The Husband She Never Knew. Cynthia Thomason

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СКАЧАТЬ don’t have to commit to a relationship. A man who’s already been caught can’t be caught again.”

      He didn’t deny her accusation, and she admired the honesty in his unspoken admission.

      “Why have you come here today, Vicki?” he asked.

      She walked across the room and removed the divorce papers from her briefcase. “I’ve come because I see our marriage from a somewhat different perspective. I think it’s time to release you back into the wild, Mr. Malone, as a free spirit for real this time.”

      She shoved the document at his chest. “These are our divorce papers. I’m here to get you to sign them.”

      CHAPTER THREE

      JAMIE TOOK the document Vicki held out to him and stared at the address of a Fort Lauderdale legal firm on the cover. He wasn’t quite ready to open the folder just yet. He was still reeling from that unexpected bit of psychoanalysis she’d just offered to explain why he’d been hanging on to a name-only marriage for more than a decade. There was a lot of truth in what she’d said. Bobbi Lee certainly believed he’d used his marriage license to justify his not getting too involved. But then again, he’d never met a woman he’d really wanted to marry.

      In fact, Jamie had never considered himself a candidate for marriage. Despite having Frank Malone, rest his soul, as a role model in the husband department, Jamie hadn’t believed that a “real” marriage was essential to his future contentment. He’d spent the last thirteen years establishing his career, making friends in the only town he’d ever wanted to call home, and enjoying the independence of living by his own dictates. In a way, what he’d said to Vicki was true. She had been an almost ideal mate—primarily because Jamie had never been tested as an ideal husband.

      Jamie wasn’t against marriage even though he couldn’t recall his mother shedding a tear when Frank Sr. died of lung cancer. Kate Malone had been a stoic widow. Maybe she’d been nursing fresh bruises, and that had kept her eyes dry. During his long illness, Frank hadn’t gotten too weak to remind his family that he was master of the household.

      And Frank’s three sons were still single, even if Jamie technically wasn’t. Frank Junior and Cormac would likely remain so for at least another five years until their prison terms were up. And even then a woman who’d consent to wed one of the infamous Outlaw Malones would probably have to be tough as tree bark to stand up for her rights. Frank Junior was a carbon copy of his father, and years in jail might have hardened Cormac’s heart, as well.

      “Well, aren’t you going to look at it?”

      Vicki’s voice brought him back from his reverie. Mostly to please her, he lifted the blue document cover and thumbed through several pages. Then he put the folder on the coffee table, leaned back and settled his ankle on the opposite knee. He noticed that Vicki’s face was nearly colorless, as if she hadn’t taken a breath since producing the document from her briefcase. Did she think he would throw a fit when she presented her ultimatum?

      “It appears to be a lot of legal mumbo jumbo to me,” he said.

      “Actually it’s very straightforward. I know you’re probably surprised by my coming here today, but I don’t think you’ll find anything objectionable in the dissolution.”

      The truth was, her visit in the middle of a hurricane had surprised him, but he wasn’t at all surprised by the divorce papers. From a purely practical standpoint, one of them should have taken care of this matter years ago. Looking at Vicki now, he almost felt like apologizing for making her be the one to initiate the inevitable.

      He decided not to tell her that he’d kept track of her whereabouts through a Raleigh investigator. He’d even received pictures of her for the first few years. Lately he’d heard very little about her personal life, but had been informed of each new address she had—just in case he’d needed to find her. The latest report indicated she’d rented a classy little boutique in a posh Fort Lauderdale neighborhood. Victoria Karin Sorenson, Indiana farm girl, was doing well.

      Jamie was equally surprised at the changes in the timid girl he’d promised to love, honor and cherish in an Orlando courthouse. She’d been so nervous that day, like a plump little bird facing the menacing grin of a Cheshire cat. He’d seen a multitude of emotions cross her face in the hour they’d spent sealing their agreement. Guilt, fear, embarrassment. He’d tried to make her feel better about what they were doing, but none of his efforts had helped. In the end, he’d simply repeated his vows with the same hurried indifference she had.

      She was a changed woman today, however. Vicki Sorenson had lost her chubbiness and acquired the willowy stature of a new-millennium businesswoman to whom fried chicken and corn on the cob were foods enjoyed only by the non-calorie-counting masses. In her black slacks, white blouse and black leather loafers, she was a chic version of the girl she’d once been. Unfortunately he couldn’t help noticing that her beauty and sophistication fell just short of confidence. Was that because she was in a little country town called Bayberry Cove asking an immigrant stranger for a divorce? Or was it just that she was windblown and wet?

      She tapped one black loafer on his thick tan carpet. “Well, aren’t you going to say something?”

      He hunched one shoulder. “I expect I’ll say plenty once I’ve read this document through. Right now I’m overcome with grief at the abrupt end to our thirteen years.”

      “Don’t start with that again,” she warned. “It’s been thirteen years of nothing, Ja…”

      She stopped, and he filled in the gap of silence. “It’s okay. You can call me Jamie. People on the verge of divorce ought to be on a first-name basis at least.”

      She glared at him. “You can’t grieve over nothing, Jamie,” she said. “I really need you to sign those papers.” To expedite her request, she held a pen out to him.

      At the same time, a blast of wind rocked the houseboat and sent a branch from a nearby bayberry bush flying by the window. Vicki sank into the chair again. “Oh, my God, it’s getting worse, isn’t it?”

      “That appears to be the case,” he said. “And if I don’t get the shutters on this boat soon, there won’t be a dry line on your papers for me to put my signature.”

      “Then go. Do what you have to do. I’m apparently not going anywhere for a while.”

      She stood, went into the kitchen and leaned against the sink. Beasley looked up at her with uncharacteristic interest. All dogs, even those without any apparent purpose in life like Beasley, could smell fear, and Beasley sensed it in Vicki. Jamie was no stranger to the signs of it, either. He’d seen fear in the faces of his countrymen in Belfast plenty of times. He read Vicki’s fear in the fix of her gaze on the dark sky, the white-knuckled grip of her hand on the edge of the porcelain.

      “Don’t worry,” he said to her. “Like I said, the Bucket and I have seen worse than this. And Currituck Sound is protected by the barrier islands. We’ll come through all right.”

      She turned to look at him. Tried to smile even, though her lips trembled at the effort. She reached for her jacket, slipped it on. “Have you got a hat?”

      “What for?”

      She twisted her shoulder-length hair, pulled a clip from her pocket and held the strands in place at her crown. “You’ll need help.”

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