her silk blouse ripped and linen pants beer-stained. Her hair had come undone, golden waves now rippling down her shoulders. The style took ten years off her age.

“You should leave your hair down,” Tess blurted out. “You look beautiful.”

“Gets in my way.” The agent was already braiding the strands.

“Forget it,” J.T. told Tess flatly. “She likes the feminazi style.”

“I prefer the word
professional
. Would you like some ice for your knuckles?”

“Whatever.”

Marion rolled her eyes but went after the ice.

An awkward silence filled the room. Tess didn't know how to break it. She examined her hands. She wished she had bruised knuckles.

“I'm sorry,” J.T. said abruptly.

“For what?”

“Uh… the bar fight. They aren't so unusual at that place.”

“You wanted a fight?”

A pause. “Maybe.”

“All the swimming,” Tess murmured, “all the weights, the jogging, the shooting, it's not enough for you, is it?”

“I'm an intense kind of guy.”

She looked at him, then she stared at the doorway that led into the kitchen. “J.T., why are you always so angry?”

“Who, me?”

“Marion has that anger too.”

“Marion has ice in her veins. She likes it that way.”

“Versus you—”

“Who has tequila. It's been a long night, Tess. We all need some sleep.”

“Did you really think someone was watching the house tonight, or was that just an excuse?”

“No,” he said immediately, but then looked troubled. “I don't know. Maybe Marion was right. Maybe it's just withdrawal. I'm… I'm a little on edge these days.” He looked her in the eye. “Tess, when it comes right down to it, Marion is the one you can count on. I have raw talent, she has follow-through. I get in trouble, she gets things done. Remember that, all right? If push comes to shove, go to Marion. She'll take care of you.”

“You're wrong,” she told him. “When push comes to shove, you're the one who's going to help me, J.T. You're the only one I know who's intense enough to take on Jim.”

He silenced further declarations with a finger over her lips. Wordlessly he took her hand and drew her off the sofa.

There was no light on in the hallway. It loomed dark and endless, as hushed as a sanctuary. Her footsteps slowed. So did his. When they arrived at her room, she didn't open the door. She leaned against it and stared at his face.

She traced the fresh scratch marring his cheek. “Does that hurt?”

“No.”

Her fingers curled around his chin, then brushed his lips.

“What are you doing, Tess?”

“Nothing.” She touched his nose, his cheekbone, his eye. Her hand curved around his neck, rubbing the taut, corded muscles there, and she heard his indrawn breath leave him hoarsely.

She liked touching him. She could feel his power, electric and tantalizing and held precariously in check. She had done the right thing in coming to him.

She'd found the right man.

And she wanted him.

She knew so little about desire. She thought he was the kind of man who could teach a woman all about it. The kind of man who could draw a woman in and wring her out with passion.

She leaned forward.

“Don't.” He grabbed her shoulder and pinned her back. “Don't.”

“Why not?”

“It's not what you really want, Tess.”

“I'm stronger then you think.”

“Yeah. But maybe I'm not.” He let her go. “Good night.”

“But—”

His gaze stopped her. It washed over her and stripped her bare. He moved closer. Then closer still. His head dipped. She held her breath and opened her lips, prepared to meet him all the way.

He twisted his head to the side at the last moment, and his teeth caught her earlobe delicately. “Go to bed, Tess. And lock your door.”

Then he was gone.

“¡MIERDA! YOU ARE not even trying!”

“Jesus, lady, you're demanding!” J.T. rolled off Rosalita, lying on his back and staring up at the swirling ceiling fan.

Rosalita propped herself up beside him. “You are not yourself.”

He cocked a brow. “You get off twice and you're still so pissed you speak gringo? Rosalita, you are the Antichrist.”

She didn't scowl, she didn't sulk. She looked worried instead. He hated that. God almighty, someone deliver him from the women in his house.

Tentatively she ran one finger down the scar on his chest. He barely resisted the urge to bat it away. “It's
la chiquita
, no? You like her.”

“I don't like anyone, Rosalita. It's part of my charm.”

No, he was not himself this evening. He was taut and aching. He was screwing the best whore in Nogales and thinking of another woman.

Christ, he wanted her. He wanted to take her until she couldn't walk, she couldn't stand, she couldn't breathe, until all she could do was scream. Then he wanted to take her again.

And afterward? his mind whispered.
What could you give a woman like that out of bed, J.T.? What could you offer a woman like her
?

She was changing, becoming strong, capable. He knew, because he'd seen it before. Seen a woman come into herself and realize that she didn't have just arms and legs but that she could run, fight, give, take. She could reclaim all the pieces of herself that had been stolen by stronger, cruel men and do whatever she wanted.

Rachel had chosen to give herself to him. And he had loved her for that unbearably.

He reached for the nightstand, found a crumpled pack of cigarettes, and pounded one out. He brought it to his lips and lit it. The tobacco seared ten years off his lungs. Gotta hate it. Gotta love it. It was just his style.

Rosalita was still watching him. Now she pressed her body next to his. He could roll her over and thrust into her again and she would only sigh her contentment. He could guide her head down and she would swallow him whole. If he could think of it, she would do it, and she could probably do a few things that defied his imagination as well.

He simply lay there, exhaling smoke and watching it drift languidly up to the whirling fan blades.

“I'll bring you a drink.” Rosalita climbed out of bed, wrapped the sheet around her body. “You'll feel better then.”

“You should get married,” he said lightly. “Find yourself a husband and raise a few kids instead of hanging out with the likes of me.”

The look of concern on her face grew. If he did or said one more thing out of character, the woman was going to check his forehead for fever and fetch him a doctor.

She opened the door and trailed down the hall.

Who was she most likely to run into tonight, Tess or Marion? The woman he didn't want to save but seemed to think that only he could save her? Or the woman he'd once tried to save but now seemed to think that he was the devil?

“God does have such a sense of humor,” he muttered to the ceiling. “Even a worse sense than mine.”

The cigarette burned down to his fingers. He let it drop to the floor, pressing it out with the pad of his thumb. He gave up smoking every morning and started again every night. And tonight it wasn't even dulling his brain the way it was supposed to.

He was still thinking of Tess and thinking of Tess made him remember Rachel. J.T. had married Rachel because he understood that she was an eighteen-year-old mother who wanted the best for her son. He'd married her because if she was as corrupt, twisted, and manipulative as Marion said, then it was the colonel who'd molded her into that shape.

His father had come up to him after the ceremony, pumped J.T.'s hand, and stated, “Now Teddy will have the family name and I'll get my second son into West Point to redeem my first son's mistakes. I knew you'd do the right thing, Jordan.”

And J.T. had said, “You touch Rachel or Teddy ever again, and I will kill you. Understand,
Daddy
?”

It was the only time J.T. ever saw the colonel pale.

For the first six months he and Rachel lived together like awkward acquaintances. She had her room in the apartment. He had his. When they talked and interacted, it was about Teddy. But sometimes, late at night, they would sit at the kitchen table, drinking beers and revealing little bits and pieces of themselves.

She told him about the stepfather who made it impossible for her to remain at home. He talked about the first time his father had whipped him and how sure he'd been that he deserved it. She recalled trying to find a job, then realizing homeless fifteen-year-olds couldn't get one. He spoke of the jungle and the endless hours of sitting in steam, waiting for the right moment to pounce and destroy.

One night she told him about the first time she'd sold her body. She'd recited Dr. Seuss rhymes in her mind to block out the act. Afterward she hadn't cried. The man had paid her well, so she hadn't cried. She'd just rocked herself back and forth and tried not to remember the life she'd dreamed about as a little girl.

Neither of their lives made much sense, but somehow, sitting up together late at night, they made the warped, jagged pieces fit. They offered each other the forgiveness they couldn't offer themselves. They planned a future. They built a new life.

Until the little kid who'd been beaten by his father loved her, and the adolescent who'd been rejected by his younger sister loved her, and the man who'd gone off to fight wars because he no longer cared if he lived or died loved her. Until every single deranged, hopeful, frightened part of him loved her.

Then Rachel had gone and gotten herself dead.

J.T. reached over to the nightstand, retrieved another cigarette, and started destroying his lungs all over again.

Rosalita drifted back into the room. She paused at the foot of the bed and smiled.

And just for a minute, in the twisted corridors of his mind he saw Marion, young, vulnerable Marion. And his baby sister's hands were clasped and her face terrified as she ran from the monster they both knew too well. “
Hide me, J.T. God help me, please, please, please
!”

“Shh,” he whispered to his own mind, and squeezed his eyes shut.

When he reopened them, Rosalita was by his side, no longer concerned but triumphant. She held out the icy glass.

Tequila on the rocks with a twist. He looked up at her, and she smiled at him, happy. “You will be yourself,” she said simply.

“You are the Antichrist,” he whispered.

His fingers curled around the glass.

MARION ENTERED THE living room just as a woman in a white cotton sheet disappeared into her brother's room. For a moment Marion thought she'd seen a ghost. She shook her head and crossed to the phone.

She liked the living room late at night. Sometimes she went out there just to sit and watch the moon slide through the open blinds and sift over the wicker furniture. In one corner the iguana slept by a heat lamp. Otherwise she was alone.

She contemplated lighting a cigarette but knew by then that J.T. might appear. Sometimes, as she sat in the shadows, he would emerge from the hall and head straight for the patio. Minutes after he'd slipped through the sliding glass door, she'd hear the muted splash of a perfect dive.