The Perfect Husband (36 page)

“You're not going to do it,” he said curtly.

“Yes, I am.”

“There's a flaw in your plan, Tess — a man like that isn't afraid of pain. If he attacks, the only way to stop him will probably be to shoot him. And then what, Tess?”

“He'll be dead.”

“And Sam? What about Sam? With him dead, how are you going to find your daughter?”

“I… I—” She didn't know. “I'll make him tell me where she is,” she said stubbornly. “I will.”

“Dammit!” he roared. “I won't let you do this!”

“Like hell!” She heaved with her hands, trying to push him away.

He pushed in closer, his eyes dangerous. “Attacking an injured man, Tess?”

“Whatever works.” She wiggled her hips, determined to break his hold. It was useless.

“This injured man is trying to save your life!” he snarled, leaning closer, his breath hot against her cheek.

“Save my life? What do you care about my life? You haven't even acknowledged its existence for the last two hours!”

“Feelings hurt? Because I didn't flatter you or gaze longingly into your deep brown eyes?” Abruptly his right hand slid down her sweater and cupped her breast. He knew her body too well. One flick of his thumb and her nipple grew hard. She resented him doing that to her. She arched helplessly into it anyway, wanting him to touch her again.

“I thought of you,” he whispered. “I thought of your breast in my mouth. Your hands in my hair. I thought of bending you over backward and fucking you. Is that what you want to hear? Is that romantic enough for you, Tess?”

His hips rotated against her suggestively. She bit her lower lip, hating him for making her want him and treating it as if it were nothing.

“Damn you,” she whispered.

For his reply he caught her lower lip and sank his teeth into it. Her hands uncurled on his chest. Her fingers dug into his shoulders, drawing him closer while her mind screamed white-hot fury and called her a fool.

She yanked her head. “Stop it. I'm not your toy!”

“Could've fooled me.” His thumb began a more insistent pattern around her taut nipple. Her back arched into it.

“It doesn't matter,” she said hoarsely. “I'm still going to set the trap. I'm still going to do exactly as I planned. If you want to be angry, fine. If you want to torture me until then, fine. But I know it means nothing to you, and it changes nothing!”

He swore. Then he kissed her hard. It was an eating kiss. His tongue plunged in, hot and thick and filling her. She accepted it greedily, her hips pressing against his groin, feeling his growing hardness. He ground into her and she met him halfway.

Then abruptly he pulled back. She cried out her disappointment shamelessly, her hands reaching for him. In a smooth movement he grabbed her shoulders and spun her around. She landed facing the hood with his breath hot against her ear. His hips rotated suggestively against her buttocks.

“Unbutton your jeans,” he whispered. “Do it for me now.”

She shook her head but her hands were on her zipper. His fingers curled around the thick denim and tugged it down the minute she unzipped the fly.

She felt the cold winter air against her exposed hips. She felt him push up her sweater, her hands planted on the trunk of the car.

He thrust his foot between hers, parting her legs, pulling her hips closer. It was crude and coarse and she arched her back, her eyes already shut as the anticipation swelled in her veins.

“I'm not going to let you bait Beckett,” he growled.

“You can't stop me,” she murmured, and parted her legs farther.

“Goddammit,” he swore, and thrust hard. She cried out as he penetrated. “I'm going to save you,” he ground out, his hips already moving. “Dammit, I'm going to save you. I'm going to save you!”

“You can't,” she whispered, but then she couldn't think. The air was cold and crisp, his body hard and hot.

The tempo increased and her ears knew only the sounds of her thundering pulse and his grunting breaths. The feel of him sliding inside her, deeper and deeper. The joining of him with her. The realization that it might mean little to him, but it meant everything to her. It would always mean everything to her.

“Goddamn the colonel!” he whispered abruptly. “Goddamn Jim Beckett. I won't let them destroy another. I won't let—”

His voice broke into a garbled cry. He thrust hard, pouring into her just as she cried out her release.

Then she whispered his name and knew in her heart it was too late for sanity. She understood his anger, she understood his fear. She understood his need. She'd gotten under his skin and seen all the good he couldn't acknowledge, the fear he tried to hide, and the loneliness he pretended didn't exist.

She loved him.

MUCH LATER, WHEN the sun was gone and a fresh moon flirted with the sky, they checked into a new motel room. J.T. was silent, as he'd been all afternoon. After dropping her bag on the floor, Tess handed him her bottle of aspirin. He shook out eight and popped them at once.

Tiredly he began to strip off his clothes. She watched, wordlessly.

“You're making me self-conscious,” he muttered.

“I'm just admiring. Has anyone ever told you that you're beautiful?”

“The stress has fried your brain.”

“I mean it, J.T. You're beautiful to me.”

He turned away and climbed into bed. She removed her clothes and joined him. They'd already spoken to Lieutenant Houlihan. There was no sign of Jim, no sign of Sam. Somewhere out there her daughter slept alone. Was she well cared for? Had she been fed? Did Jim read her stories before tucking her into bed?

Tess couldn't stand the distance anymore. J.T. was the one who played tough. Tess knew she was overwhelmed and frightened and near despair. She curled her naked body spoonlike around his, though she knew he resented the contact.

He stiffened. She held on anyway, pressing her cheek against him.

“She's starting to remember,” he said abruptly.

Tess stilled, then stroked her fingers down his shoulder in silent comfort. “You'll help her.”

“She made me promise never to mention him again.”

“Give her time. Sooner or later she'll need to talk about it. She'll come to you, and you'll be ready.”

“Rachel used to tell me that I had to let things go. That I held on too tight.”

“Maybe.”

“I failed her, Tess. You should've seen the look in her eyes… I didn't even know how much I'd failed her until I saw her memories in her eyes.”

“Shh…”

He didn't say anything for a long time. Then abruptly he rolled onto his back. She couldn't see his face in the darkness, but his fingers touched her cheek softly.

“Don't do it.”

“I have to. Everyone has fought the battle but me. Everyone has paid the price but me.”

“So that's when you'll be happy? When he finally kills you?” His voice was tight, his muscles tense to the touch.

She opened her mouth, then closed it again. “I don't want to talk about it anymore.”

“Well, I do. Go away, Tess. Go hide out in some hotel in Arizona and I'll pretend to be you in the house.”

“You're injured.”

His muscle spasmed and she knew she'd inflicted an immeasurable blow to his masculine pride. “Don't you trust me, Tess?”

She pressed her cheek against his shoulder. She threaded her fingers through the dark hair on his belly. “It can't be just you, J.T.,” she whispered, “trying to save the world. No one is that strong. It will be you and me together in the house. I'll be bait, you be ready to catch the rat.”

“I won't have you die on me.”

“I won't.”

“I'm so tired of them dying on me.” His voice was hoarse.

She held him closer. “I love you,” she whispered.

Neither of them spoke.

EDITH SAT IN the living room of Martha's house, holding a cup filled with black tea and watching Martha's granddaughter read a book on the couch with Martha sitting beside her.

The living room really wasn't much. The sofa was old and threadbare and had probably been purchased from Goodwill. Like the other few pieces of furniture, it reminded Edith of the clothes Martha selected — old, eclectic, and mismatching. There weren't even pictures on the walls. Edith had never noticed that before. In the whole house there wasn't a single picture or framed photograph.

Edith forced her gaze back to the little girl. Her name was Stephanie, and she seemed to be a somber, quiet child. She wore a thick sweat suit with a baseball cap covering her hair and eyes. Her face nagged at Edith mildly, as if she'd met Stephanie before. Of course, little kids had a tendency to all look alike to her.

She focused on examining her tea as Stephanie continued reading the story of Cinderalla out loud.

Edith was just picturing the pumpkin stagecoach in her mind, when the chills swept up her arms.

She looked up and wished she hadn't.

Girls, so many girls. She'd never seen so many at once before. Here in this living room their features were so clear, she thought she could reach out and touch them. How could Martha not see them? How could Stephanie talk of mice turning magically into footmen while a dozen ethereal shapes swarmed around them, naked and ashamed?

Her chest hurt, the pressure squeezing her ribs like a vise. She opened her mouth. She tried to yell at them to leave her alone; she was just an old woman and she didn't know what they wanted.

Then she realized that they weren't looking at her, not pleading with her with their tortured eyes. Instead, they stared at Martha and Stephanie, and their distress was plain.

Edith bolted upright. She spilled her tea across her lap, not noticing the burn.

“Martha!” she gasped. “You're in danger! Horrible, horrible danger!”

Stephanie stopped reading and looked at Edith with wide blue eyes. Martha raised her head more slowly.

“Stephanie, please go to your room.”

Stephanie got up quickly, looking relieved to escape. Then Martha turned to Edith.

“How do you know?”

“I see things,” Edith confessed in a rush. She'd never said so out loud before. It eased the pressure in her chest. She said more firmly, “I see the dead.”

Martha's eyes widened. Edith waited to see shock, disgust, or even a faintly repelled look. Instead, Martha's gaze grew sharp and intensely curious.

“You see the dead?”

“Yes.”

“Do they talk to you?”

“No, they just appear, so tortured, as if there's something they need me to understand.”

Martha leaned forward and clutched Edith's hand. Her grip was surprisingly strong.

“Tell me,” she whispered. “Tell me everything.”

IN THE BEDROOM Samantha took her ear away from the door. She'd been trained how to dial 911 and give her full name, address, and phone number. But she didn't have a phone in this room and she no longer knew her address or phone number. She wasn't sure what she was supposed to do now.

Finally she walked over to the bed she'd been given just a few days ago.

She sat on the edge and stroked her dolly's hair. “It's all right,” she told her baby. She patted the pretty pink doll again. “Mommy will come. Mommy will come and everything will be all right.”

THE POLICE WERE trying to make up for past mistakes. Now the officers filing in for the briefing had to show their badges at the door. All three task force leaders stood next to the receptionist, personally identifying each man. With this system it took forty-five minutes to assemble the group.

Tess sat at the front of the room, J.T. beside her. Marion sat toward the back and Tess was still trying to decide if the distance was intentional. For the past twenty-four hours Tess and Marion had hammered away on Special Agent Quincy and Lieutenant Houlihan until they agreed to Tess's plan. Last night Tess felt triumphant; finally something would happen. This morning she watched the news, saw her daughter's picture flash across the screen once more, and simply felt terrified.

“All right, people,” Lieutenant Houlihan said, “listen up.”

Quincy strode into the room, looking harried, and Houlihan scowled. Quincy did a small double take, and instead of walking to his chair in the front of the room, promptly took a seat next to Marion. Houlihan got on with it.

“As you know, we have formulated a new strategy for catching Jim Beckett. In the front of the room here, we have Beckett's ex-wife, Tess Williams, whom many of you know from before. Two and a half years ago she agreed to sit in her house and wait for Jim Beckett's return. We agreed to protect her and catch her husband. We didn't fulfill our end of the deal so well. Now she has volunteered to do the same once again, and, people, this time we're going to get it right.

“We have three teams in this room. I've already briefed your supervisors, who will cover the details with you later. This is what you need to know now. Task Force A will continue canvassing for Samantha Williams and Jim Beckett. I know the hotline is still getting hits. Plus, it has been suggested that you follow up on the validity of Beckett's family's death certificates. You're moving from an eight-hour to a twelve-hour shift—”

There were a few tired moans.

Houlihan continued ruthlessly. “Yes, people, your life sucks. Next, Teams B and C are assigned to Tess Williams with everyone rotating eight-hour shifts. You have three main objectives: Scout and secure Williamstown, watch the safe house, and remain mobilized for a full-fledged assault. Officers will be deployed in pairs. Some of you will walk beats, others of you will keep watch from unmarked cars. We will have ten officers deployed at all times. The FBI will coordinate surveillance and wiretapping. Also aiding you will be the SWAT team. We can't keep them on full alert indefinitely, but they have agreed to give us three snipers to cover the rooftops. As you will read in your reports, that's how Jim Beckett entered the house the first time around. This time we're not going to give him that chance.”

A hand came up in back. It was an older detective who'd worked the task force two and a half years before. “With all due respect, Lieutenant, we can't maintain this forever. Last time we also started out ultra alert and ultra ready. But six months later we were down to two men watching the house and no SWAT support. How's this going to be any different? We got budgets, we got constraints. And Beckett knows it.”