“I lost twenty years off my life when I found that note,” he growled into her hair.
She clung to him, not loosening her grip. “You got here faster than I’d expected,” she gasped, still crying a little. “Edie must’ve gotten up early.”
“No, I got up early. You weren’t in bed with me, so I started hunting you. As it was, we barely got here in time. Edie would have been too late.”
Andy Phelps sighed, looking around the wrecked kitchen. Then he found another cup in the cabinet and poured himself some coffee. He made a face as he sipped it. “This stuff is rank. It tastes just like what we get at work. Anyway, I think I have my pajama bottoms on under my pants. When John called I took the time to dress, but I don’t think I took the time to undress first.”
They both looked at him. He still looked a little sleepy, and he certainly wasn’t in uniform. He had on jeans, a T-shirt, and running shoes with no socks. He could have worn an ape suit for all she cared.
“I need both of you to make statements,” he said. “But I don’t think this will ever come to trial. From what I saw, he won’t be judged mentally competent.”
“No,” Michelle agreed huskily. “He isn’t.”
“Do we have to make the statements right now?” John asked. “I want to take Michelle home for a while.”
Andy looked at both of them. Michelle was utterly white, and John looked the worse for wear, too. He had to still be feeling the effects of hitting a steering wheel with his face. “No, go on. Come in sometime this afternoon.”
John nodded and walked Michelle out of the house. He’d commandeered Nev’s truck, and now he led her to it. Someone else could get the car later.
It was a short, silent drive back to the ranch. She climbed numbly out of the truck, unable to believe it was all over. John swung her up in his arms and carried her into the house, his hard arms tight around her. Without a word to anyone, even Edie, who watched them with lifted brows, he took her straight upstairs to their bedroom and kicked the door shut behind him.
He placed her on the bed as if she might shatter, then suddenly snatched her up against him again. “I could kill you for scaring me like that,” he muttered, even though he knew he’d never be able to hurt her. She must have known it, too, because she cuddled closer against him.
“We’re getting married right away,” he ordered in a voice made harsh with need. “I heard part of what he said, and maybe he’s right that I can’t give you all the luxuries you deserve, but I swear to God I’ll try to make you happy. I love you too much to let you go.”
“I’ve never said anything about going,” Michelle protested. Married? He wanted to get married? Abruptly she lifted her head and gave him a glowing smile, one that almost stopped his breathing.
“You never said anything about staying, either.”
“How could I? This is your house. It was up to you.”
“Good manners be damned,” he snapped. “I was going crazy, wondering if you were happy.”
“Happy? I’ve been sick with it. You’ve given me something that doesn’t have a price on it.” She lifted her nose at him. “I’ve heard that mingling red blood with blue makes very healthy babies.”
He looked down at her with hungry fire in his eyes. “Well, I hope you like babies, honey, because I plan on about four.”
“I like them very much,” she said as she touched her stomach. “Even though this is making me feel really ghastly.”
For a moment he looked puzzled, then his gaze drifted downward. His expression changed to one of stunned surprise, and he actually paled a little. “You’re pregnant?”
“Yes. Since the night you came back from your last trip to Miami.”
His right brow lifted as he remembered that night; the left side of his face was still too swollen for him to be able to move it much. Then a slow grin began to widen his mouth, lifting the corners of his mustache. “I was careless one time too many,” he said with visible satisfaction.
She laughed. “Yes, you were. Were you trying to be?”
“Who knows?” he asked, shrugging. “Maybe. God knows I like the idea. How about you?”
She reached for him, and he pulled her onto his lap, holding her in his arms and loving the feel of her. She rubbed her face against his chest. “All I’ve ever wanted is for you to love me. I don’t need all that expensive stuff; I like working on the ranch, and I want to build my own ranch up again, even after we’re married. Having your baby is…just more of heaven.”
He laid his cheek on her golden hair, thinking of the terror he’d felt when he’d read her note. But now she was safe, she was his, and he would never let her go. She’d never seen any man as married as he planned to be. He’d spend the rest of his life trying to pamper her, and she’d continue to calmly ignore his orders whenever the mood took her, just as she did now. It would be a long, peaceful life, anchored in hard work and happily shrieking kids.
It would be good.
THEIR WEDDING DAY dawned clear and sunny, though the day before Michelle had resigned herself to having the wedding inside. But Hurricane Carl, after days of meandering around like a lost bee, had finally decided to head west and the clouds had vanished, leaving behind a pure, deep blue sky unmarred by even a wisp of cloud.
Michelle couldn’t stop smiling as she dressed. If there were any truth in the superstition that it was bad luck for the groom to see the bride on their wedding day, she and John were in for a miserable life, but somehow she just couldn’t believe it. He had not only refused to let her sleep in another room the night before, he’d lost his temper over the subject. She was damn well going to sleep with him where she belonged, and that was that. Tradition could just go to hell as far as he was concerned, if it meant they had to sleep apart. She had noticed that he hadn’t willingly let her out of his sight since the morning they had caught Roger, so she understood.
His rather calm acceptance of his impending fatherhood had been a false calm, one shock too many after a nerve-racking morning. The reality of it had hit him during the night, and Michelle had awakened to find herself clutched tightly to his chest, his face buried in her hair and his muscled body shaking, while he muttered over and over, “A baby. My God, a baby.” His hand had been stroking her stomach as if he couldn’t quite imagine his child growing inside her slim body. It had become even more real to him the next morning when even crackers couldn’t keep her stomach settled, and he had held her while she was sick.
Some mornings weren’t bad at all, while some were wretched. This morning John had put a cracker in her mouth before she was awake enough to even open her eyes, so she had lain in his arms with her eyes closed, chewing on her “breakfast.” When it became evident that this was going to be a good morning, the bridegroom had made love to the bride, tenderly, thoroughly, and at length.
They were even dressing together for their wedding. She watched as he fastened his cuff links, his hard mouth curved in a very male, very satisfied way. He had found her lace teddy and garter belt extremely erotic, so much so that now they risked being late to their own wedding.
“I need help with my zipper when you’ve finished with that,” she said.
He looked up, and a slow smile touched his lips, then lit his black eyes. “You look good enough to eat.”
She couldn’t help laughing. “Does this mean we’ll have to reschedule the wedding for tomorrow?”
The smile became a grin. “No, we’ll make this one.” He finished his cuff links. “Turn around.”
She turned, and his warm fingers touched her bare back, making her catch her breath and shiver in an echo of delight. He kissed her exposed nape, holding her as the shiver became a sensuous undulation. He wouldn’t have traded being with her on this particular morning for all the tradition in the world.
Her dress was a pale, icy yellow, as was the garden hat she had chosen to wear. The co
lor brought out the bright sunniness of her hair and made her glow, though maybe it wasn’t responsible for the color in her cheeks or the sparkle in her eyes. That could be due to early pregnancy, or to heated lovemaking. Or maybe it was sheer happiness.
He worked the zipper up without snagging any of the delicate fabric, then bent to straighten and smooth her skirt. He shrugged into his jacket as she applied lipstick and carefully set the hat on her head. The yellow streamers flowed gracefully down her back. “Are we ready?” she asked, and for the first time he heard a hint of nervousness in her voice.
“We’re ready,” he said firmly, taking her hand. Their friends were all waiting on the patio; even his mother had flown up from Miami, a gesture that had surprised him but, on reflection, was appreciated.
Without the shadow of Roger Beckman hanging over her, Michelle had flowered in just these few days. Until she had made the effort to confront Roger, to do something about him once and for all, she hadn’t realized the burden she’d been carrying around with her. Those black memories had stifled her spirit, made her wary and defensive, unwilling to give too much of herself. But she had faced him, and in doing so she had faced the past. She wasn’t helpless any longer, a victim of threats and violence.
Poor Roger. She couldn’t help feeling pity for him, even though he had made her life hell. At her insistence, John and Andy had arranged for Roger to have medical tests immediately, and it hadn’t taken the doctors long to make a diagnosis. Roger had a slow but relentlessly degenerative brain disease. He would never be any better, and would slowly become worse until he finally died an early death, no longer knowing anyone or anything. She couldn’t help feeling grief for him, because at one time he’d been a good, kind young man. She wished there were some help for him, but the doctors didn’t hold out any hope.
John put his arm around her, seeing the shadows that had come into her eyes. He didn’t share her sympathy for Beckman, though perhaps in time he would be able to forget the moment when that pistol had swung toward her. Maybe in a few centuries.
He tilted her head up and kissed her, taking care not to smear her lipstick. “I love you,” he murmured.
The sun came back out in her eyes. “I love you, too.”
He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. “Let’s go get married.”
Together they walked down the stairs and out to the patio, where their friends waited and the sun shone down brightly, as if to apologize for the threat of a storm the day before. Michelle looked at the tall man by her side; she wasn’t naive enough to think there wouldn’t be storms in their future, because John’s arrogance would always make her dig in her heels, but she found herself looking forward to the battles they would have. The worst was behind them, and if the future held rough weather and sudden squalls…well, what future didn’t? If she could handle John, she could handle anything.
Keep reading for a sneak peek
from Linda Howard’s next thrilling romance,
TROUBLEMAKER
Coming Summer 2016 from William Morrow
Chapter One
Washington, D.C., Area
IT WAS ONE of those bright, early-March days that made you think spring had to be here, even though you knew the winter bitch wasn’t yet ready to loosen her grip and move completely out of town. Morgan Yancy sometimes lost track of what season it was anyway. He’d have to stop and think: was he in the Northern Hemisphere, or the Southern? His job demanded that he travel to hellholes at a moment’s notice, so he could find himself going from the Arctic to the Iraqi desert, from there to South America—wherever it was in the world that his talents were needed.
Thirty-six hours ago he’d arrived at the small condo that passed for home these days, slept the first twenty-four hours and awakened to the discovery that his days and nights were mixed up. Wasn’t the first time, wouldn’t be the last. So he stayed up a while, ate some peanut butter smeared on stale crackers, worked on his gear, ran seven miles in the dark city to tire himself out, then conked out again.
When he woke, it was spring—or as good as.
He took a cool shower to blow the rest of the cobwebs out of his head, then rummaged in the refrigerator and found that his last bag of ground coffee had enough in it to make half a pot. Good enough. He opened the carton of milk, sniffed, winced, and poured it down the drain. There was some fuzzy green cheese in the fridge too, so he tossed it. No doubt about it: he had to do some grocery shopping while he was home this time. He could do without cheese and milk, but things got dicey if he didn’t have coffee. Funny how he could go days, weeks, without it, drinking whatever was handy, but when he was home he damn well wanted his coffee.
The bright sunlight lured him out onto his postage-stamp patio. Coffee cup in hand, he stepped out and assessed the situation.
The weather was perfect: just cool enough not to classify as warm, but warm enough that he was comfortable without a jacket. There was a light breeze, and a few cotton-ball clouds floated by.
Well, fuck; life was tough sometimes. He didn’t have a choice about it: he had to go fishing. He’d lose his man-license if he let a day made specially for fishing slip by without taking his boat out.
Besides, the old Shark needed to have the cobwebs blown out of the motor every now and then. He did upkeep on it whenever he was home, but it hadn’t had a good run in about five months—which, come to think of it, might have been how long it had been since he’d had more than a day at home. The team sure as hell had been on a grueling stretch.
He fished his cell phone from the cargo pocket on his right thigh, and called Kodak, a buddy from his GO-Team. Kodak’s real name was Tyler Gordon, but when you have eidetic memory, what the hell else could people call you besides Kodak?
Kodak sounded a little groggy and froggy when he answered, not surprising considering he’d been on the last job with Morgan. “Yeah, wassup?” The combination of hoarseness and borderline consciousness made the words barely intelligible.
“Fishing. I’m taking the Shark out. Wanna go?”
“Fuck, don’t you ever sleep?”
“I’ve been sleeping. I’ve slept for most of two days. What the hell have you been doing?”
“Sometimes not sleeping. I’m sleeping now. Or I was.” There was the sound of a huge yawn. “Have fun, buddy, but I won’t be there having it with you. How long you going to stay out?”
“Until about dark, probably.” He should’ve expected this; Kodak was a horn dog, pure and simple. He’d have thought about getting his rocks off even before putting some decent food in his belly. Not that Morgan hadn’t thought about getting his own rocks off, but that had come after food, and he hadn’t gotten any further than the thought.
There was another yawn. “I’ll give it a pass this time. Catch you later.” The air went dead as Kodak disconnected.
Morgan shrugged and slipped the phone back into his pocket. So he’d be fishing alone today. He didn’t mind. Most times, he preferred it. The sun, the wind, the water, the blessed solitude—it was great, especially when he was unwinding from a job.
Within five minutes he’d downed enough coffee to get him by, pulled on a shirt and some socks and boots, and was in his truck heading for the marina. Breakfast came from a fast-food drive-through, but hell, it wasn’t as if he didn’t eat crap most days of his life anyway. Besides, in his opinion America had some great-tasting crap. If the fat police really wanted to complain about food, they should go to some of the shit-holes he’d visited; after that, then maybe they’d have a deeper appreciation for tasty crap.
The marina where he kept the Shark was on the old, run-down side and a fairly long stretch down the river, but he liked it because it was small, and he could keep better track of any new boats or any suspicious vehicles in the parking area. If he were able to get the boat out on anything resembling a regular schedule, he’d be able to keep better vig
ilance, but so far he’d never had any trouble—no reason he should, just that habit was habit—and he had a talent for spotting vehicles that were out of the ordinary for their surroundings. Nothing stood out today, though he did take the precaution of driving up and down all the aisles before stopping. There were no vehicles parked facing out and no rentals or anything else suspicious.
He backed his truck into a parking slot, got out and locked it, then double-checked that it was locked. It was second nature; he double-checked everything when it came to security. As he stuck his key into the padlock on the security gate that blocked entrance to the docks, the marina owner, Brawley, stuck his head out of the shack thirty yards away and shouted, “Been a while! Good day for fishing.”
“Hope so,” Morgan replied, raising his voice to cover the distance.
“You heading out to the bay?”
“Don’t think I’ll go that far.” The Chesapeake was a good forty miles down the Potomac; he’d use up most of his fishing time running there and back.
“Catch one for me,” Brawley called, then ducked back inside the shack. Through the glass, Morgan watched him pick up the phone, an old-fashioned corded job that had probably been there since the day the marina was built, and cradle it on his shoulder as he dialed. You didn’t see many of those phones these days.
Morgan snapped the padlock closed again, then continued down the dock to the slip he rented under the name of Ivan Smith, which he’d chosen because the name amused him, Ivan being the Russian “John.” Hell, this was D.C.; probably half the population expected that the other half was using aliases.
He scrutinized all the boats he passed, looking for anything unfamiliar—not so much the boats themselves, though a small, out-of-the-way marina like this one tended to have a slower turnover rate than the bigger marinas—but equipment, such as an expensive radio array on a shit-can boat, or people who didn’t quite fit in. Maybe their shoes were hard soled, or maybe they were armed, anything like that.