heart hurt.
She lifted her chin, latched her gaze onto his face, and something hot and sultry tightened in his chest. For a second the last two years fell away. He almost convinced himself she was still his wife, waiting for him to come home after a hard day at the office.
You’re an idiot , he told himself. A flaming idiot. She’s not your wife and never will be again. Accept it.
“What are you up to?” he asked. Maybe if he struck up a conversation, he’d keep his thoughts from venturing into dangerous territory.
“Sewing a baboon.” She showed him the monkey.
“Don’t bother. That thing is butt ugly.”
“I promised Kristen.” She sank the needle into the fabric, pulled it back out again. “I always keep my promises.”
Was that another jab for his benefit? She seemed to draw immeasurable pleasure from driving in the fact that he’d failed her, almost with the same zeal with which she plunged the needle into the toy.
He sat in the armchair across from her, leaning against the backrest and letting his head fall backward. He closed his lids, drew solace from the darkness. In the dark he couldn’t see the bitter accusation in her eyes, the rigid set of her shoulders, the disappointment thinning her lush, sexy mouth. Silence stretched between them.
“Voula said something today that got me thinking.” Her voice was hesitant, as heavy as the silence it pierced. He opened his eyes and looked at her, anxious to hear what was on her mind.
“Are you sure—” She pricked her finger, brought it to her mouth and sucked on it.
The blood in his veins pumped faster, rushed straight to his crotch. He remembered the feel of that mouth, the heat of it.
“Are you sure the shooting was a random break-in and not a hit?” Her words shattered the mood as effectively as a bucket of ice chips.
Tension twined and snapped inside him. “Course I’m sure. A hit—” he shook his head, “—that’s damn crazy.”
Small furrows formed between her brows. “What if you’re wrong? Liam was a lawyer. He interacted with people on the wrong side of the law on a daily basis. What if he got involved in something he shouldn’t have or knew something someone was desperate to keep quiet?”
“Don’t go there, Becca.” He didn’t mean to be short-tempered, but this was a sore subject for him. She was adding salt to an open wound, scraping it open until it bled again. “It’s hard enough knowing that my sister and her husband were murdered for no good reason, now you want me to believe someone intentionally gunned them down?”
“I just want you to acknowledge that it’s a possibility. Voula said Liam was acting edgy lately. Apparently, he and Lindsay argued on the day they were killed. He wanted to ship her and the kids off to his parents’ place in Ireland, but Lindsay refused to go. She was angry because he was keeping secrets from her.”
“Voula’s just a busybody with nothing better to do than stick her nose in other people’s business.”
“I don’t think so. She didn’t strike me as a gossip.”
She was doing it again—looking to make sense of a senseless situation, the way she had when she’d realized she couldn’t get pregnant. She’d dragged him to doctor after doctor, subjected them both to a slew of tests that had left them drained, frustrated and embittered. And for what? Nothing but pain had come of it.
Still, he understood her need for answers. When he first heard about the shooting, he’d wanted an explanation, too. But the truth was, finding someone to blame for a tragedy didn’t lessen the sting of it. All it did was fuel the anger.
He leaned forward and clasped his hands between his spread knees. “Look, no one wants to catch this bastard more than I do.” If he could, he’d tear the son of a bitch apart limb by limb for what he’d done to his sister. “If I had a lead, any lead, I’d be all over it like a dog on a bone. But all we’ve got are theories.”
A leaden sigh
She lifted her chin, latched her gaze onto his face, and something hot and sultry tightened in his chest. For a second the last two years fell away. He almost convinced himself she was still his wife, waiting for him to come home after a hard day at the office.
You’re an idiot , he told himself. A flaming idiot. She’s not your wife and never will be again. Accept it.
“What are you up to?” he asked. Maybe if he struck up a conversation, he’d keep his thoughts from venturing into dangerous territory.
“Sewing a baboon.” She showed him the monkey.
“Don’t bother. That thing is butt ugly.”
“I promised Kristen.” She sank the needle into the fabric, pulled it back out again. “I always keep my promises.”
Was that another jab for his benefit? She seemed to draw immeasurable pleasure from driving in the fact that he’d failed her, almost with the same zeal with which she plunged the needle into the toy.
He sat in the armchair across from her, leaning against the backrest and letting his head fall backward. He closed his lids, drew solace from the darkness. In the dark he couldn’t see the bitter accusation in her eyes, the rigid set of her shoulders, the disappointment thinning her lush, sexy mouth. Silence stretched between them.
“Voula said something today that got me thinking.” Her voice was hesitant, as heavy as the silence it pierced. He opened his eyes and looked at her, anxious to hear what was on her mind.
“Are you sure—” She pricked her finger, brought it to her mouth and sucked on it.
The blood in his veins pumped faster, rushed straight to his crotch. He remembered the feel of that mouth, the heat of it.
“Are you sure the shooting was a random break-in and not a hit?” Her words shattered the mood as effectively as a bucket of ice chips.
Tension twined and snapped inside him. “Course I’m sure. A hit—” he shook his head, “—that’s damn crazy.”
Small furrows formed between her brows. “What if you’re wrong? Liam was a lawyer. He interacted with people on the wrong side of the law on a daily basis. What if he got involved in something he shouldn’t have or knew something someone was desperate to keep quiet?”
“Don’t go there, Becca.” He didn’t mean to be short-tempered, but this was a sore subject for him. She was adding salt to an open wound, scraping it open until it bled again. “It’s hard enough knowing that my sister and her husband were murdered for no good reason, now you want me to believe someone intentionally gunned them down?”
“I just want you to acknowledge that it’s a possibility. Voula said Liam was acting edgy lately. Apparently, he and Lindsay argued on the day they were killed. He wanted to ship her and the kids off to his parents’ place in Ireland, but Lindsay refused to go. She was angry because he was keeping secrets from her.”
“Voula’s just a busybody with nothing better to do than stick her nose in other people’s business.”
“I don’t think so. She didn’t strike me as a gossip.”
She was doing it again—looking to make sense of a senseless situation, the way she had when she’d realized she couldn’t get pregnant. She’d dragged him to doctor after doctor, subjected them both to a slew of tests that had left them drained, frustrated and embittered. And for what? Nothing but pain had come of it.
Still, he understood her need for answers. When he first heard about the shooting, he’d wanted an explanation, too. But the truth was, finding someone to blame for a tragedy didn’t lessen the sting of it. All it did was fuel the anger.
He leaned forward and clasped his hands between his spread knees. “Look, no one wants to catch this bastard more than I do.” If he could, he’d tear the son of a bitch apart limb by limb for what he’d done to his sister. “If I had a lead, any lead, I’d be all over it like a dog on a bone. But all we’ve got are theories.”
A leaden sigh
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