The Perfect Husband (6 page)

“I'm not going to leave,” she announced. “I need your help. Sooner or later you'll realize that.”

“I'm not going to realize any such thing. You're lying to me through your teeth.”

Her lips thinned. “You don't want the truth. I know men like you. You don't want to become involved. You think you're happy living in a self-pitying vacuum.”

“Self-pity, that's what's wrong with me? First, it's drinking, now self-pity. Do you watch a lot of Oprah?”

“You think you'll be better off if you never care again.”

“Can you prove otherwise?”

“I don't need you to care, Mr. Dillon. I don't need you to give a… a rat's ass about me. I want you to train me anyway.”

“You want me to be a lapdog,” he corrected her. “You want me to listen to your lies, do as you ask, and never question a thing. I know how it works. I've seen Oprah too.”

He kicked back his chair and crossed the alcove. He passed the barrier of the counter. He kept advancing, his eyes dark slits. He saw her mouth open, but no word of protest emerged. She took a step back, but was brought up short by the kitchen sink. She was trapped.

He flattened her against the counter. Her breath came out more rapidly, but she didn't back down. She brought her chin up defiantly and met his gaze. He leaned into her, flattening her breasts against his bare torso, pressing his body against hers so she'd know exactly what he was capable of. He lowered his head until his breath whispered across her cheek, and she sucked in her breath in an attempt to put distance between them.

“I don't believe you,” he said softly, dangerously. “I don't believe a woman abandons her daughter and comes halfway across the country to a mercenary's house just because her ex-husband is stalking her. And I don't like being lied to and used.” He planted his hands on the countertop.

“Why shouldn't a woman hire a trained professional?” She licked her lips nervously, then caught herself and stated more fiercely, “Husbands, boyfriends, fathers, kill women all the time.”

“Hire a bodyguard.”

“I don't want a bodyguard! I want to know how to fight. I want to know how to protect my daughter. I am so sick and tired of running scared. You” — her finger jabbed his chest — “you probably don't know anything about being vulnerable, being frightened. But I know. And I'm sick of it. I want my life back.”

She grabbed one of the porcelain bowls and shattered it against the sink. She raised one jagged shard and wielded it like a knife. “I might have been slow once. I might have actually thought that if I was just good enough, just obedient enough, just
sweet
enough, it would keep me safe. Well, I don't do ‘sweet' anymore and I don't do ‘obedient' anymore. So don't mess with me, Mr. Dillon. You have no idea what I am capable of.”

She pressed the sharp edge against his bare chest with enough force to line his skin. The edge ran against the scar that zigzagged furiously down his sternum. That scar had been inflicted by a man known for his sharp temper, fast hands, and utter lack of remorse. J.T. explored Angela's eyes now to see if she had that in her.

He wouldn't grant her speed. He wouldn't grant her skill. But in her gaze he found something better: dispassion.

“Jesus, you are a dangerous woman.”

“I'm learning.”

A sound split the air, startling them both. High, shrill. Sirens. Wailing sirens approaching his house. He took a step back.

His first thought was Marion, but then he noticed his house guest. She'd frozen. And she appeared terrified. Why would the cops frighten a woman running from her husband? Then he knew, absolutely knew, that he'd been used.

“What have you done?”

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing,” she muttered.

The sirens wailed closer. Three cars, he figured. Three police cars pulling into his driveway and shattering his peace.

“Why are you so afraid? What are you hiding?”

Her eyes were no longer so certain. She tried to push away, but his grip was too strong.

“Let me go. I didn't do anything. I just don't want anyone to know I'm here. Especially not the cops.”

“That shy,
Angela
?”

“It's not safe. He has contacts—”

“
He
? Sure, Angela, this omnipotent he. The mystery man who may or may not be stalking you, who may or may not have injured your leg, who may or may not even exist. I am tired of
he
, Angela. You want my help, you'd better do a helluva lot better than that.”

“I'm not lying! Jim wants me dead. No, he wants me to suffer horribly. I saw the pictures. I saw what he did.…” Her voice trailed off. Then she went wild, beating at him furiously. She tried to jab his shoulder with the porcelain shard, but he deflected the blow, knocking the makeshift weapon from her hand.

“Let me go,” she cried.

The sirens came to a screeching halt on his driveway.

“Oh, my God,” she whispered. “Maybe he's already found me.”

His hands gripped her shoulders, but suddenly he wasn't so sure. Her fear was too genuine, her panic too real. He could feel the tremors beginning now, snaking down her delicate frame.

“Talk to me, Angela, tell me the truth. Come on.”

“He was a cop! Don't you get it? He was a cop!”

He stepped back in shock, automatically letting her go. He was surprised but didn't know why he should be. There was no rule saying cops had to be good guys, just as there was no guarantee that well-respected army colonels didn't torture their families as a hobby.

Angela moved into the middle of the kitchen. Her arms were wrapped tightly around her thin waist. “I need my gun back. Give me my gun.”

“I can't do that.”

“Oh, what are you so afraid of? Do you think I'm going to try to shoot my way out with a peashooter?”

“A gun won't help you.”

“It's the only thing that has.” She paced a dizzying circle. “I'm leaving. Tell them what you want. I won't let them see me here. I thought confidentiality meant something in your line of work.”

“Wait—”

“I don't have time.” She kept moving.

They both heard the first of several car doors open and then slam shut.

Angela didn't turn around. Seconds later he heard the door of her room shut, then the telltale sound of the bolt lock sliding home. He had visions of little Angela flipping over the bed and hunkering behind it like the last man at the Alamo.

He was left alone in his kitchen, with the disorienting feeling that everything had slid out of control. What if this ex-husband had actually arrived? What was he prepared to do these days? How could he stand aside?

Then he heard the voice over the bullhorn. His shoulders relaxed. His lips twisted. No big, bad, evil Jim.

It was just his sister, summoned by Freddie, and riding to the rescue.

He squared his shoulders and prepared for the real war. Whoever had written that blood was thicker than water, had never met the Dillons.

MARION MARGARET MACALLISTER had committed only two sins in her life. One, she'd been born the second child. Two, she'd been born a female.

She'd done her best to rectify these sins over time. In the men's locker-room world of the FBI, she could outshoot, outfight, and outthink her fellow agents. With her cool blond looks, she'd earned the nickname Iceman. She liked it.

Until two weeks ago, when her world had started falling apart.

She'd just turned thirty-four and had been passed over for promotion again, ostensibly because she was too young. William Walker, who did get the post, was only thirty-six — and balling the deputy director's daughter. Her father was dying of prostate cancer, a death that was taking a long time coming, and her husband of ten years had left her for a twenty-two-year-old cocktail waitress.

Then last night she'd gotten the call from Freddie. J.T. always had impeccable timing.

She motioned for the Nogales police to stay back and approached the house on her own. She wore her favorite navy blue pants suit. It was sharp and one hundred percent business. It was also too hot for Arizona. She focused on the cool feel of her gun pressed against her ribs while the dusty air stung her eyes.

“Good morning, Marion,” J.T. drawled. He lounged against the doorjamb, half naked and rumpled, as if caught mid-fuck. “How kind of you to visit.”

“We received a report of an intruder. I came to investigate.”

“All the way from D.C.?”

“Nothing's too good for my older brother.” She smiled with brittle sweetness and had the rare satisfaction of seeing her barb strike home. “Step out of the way, J.T. The officers here will secure your house.”

“I don't think so.”

“Jordan Terrance—”

“Freddie call you from town?” He shifted, crossing his ankles and getting more comfortable. She knew from Freddie that he drank a lot. She'd expected the alcohol to have taken a greater toll, but J.T. had always been a lucky SOB. Not even booze had thickened his waistline or sagged his middle. He was still the lean, fit man she remembered. The kid who'd won all the swimming trophies. The son whose uncanny shooting had made their father so proud. She wanted to strangle him.

“Freddie filed the report,” she replied stiffly.

“Ah, and here I thought he and I had reached an understanding.”

“What do you mean?”

J.T. made a great show of examining his fingernails. “I know he calls you, Marion. I know he's Daddy's little spy. You're both so afraid that someday I'll get drunk enough to speak the truth. Don't worry, I've been speaking it for quite some time now, and nobody's interested.”

“I don't know what you're—”

“I sent him away. Told Freddie to take a few days off — I didn't think my visitor wanted an audience. As for myself, well…” He shrugged. “Freddie makes a fine margarita. Of course now I'll have to reconsider his return. Calling the police about an intruder — that was pretty clever. I think he's a lot more clever than either of us suspect.”

“So there
is
an intruder! Step aside.”

“No.”

“Goddammit, J.T., I know there's a woman inside. And what do you really know about her? Look at your track record—”

“Leave my past out of it.”

“We're going to search the house, J.T. I want this woman gone.”

“Got a search warrant?”

“Of course not. We're responding to a report of an intruder—”

“And I'm telling you as owner of this property, there is no intruder. Now, take your little blue men and find another party to crash.”

“You stubborn, drunken, son of a—”

“Marion, you never did learn how to play nice.”

“J.T., as your sister—”

“You're ashamed of me, embarrassed to have me in the family, and on really good days you wish I was dead. I know, Marion. These open exchanges of family sentiment always leave me feeling warm and fuzzy all over.”

“So help me God, J.T., if I find so much as a BB gun on your property—”

“It's Arizona. Lax gun laws. You gotta love that in a state.”

“I'm here to try to help you, J.T.—”

“No, Marion, you're not. You're still doing Daddy's bidding, and we both know it.” His voice grew suddenly soft. “Why don't you ever stop by just to visit, Merry Berry? Why, with you, is it always war?”

Marion grew suffocated beneath the neck-high buttons of her suit, and for a moment she was beyond anger.

J.T. straightened away from the doorjamb.

“Send the cops away. Daddy never approved of outsiders nosing around in family business. Is he dead yet?”

“No.”

“Too bad. Well, it was nice talking to you. We should really get together more often.”

“I'm not leaving.”

“I'm sorry, Marion. You know I care about you, but I have this strong allergic reaction to federal agents. No, I'm afraid I have a strict No Cops/No FBI Agents policy for my property.”

“You are such a bastard!”

“I used to pray that was the case, but I probably have too much of the colonel in me for it to be true. What a shame.”

J.T.'s implacable grin told her he wasn't budging. He always had been a stubborn ass. But then, she could be stubborn too. And she had her orders. Straight from the colonel.

“Fine. I'll check my badge at the door.”

“And your backup band?” J.T. nodded toward the cops.

“If you can assure us that there's no intruder inside, I'll send them on their way.”

“Oh, the intruder's inside all right. I think the boys in blue should go on their way anyhow.”

He smiled at her. Then he walked inside and shut the door.

She was left standing in the broiling sun with three state troopers looking at her for guidance. She wanted to scream and she wanted to curse, but most of all she wanted to forget she'd ever met her husband.

“Go home,” she said to the troopers. “I have the situation under control.”

Then she knocked on the door of her brother's house and prepared for round two.

TESS SAT ON the floor of her room, her ear pressed against the door. She'd locked it but knew from experience that the lock was too feeble to hold. She still didn't have her gun and wasn't sure what she'd do if she did. It was imperative that no one know she was there, but was she desperate enough to shoot an FBI agent to keep her identity secret?

When she found herself thinking that she could just wound the woman, she realized she was desperate enough.

She'd listened to the exchange in the front yard. Now she heard the woman's voice echo down the hall from the living room.

“All right, J.T., where is she?”

“She stepped out for a moment. I got the impression she didn't much care for the police.”

“Oh? Doesn't that tell you something right there,
brother dear
?”

“Only that she's spent some time in L.A.”

“Give it up, J.T. If Lizzie Borden were alive today, she'd come to you for help.”

Tess wanted to resent that comment but couldn't; too many newspapers had referred to her as the Bride of Frankenstein. The tabloids had even carried her supposed biography under the headline

The late-night talk show hosts had gotten in a few stingers as well.