TWELVE
His wife.
Marty felt the word like a punch between the eyes. She’d had no idea Clay was married. He’d never mentioned a wife. He didn’t wear a ring. Certainly not when he’d been kissing her and putting his hands all over her body.
Marty had wondered about Erica’s mother, but she’d never gotten the details. She assumed Clay was divorced. Or, perhaps, widowed, since most often the wife got the children when marriages went bad.
She told herself it didn’t matter. She told herself she wasn’t shocked. That she wasn’t disappointed. To admit either of those things would be to acknowledge there was something going on between her and Clay that didn’t have to do with sexual attraction. They’d engaged in a couple of hot kisses; that was all. End of story. But the overly simplistic elucidation didn’t explain why she suddenly felt nauseous and deflated.
Why hadn’t Clay mentioned this woman?
Across the room, Jo Nell reached for the phone to buzz Clay.
The blonde intervened. “I’ll just pop in and surprise him if you don’t mind.”
Jo Nell didn’t hang up. “Chief don’t like surprises.”
“Oh, he’ll like this one.” The woman smiled, showing the whitest teeth Marty had ever seen. “Trust me.”
Just when Clay thought the day couldn’t get any worse,
it did. Tenfold. He’d just gotten off the phone with Smitty’s lawyer, who was threatening to file suit against the city of Caprock Canyon and the police department for unlawful discharge—when his worst nightmare entered his office without knocking.
The sight of Eve Sutherland nearly toppled him from his chair. He hadn’t seen or heard from her for six years. He’d been operating under the assumption that he would never have to deal with her again. Evidently, she had other ideas.
She hadn’t changed much since she’d walked out on him all those years ago. If anything, she was even prettier. The kind of pretty that sucked the oxygen right out of a man’s lungs and turned his brain to mush. He’d been only twenty-two years old when they met, and Clay hadn’t stood a chance against that kind of beauty. It was the one and only time in his life when he’d gone against his every instinct and risked it all for the love of a woman. In the end he’d paid dearly for his lack of judgment.
Six years was a long time, but Clay hadn’t forgotten that punch-in-the-gut pain he’d felt when she’d walked out. The sense of betrayal. But Eve’s departure wasn’t the worst of what she’d done. She hadn’t just left him, after all. She’d left their four-year-old little girl, too. A little girl who’d asked about her mother a hundred times since.
Clay stood. “Eve.”
“Clayton.” She extended a long, elegant hand.
For an instant he thought she expected him to kiss it. He hesitated a moment before giving her hand a single, firm shake. “It’s been a while.”
“Too long.”
“What are you doing here?”
A shadow passed over her eyes. Her full mouth compressed slightly. At one time Clay had known her so well. Or thought he had. But he remembered enough to realize hers was a practiced reaction designed to get the desired response. He didn’t want to think about what that might be.
“J.B. died,” she said softly. “Two months ago. A heart attack.”
“I’m sorry.”
She closed her eyes in a silent thank-you. “I’ve been taking stock of my life.”
“We do that sometimes when tragedy strikes.”
Her gaze met his, beseeching him for something she hadn’t yet asked. But he knew she would. She was working up to it. And he was afraid to hear it.
But her gaze was so compelling he felt his resolve weakening. The way it had all those years ago every time he looked at her.
“I want to see Erica,” she said.
Clay felt the words as if she’d thrown a glass of ice water in his face. He didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know how to express the emotions coiling and flexing inside him. An uneasy mix of anger and regret and a bone-chilling fear that he might lose something precious. The only thing he knew for certain was that he didn’t want his daughter in the middle of it.
“You left,” he said after a moment. “You didn’t want her.”
She had the grace to wince, but Clay wondered if that was practiced, too. She was so damn slick. So perfect and poised and credible.
“I’ve made mistakes,” she said. “Lots of them. Walking out on her is the biggest regret of my life.”
“What’s done is done. I don’t want her hurt.”
“I’m not going to hurt her.”
“You already have. More than you know.”
“I have the right to see my own daughter.”
“You gave up that right when you left. When you married someone else and left me to raise her.”
“I didn’t relinquish my rights to her. Not legally.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“That means you let me see her or I’ll get an attorney.”
“Is that the way it’s going to be?”
“I don’t want it that way, Clayton. But I want to see my daughter. You owe me that much.”
“I don’t owe you a goddamn thing.” His heart knocked against his ribs like the piston of an engine that had been run without oil. All he could think was that this woman was going to try to take away the thing that meant most to him in the world. A little girl he’d built his life around.
“Let me see her, Clayton. I can come to the house. While you’re there. You can . . . supervise the visit. I just want to see her.”
He stared at her for what felt like an eternity, seeing beyond the outward beauty to the selfish woman beneath. He wondered if she’d always been that way. If he’d been so blinded by lust, by that first, heady taste of love, that he hadn’t seen her for what she was. A taker. A user.
“I’ll ask Erica,” he said. “It’s her decision.”
“She’ll see me. Won’t she?” She pouted. “Or have you told her something unpleasant about me?”
“I haven’t told her a damn thing. That’s not to say she hasn’t asked.” He gave her a hard look. “Maybe while you’re here, you can explain to her why you didn’t want her.”
“That’s not the way it was.”
“That’s exactly the way it was, Eve.”
She pursed her lips, seemed to gather herself. “I was hoping we could be . . . friendly. Do this together. Let the past go.”
“Let bygones be bygones?” Sarcasm drenched the words, but Clay didn’t care. He knew he was being a bastard. But he’d had a lot of time to think about what Eve had done. Not only to him, but to Erica. He’d had a lot of time to think about why she’d done it. And he’d decided a long time ago he would never forgive her.
“I’ll talk to Erica,” he repeated.
“I guess that’s all I can ask.”
“Yeah, it is.”
Squaring her shoulders, she met his gaze with the level intensity of a pious minister looking down upon a fallen parishioner. “I’m staying at the Pioneer Motel.”
When Clay said nothing, she gave him a small smile then turned to leave.
The moment she walked out the door, he let out the breath he’d been holding. He couldn’t believe Eve was back. That she was asking to see Erica. What the hell was he supposed to do?
More than anything, he wanted to protect Erica. He wanted to keep her happy and secure and safe. As far as he was concerned, Eve threatened all of those things.
But that didn’t give him the right to keep his daughter from knowing her mother. He was pretty sure that if he asked her, Erica would want to talk to Eve. Naturally, she was curious. That didn’t mean Clay had to like it.
The only reason Erica had no ill feelings toward Eve was because Clay had never put them there. He’d never said a negative word about Eve, though he could have filled a book with them. How the hell was he supposed to handle this?
“One disaster at a time,” he muttered and wished fervently it were that simple.
Marty knew she was taking the news far too personally.
After all, she and Clay were not involved. Damn it, they weren’t. They’d partaken in a couple of blood-burning, skin-melting kisses during a time of high stress. That was all.
She couldn’t believe he was married. She couldn’t believe he hadn’t told her. That she’d been too stupid to ask. Men could be such whores.
Those were the thoughts running through her mind when she stopped at Foley’s Bar and picked up a quart of vodka. Just for a nightcap, she told herself. A little something to take the edge off. She gave herself points for not buying cigarettes. But a woman had to draw the line somewhere. One of these days Marty was going to get her act together.
Just not tonight.
Dusk was being swallowed by darkness as she parked the Mustang and took the sidewalk to the front door. She was thinking about that first, anesthetizing drink as she let herself inside. A hot bath. A candle if she could find one. And that Norah Jones CD, if it hadn’t melted on the drive from Chicago to Texas.
In the kitchen, Marty uncapped the bottle, grabbed a tall glass from the cupboard and poured. The first long pull reminded her that she really didn’t like the taste of vodka. But then this wasn’t about pleasure. It was about getting through the night, forgetting her troubles for a little while, and this was the only way she could think of to get the job done.
In the bathroom, she turned on the water, then found some bubble bath beads someone who didn’t know her very well had gotten her for Christmas. She dumped a handful beneath the running water. Back in the bedroom, she set her pistol on the night table. Next came the holster and boots, both of which stayed on the floor. She worked off her uniform shirt and bra and paused to take another drink of salvation.
She carried the glass to the bathroom and set it on the edge of the tub. She found a never-opened candle in the nightstand and lit it with a pad of matches from Foley’s Bar. The chipped soap tray on the sink made a good candleholder, and she set it on the commode. She kicked off her pants and flung them into the hall, making a mental note to pick them up later.
The initial notes of Norah Jones floated in the air as she walked into the bathroom wearing only her panties. Steam filled the room. Marty breathed in the scent of vanilla and musk and tried not to think about Clay or the sudden appearance of his wife. She assured herself none of it meant anything to her.
He
didn’t mean anything. She barely knew him. He was only her boss. A small-town hick cop to boot. But none of that explained the kick-in-the-stomach reaction she’d felt when the woman walked through the door.
Marty slipped out of her panties and stuck a toe into the bubbles. The water was too hot, but that was exactly what she needed. A hot bath. A few drinks. A movie on the tube, if she could find something decent. And then the oblivion of sleep.
The mirror snagged her gaze. She wiped away the condensation with her hand. The image staring back at her gave her pause. She saw a woman with a wild mane of cinnamon-colored curls that had long been in need of a decent cut. She was a little too thin, a little too pale. Her mouth was too full. She had the deeply troubled eyes of an ugly shelter dog that didn’t have a hope in the world of ever getting adopted.
Eve Sutherland was beautiful. She was classy. Elegant. She knew how to dress. How to style her hair. How to wear makeup. And she definitely had bigger boobs.
“What the hell are you doing?” she whispered.
Turning away from the mirror, she stepped into the tub and sank into bubbles up to her chin. She concentrated on relaxing her tense muscles. On clearing her mind of all the clutter that had accumulated throughout the last few months. When that failed, Marty sat up and reached for the glass. She drank deeply, knowing it was a mistake. But if she was good at anything, mistakes were her specialty.
The initial rush of alcohol hit her brain, blurred her thoughts. Norah’s smooth-as-silk voice lulled. Leaning back in the water, Marty closed her eyes.
She wasn’t sure how long she lay there, floating in an alcohol-induced haze. Ten minutes. Maybe twenty. The water was just starting to get cold. She was thinking about getting out when the light above the sink buzzed. When she opened her eyes, she found herself plunged into darkness.
“Now what?” she muttered.
Alarm rattled through her, but it was dampened by the alcohol and her dark frame of mind. Muttering a curse, she stood and fumbled for the robe she’d left hanging on the door hook. She’d just snugged the belt around her waist when a noise from beyond her bedroom froze her in place.
Marty stood stone still, listening. She hadn’t lived there long, but she knew the house well enough to know the muffled bump she’d heard wasn’t a normal sound. That could only mean one thing: there was someone in the house.
Her heart jackknifed in her chest. Who the hell would be here? Surely the landlord would have knocked. She’d been dozing, but not fully asleep. She would have heard it. Whoever it was, they shouldn’t be there.
Of course, she wasn’t in any position to do much about it. Her gun lay on the night table, out of reach. She was wet and wearing only her robe.
The bathroom door stood open a foot. Silently, she leaned against the wall and tried to see through the tiny crack near the hinge. Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness and she could just make out the shape of the bed. The lamp. The rectangle of light from the window.
She wanted her gun. Had the noise she’d heard come from the bedroom? Or was someone trying to break in? Knowing she had only seconds to act, that she would be safer armed than not, she slipped around the door. Every sense on red alert, she headed straight for the night table.
A sound from the hall to her right sent a paralyzing blast of adrenaline through her. Marty lunged toward the night table. But she wasn’t fast enough. A rock-solid body crashed into her. A linebacker sacking a quarterback. Marty reeled sideways and went down hard. Her left shoulder hit the floor. Her head bounced. Stars burst in front of her eyes. No time to feel the pain or dizziness. If she didn’t get a handle on the situation, the son of a bitch was going to hurt her.