His Partner's Wife (9 page)

He jerked and dropped the milk carton. Milk sloshed at his
feet. Swearing, he bent to pick it up.

Natalie stayed in the doorway, eyes huge, dark curly hair
tousled over her shoulders. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle
you."

"No, no." He grabbed a glass from the cupboard and
poured the milk before it could all leak out the bottom.

"Do you have a pitcher you could put that in?" She
came shyly into the kitchen.

"Uh, yeah. Somewhere." He left the milk carton in
the sink and banged cupboard doors until he found a plastic pitcher. He
salvaged a pint or so, enough for breakfast cereal, anyway.

Natalie had taken paper towels and was mopping up the mess
on the floor.

"I can do that," he said, frowning again as he
looked down at the top of her head and realized she wore a robe. She had
probably been in bed when she heard him come in.

"It was my fault." She didn't even glance up.
"Besides, the microwave beeped. I think your dinner must be ready."

John hesitated for a moment, then opted for the casserole.
What was he going to do, hand-wrestle Natalie for a soggy paper towel?

"Come sit with me?" he asked.

Now she did look up, that same unexpected shyness in her
dark eyes. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather be alone?"

"Positive." He hooked a stool at the tiled
breakfast bar with one foot and pulled it out. "Are you hungry?"

"Heavens, no! Your mother made me eat every bite at
dinner."

He gave the same rueful chuckle. "That's my mom."

Natalie wiped the floor again with a damp, soapy towel and
then tossed it into the garbage under the sink. Straightening, she hesitated,
pulled her robe more snugly around herself and then came to the bar.

John pushed a second stool out. "Join me."

"I couldn't sleep." She scooted her rump onto the
stool, keeping both hands on her robe so that it didn't gape above or below the
belt.

Of course, nothing was so calculated to make him wonder what
she wore under it. He hastily turned his attention to his dinner. Damn it, he
did
not
want to have sexual fantasies, however fleeting, about
Natalie Reed.

"Did you nap this afternoon?" Maybe not a smart
question, as it made him picture that curly hair spread on her pillow, her
cheeks flushed like Maddie's on the rare occasions when she would still lie
down during the daytime.

Natalie shook her head. "I never do, you see. Going so
against habit would have just made me think."

He chewed and swallowed, washing the bite down with a slug
of milk. "What did you do, then?"

"Rode." The hand possessively clutching the robe
at her bosom began to relax, as if she forgot she had to. "Then, believe
it or not, I went shopping at the mall. A woman's refuge."

"Ah." Debbie had shopped, too, whether the credit
cards were maxed out or not.

"I wasn't sure you could let me into my house. I bought
some clothes for the next day or so."

"You didn't have to do that," he said roughly.
"I could have gotten what you needed."

"No, that's okay." She bent her head and fingered
the shawl collar of the robe, which he realized belatedly was his mother's.
"I hardly ever take the time to shop, and I can use some new jeans and …
things."

Panties? Bras? Another irritating, unsettling image of her
lush body in dainty, lacy lingerie flitted through his mind. His brows drew
together and he shoved another bite in, although the damn casserole seemed
tasteless tonight.

She said quietly, "You looked angry earlier. And now
you do again. Did something happen today?"

"What?" He realized he was glowering at her and
wiped the expression from his face. "Sorry. No. Nothing happened. In fact,
too little happened."

She didn't say anything. She never did probe. What he didn't
offer, she didn't ask. Because she didn't care enough? Because she didn't think
she had the right?

Had she been the same with Stuart? Or was Stuart the one who
had taught her that what he didn't choose to tell her was none of her damned
business?

The speculation felt disloyal. Stuart Reed and he had been
partners. Friends. Yeah, there had been moments when John hadn't much liked him,
but that was water under the bridge. Stuart was dead and buried. This was no
time to question his character.

"I was thinking about my mother," John said
abruptly, as much because he wasn't yet ready to admit he hadn't made an arrest
today, that Natalie couldn't go home, that he didn't have a damned clue.
"Like I said, she's too hard on Evan especially. I'm just not sure what to
do about it."

"Have you talked to her?"

"I said something this morning."

"Did you?" Her voice was soft, uncritical, but he
got the point.

Okay. So what he'd really done was snap at his mother.

"Talking to her isn't going to do any good."

"I don't understand." Tiny crinkles formed in her
brow. "I always thought you were close to her."

John shoved his plate away on a sigh. "Yes and no. I
stayed in town, I see her often. I appreciate what she did, somehow keeping us
all together when she had no job skills and Dad hadn't left any life
insurance." He didn't usually talk like this. What he felt toward Stuart's
memory was nothing when compared to his fierce loyalty to family. But Natalie
listened with those wide, compassionate eyes and no hint of judgment. He could
use a sounding board.

"What did your mom do?"

"Worked two jobs. Apparently she'd learned to type in
high school, and she managed to get a secretarial job even though she had no
experience. Nights she cleaned office buildings."

"But when did she sleep?"

The question took him by surprise. "I don't know."
He grimaced. "No, that's not true, of course. Whenever she got home in the
middle of the night, maybe three o'clock to seven in the morning. A couple of
hours after work in the afternoon." Somehow he hadn't thought about how
sleep deprived his mother must have been all those years.

"What about you and your brothers? Did somebody take
care of you when she was working?"

He shook his head. "I guess we were the original
latchkey kids. We were all school age when Dad died. I watched Hugh and Connor
after school until I started playing high school sports, and by then Con was old
enough. Nighttimes she left us alone." He frowned, trying to remember.
"I'm not sure she had the janitorial job the first year after Dad was
killed. I was probably in middle school by the time she started that. Old
enough to be in charge."

Still with puckered brow, Natalie studied his face.
"Did you
feel
old enough?"

No.
Hell,
no.

The explosive quality of his realization startled him.
Perhaps to disguise his quiet shock, John rubbed a hand over his chin, which
felt bristly.

"You didn't, did you?" She was too damned
perceptive.

"I went through a stretch when I was scared to death at
night. The cops never arrested the guy who shot my dad. Did I ever tell you
that? Every night I'd imagine he was breaking into that crummy apartment we
rented. The building creaked and whimpered all night long. I was old enough to
know the locks were flimsy. If he'd been able to kill my dad, who seemed huge
and strong to me, what could I do?" He shook his head. "I never told
my mother how scared I was. What could she have done? She had to work. As it
was, she went without anything for herself to make sure three boys growing by
half-foot leaps had enough on the table, decent clothes and the chance to play
sports like our friends."

Now he felt like a son of a bitch, resenting the way his
mother had brought him up. No, what he felt was childish, for forgetting how
hard it had been for her.

"I must sound petty," he said.

"You mean, worrying about how she treats Evan?"
She abandoned the collar of the robe, which gaped enough for him to glimpse
flowered T-shirt fabric. So much for those visions of satin and lace.
"It's your
job
to worry about your son."

John grunted. "Mom didn't have time to be soft with us.
I think she forgot how to be soft."

"Was she different? Before?"

"Yeah." He stretched. "Dad was the one who
was too busy to throw the ball or help me learn to ride my two-wheeler. I
remember that especially, for some reason. I wasn't kidding about those
half-foot leaps, by the way. I think I must have grown six inches that year. I
was incredibly clumsy. My buddies were all racing up and down the sidewalk on
their two-wheelers, and me, I was stuck with training wheels and humiliated.
Mom would go out with me after dark, when no one would see us, and she'd run up
and down the street holding me up. When she said she wouldn't let me fall, I
believed her. One day, I just knew I could do it. I yelled for her to let
go." A bittersweet smile tugged at his mouth. "I rode up to the end
of the street, got off and turned the bike around, then got started all by
myself. I can still see Mom, clapping and jumping up and down and laughing like
crazy."

When he fell silent, Natalie said softly, "Maybe she
could learn again."

John shook his head. "Mom's spent plenty of time with
the kids since they were born. If she was going to, she would have by
now."

"Hey. Don't give up on her."

He shrugged and said nothing for a moment. Time to change
the subject.

Probably too abruptly, he said, "Ronald Floyd's parents
didn't know anything. They saw their son a couple of times a year. He told them
he was going straight, working at a marina."

Tension minutely tightened the muscles in her jaw and around
her eyes. Her hand, lying on the counter, knotted. "Was he?"

"He did pilot whale-watching tours. He'd only been out
of the joint a month, got the job two weeks ago. Mom and Dad didn't know why he
had come straight back to Port Dare. We found some of his old acquaintances.
Some admitted seeing him, some not. Nobody knew anything about him dealing, or
taking up a new trade like B and E. He liked boats, they all agreed."

She thought about that. "Stuart got seasick. He didn't
even like to take the ferry."

"What about you?"

"Me?" She stiffened slightly, making him realize
he'd sounded like a cop. "They're okay, I guess. I do enjoy taking the
ferry to Canada. I haven't even done that since … oh, in May, I went up to see Butchart Gardens, when the rhododendrons were in bloom."

"No whale-watching trips?"

She shook her head.

He sighed. "I'm reaching here. I thought he might have
seen you, maybe flirted. I don't know."

"You mean, that he was looking for
me?"
The
thought obviously horrified her.

Sorry he'd raised it but knowing he'd needed to, John said,
"I didn't really think he was. You work every day. If he'd done any
checking, he'd have known that. And we can't forget that he wasn't alone. So
who was with him and why?"

Tiny, worried lines crimped her forehead. "You really
don't think they were there to burglarize, do you?"

"I can't say that. I'm eliminating other
possibilities." John spread his hands. "According to Floyd's parents,
the only grudge he harbored was against whoever tipped the cops off the night
we arrested him. He never mentioned Stuart to them."

"Could that person have killed him?"

"Apparently he died a couple of years ago, while Floyd
was still locked up. Or so he told his parents."

John's mouth twisted. "Unless he lied. And why would he
have?"

Natalie brushed her hair back from her face, pulling it into
a ponytail with one hand and twisting it into a sort of rough chignon. The
movement parted the collar of the robe, and he saw both the swell of her
breasts and the cartoon cats on her T-shirt nightgown. She left the heavy knot
at her nape and tugged her robe together. Hell, had she seen him staring?