One Stormy Night. Marilyn Pappano

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СКАЧАТЬ so damn much better than fine that it was laughable. Jennifer Burton was a beautiful woman. Blond hair, blue eyes, a cute little nose, a mouth made for kissing. She was five-six, maybe five-seven, slender but with enough curves to make a man grateful. Whatever part of the female anatomy a man preferred, she fulfilled every fantasy and then some. She was sexy as hell in a wholesome girl-next-door type of way.

      The married girl next door.

      “Did she say anything about where she’s been?”

      Mitch repeated what Jennifer had told him.

      “Her sister, huh?” Taylor said, then the silence returned. He’d never met Jennifer’s older sister and had never wanted to. Jennifer’s life was with him, in Belmar, he’d proclaimed. Everything and everyone in her past should stay there.

      As if you could just shut out family because someone else told you to. Mitch hadn’t even been raised in the same state as his brothers, but he still had regular contact with them.

      “She’s alone?”

      “Apparently.”

      But the rustle of background noise on the phone, followed by a murmur—a sleepy female murmur—indicated that Taylor wasn’t. When he’d mentioned the marriage in a call to Mitch six months after the fact, he’d joked about how long he would be able to stay faithful to his wedding vows.

      Jeez, his wife had presumably died only three weeks ago, and he had another woman in his bed.

      Scowling, Mitch rubbed the throbbing between his eyes. He and Taylor had been friends for more than twenty years, but there was a lot he didn’t like about the man. Though there was a lot he didn’t like about life in general, and Jennifer Burton’s return was probably going to add a few things to that list.

      “Thanks for calling, Bubba.”

      “Are you going to see her?” Mitch asked, aware it was none of his business.

      “I’ve waited three weeks. Another night won’t matter. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

      Slowly Mitch hung up. In the first week after the hurricane, Taylor had been the personification of the grieving husband, especially after Billy Starrett had located her car. Even his worst enemies—about half the town—had felt sorry for him. Now, fourteen short days later, his dear, beloved wife had suddenly rejoined the living, and he couldn’t be bothered to leave his girlfriend in bed to go see her.

      Mitch moved his gun to the nightstand on the right side of the bed, then went to the kitchen to get a bottle of water from the refrigerator. He stood at a counter identical to the one where he’d first spotted Jennifer and stared disinterestedly. The room was the standard motel room turned into a living room, a dining area and a tiny kitchen. The former connecting door led into the bedroom and bathroom. The cheap motel shag had been replaced by a decent-quality carpet, and the walls had been painted bland off-white. It was boring but clean, everything worked and it wasn’t even in the same universe as the worst place he’d ever lived.

      Though it well might be the worst place Jennifer Burton had ever lived. It was sure as hell a huge step down from Taylor’s house over on Beachcomber Drive. She was a tad materialistic. Though she’d worn jeans and a sweater tonight, he would bet they were hundred-bucks-plus jeans, and the sweater was probably silk or cashmere. She was expensive, Taylor had often said with pride, because he could afford to keep her.

      He made sixty-two thousand dollars a year and paid his officers less than a third of that. Yet he lived in a four-thousand-square-foot house in the best part of town, drove a Hummer that was less than a year old, took regular ski vacations to Colorado, an anniversary cruise every summer and three-times-a-year gambling trips to Las Vegas. His wife dressed in designer clothes and had enough jewels to stock a small shop. His fishing boat must have set him back forty grand, and her recently junked Beemer had had less than five hundred miles on it.

      Something wasn’t right in Belmar, and Mitch wanted in on it. Taylor had promised him the time was coming, but he was growing tired of waiting. This apartment might be a hell of a lot better than the worst place he’d ever lived, but it was also a hell of a lot worse than the best. He wanted to move on.

      Water gone, he returned to the bedroom. He’d rented furniture when he’d moved in—bed, nightstands, dresser and a desk, plain and functional. The sheets were white cotton, the bedspread light brown. The only items of a personal nature in the room were his pistol, his wristwatch and his laptop.

      There was nothing personal he wanted anyone in Belmar to see.

      A thump came from next door, drawing his gaze to the connecting door that had survived the renovations. Jennifer’s bedroom was on the opposite side of that door. Her bathroom backed up to his, and sometimes, before the hurricane, he’d heard her shower running while he’d been in his. Sometimes he’d fantasized…but not often. She was a married woman. Married to his boss. His oldest friend.

      That meant something to him even if it didn’t seem to matter to Taylor.

      He slid between the sheets, shut off the light and, with a weary sigh, closed his eyes.

      The rumble of a finely tuned engine woke Jessica Wednesday morning. She blinked, needing a moment to remember where she was, then rolled over to glare at the drape-covered window. To her, cars were transportation, nothing more, nothing less, but whoever owned this one—likely male—was probably extraordinarily proud of the noise it made.

      Probably next-door male, she reflected. Mitch Lassiter.

      The prospect of seeing him wasn’t what drew her out of bed and across the room. She just wanted to see if it was daylight yet—such grumbling should be illegal between the hours of sunset and sunrise.

      She parted the curtains an inch or so and peered through the gap. The car, parked a few spaces away, was an old Mustang, midnight-blue and a convertible. That was the best description she could offer. The owner was next-door male, and he was fiddling with something under the hood.

      He wore clothes this morning—khaki trousers, khaki shirt with dark green epaulets, green tie, black shoes and black gun belt, complete with gun. Black and lethal was the best description of that she could offer. His hair was a shade short of shaggy, and his jaw was clean-shaven. He looked sinfully handsome. Dangerous.

      He straightened, wiped his hands on a rag, then closed the hood. Abruptly he looked over his right shoulder. She dropped the curtain, then took a few steps back for good measure. Her face flushed, as if she’d been caught spying on him. Granted, she had, but the odds that he knew that were minimal. He couldn’t possibly have seen her, couldn’t even know she was there.

      Unless he noticed the slight sway of the curtain as it settled.

      Shivering in the morning chill, she grabbed her robe, adjusted the thermostat, then went into the bathroom. When she emerged thirty minutes later, showered, shampooed, powdered and lotioned, the Mustang’s rumble was gone.

      Older, bolder and braver, she scoffed. Officer Lassiter could intimidate her with nothing more than his presence—and he wasn’t even the real danger. According to Jen, Taylor was the boss in both his law-abiding and lawbreaking pastimes. Everyone else, including Mitch, just did what they were told.

      Not that he struck her as much of a follower.

      In the kitchen, she rooted through the grocery СКАЧАТЬ