him in the balls.
Metaphorically . . . and physically.
He read her mind and quickly stepped forward, clasped her by the shoulders, and gave her one hard shake that set her teeth rattling. Memories danced like fireflies behind her eyelids. Memories of another man shaking her, slapping her.
Dinah saw red. She swung with a closed fist, connected with a hard chest. Swearing, he pushed her up against the wall, holding her tautly, negating her violently struggling form by the sheer weight of his own.
“God . . . damn . . . it,” he ground through clenched teeth.
“You sick bastard,” she panted. “Let me go! Let me GO!”
Crash! Beside them, the funky wrought-iron snake floor-lamp smashed onto the russet tiles.
She was drowning, going under into a black, familiar, clammy numbness that caught at her heart. The fear inside her was so intense, she was a wild thing, inhuman, ready to inflict mortal damage.
John Callahan had never seen this side to his ex-wife and frankly, her wriggling and near spasmodic squirming shocked and frightened him a little. She must have finally gone over the edge. Headfirst. Right down into the black hole she’d been aiming for since they first met.
He let her go as suddenly as he’d grabbed her, his liquored senses clearing as if he’d taken an ammonia hit.
“Touch me again and I’ll kill you,” she snarled past a heaving chest.
John stared in amazement. Her eyes were wild with burning rage. Not acting, he realized with a faint jolt. This was real. His ex-wife meant to attack him.
He was literally saved by the bell.
Jarring chimes peeled loudly through the house, stilling both of them as if they’d been hit by a freeze ray. Denise pulled herself together with difficulty and John, eyeing her thoughtfully, yanked open the front doors to find a uniformed cop standing on the step.
“Good evening, sir,” he said diffidently. “A neighbor reported screaming coming from these grounds and requested we check it out. Is everything all right?”
“Minor domestic dispute,” John drawled, shooting a sideways glance at Denise. He expected her to toss out one of her dry, ironic zingers, those inappropriate and blackly humorous remarks that had made a fool of him on more than one occasion. But apparently she was in the throes of real emotion and for once in her life remained remarkably silent.
The cop turned to her. John steeled himself. In the face of the authorities, one of Denise’s most-sought-after audiences, she tended to come alive. She could be teary-eyed and weak, or sweet and kittenish, or a blisteringly cold bitch. God, how she loved a stage of any kind.
The cop’s eyes widened as he recognized her. Inwardly sighing, John waited for a spate of overdramatized histrionics. Denise was in her element.
But Denise didn’t respond to the cue. Instead, she collected herself with an effort and asked, “Which neighbor complained?”
“Ma’am?”
“The people on the left or the people on the right? I want to know who’s watching me.”
John’s head swiveled in surprise. What the hell was going on here?
The cop hesitated and Denise pressed, “Don’t I have a right to know? Or is that privileged information? Do you even know?” she finished, before she gave him a chance to answer, gazing at the cop with such microscopic intensity that the young man shifted uncomfortably, as if he were involved in some transgression, not Denise. Good God, the kid was green.
Either that or he’d succumbed to Denise’s charms in less than five minutes. John inwardly snorted. It happened.
“Looks like everything’s okay here,” he mumbled, beating a hasty retreat.
“Nothing that can’t be worked out,” John agreed, closing the door behind him.
As soon as they were alone, he turned his attention back to Denise. Premonition crept over his skin. Something wasn’t right. He’d seen a lot of sides to his ex-wife, but this was a new one. Her interests were always self-involved and
Metaphorically . . . and physically.
He read her mind and quickly stepped forward, clasped her by the shoulders, and gave her one hard shake that set her teeth rattling. Memories danced like fireflies behind her eyelids. Memories of another man shaking her, slapping her.
Dinah saw red. She swung with a closed fist, connected with a hard chest. Swearing, he pushed her up against the wall, holding her tautly, negating her violently struggling form by the sheer weight of his own.
“God . . . damn . . . it,” he ground through clenched teeth.
“You sick bastard,” she panted. “Let me go! Let me GO!”
Crash! Beside them, the funky wrought-iron snake floor-lamp smashed onto the russet tiles.
She was drowning, going under into a black, familiar, clammy numbness that caught at her heart. The fear inside her was so intense, she was a wild thing, inhuman, ready to inflict mortal damage.
John Callahan had never seen this side to his ex-wife and frankly, her wriggling and near spasmodic squirming shocked and frightened him a little. She must have finally gone over the edge. Headfirst. Right down into the black hole she’d been aiming for since they first met.
He let her go as suddenly as he’d grabbed her, his liquored senses clearing as if he’d taken an ammonia hit.
“Touch me again and I’ll kill you,” she snarled past a heaving chest.
John stared in amazement. Her eyes were wild with burning rage. Not acting, he realized with a faint jolt. This was real. His ex-wife meant to attack him.
He was literally saved by the bell.
Jarring chimes peeled loudly through the house, stilling both of them as if they’d been hit by a freeze ray. Denise pulled herself together with difficulty and John, eyeing her thoughtfully, yanked open the front doors to find a uniformed cop standing on the step.
“Good evening, sir,” he said diffidently. “A neighbor reported screaming coming from these grounds and requested we check it out. Is everything all right?”
“Minor domestic dispute,” John drawled, shooting a sideways glance at Denise. He expected her to toss out one of her dry, ironic zingers, those inappropriate and blackly humorous remarks that had made a fool of him on more than one occasion. But apparently she was in the throes of real emotion and for once in her life remained remarkably silent.
The cop turned to her. John steeled himself. In the face of the authorities, one of Denise’s most-sought-after audiences, she tended to come alive. She could be teary-eyed and weak, or sweet and kittenish, or a blisteringly cold bitch. God, how she loved a stage of any kind.
The cop’s eyes widened as he recognized her. Inwardly sighing, John waited for a spate of overdramatized histrionics. Denise was in her element.
But Denise didn’t respond to the cue. Instead, she collected herself with an effort and asked, “Which neighbor complained?”
“Ma’am?”
“The people on the left or the people on the right? I want to know who’s watching me.”
John’s head swiveled in surprise. What the hell was going on here?
The cop hesitated and Denise pressed, “Don’t I have a right to know? Or is that privileged information? Do you even know?” she finished, before she gave him a chance to answer, gazing at the cop with such microscopic intensity that the young man shifted uncomfortably, as if he were involved in some transgression, not Denise. Good God, the kid was green.
Either that or he’d succumbed to Denise’s charms in less than five minutes. John inwardly snorted. It happened.
“Looks like everything’s okay here,” he mumbled, beating a hasty retreat.
“Nothing that can’t be worked out,” John agreed, closing the door behind him.
As soon as they were alone, he turned his attention back to Denise. Premonition crept over his skin. Something wasn’t right. He’d seen a lot of sides to his ex-wife, but this was a new one. Her interests were always self-involved and
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