The Perfect Husband Page 18

  J.T. was no slouch. He hit five digits before his turn was up, and gave way only after delivering a mocking bow. Marion took over with narrowed eyes and thinned lips. She looked as if she’d gone to war.

  She moved too fast, and the first silver ball escaped through the paddles before she’d made much progress. She slapped the machine, earning a tilt sign.

  “Relax, Marion. It’s just a machine.”

  “Fucking machine,” she supplied.

  “Have it your way.”

  She attacked the second ball, and since she had phenomenal hand-eye coordination and a wicked learning curve, she made the machine sing. A light began to burn in her eyes. And for a moment she looked exactly like J.T.

  “She’s something, isn’t she?” J.T. murmured.

  Tess nodded. “What did your parents feed you?”

  “Lies. Pure lies. Taught us the truth of the world early on.” His lips curved into a ghost of a grin. “See any sign of trouble at the door?”

  “No.”

  “Huh. Maybe Marion was right. Maybe I just need a drink.”

  “J.T.—”

  “Shit!” Marion yelled, and hit the machine. “Piece of junk!”

  J.T. jostled his sister aside. “Easy, honey. Machine can’t help it if I’m better than you.”

  Marion leaned against the wall next to Tess, but she no longer looked relaxed. J.T. settled in at the pinball machine, looking like a captain at the helm of his ship.

  “Face it, Marion, you should’ve joined the marines.”

  “No, thanks. I figured one Dillon punching out COs was enough.”

  J.T. pulled back the handle and sent the silver ball flying. “I suppose I could’ve just enrolled him in the Communist Party, but beating the crap out of his own wife seemed to deserve something a little bit more personal.”

  “Communist Party?” Tess asked. She wasn’t sure she wanted to understand this conversation.

  “West Point,” J.T. supplied. “I enrolled the director in the Communist Party. I hated West Point.”

  “And that got you kicked out?”

  “Nah. That was considered a boys-will-be-boys prank. When he came to call me on it and found me in bed with his daughter, that got me kicked out.”

  “You seduced the director’s daughter?”

  “He’s a pig,” Marion said. “Absolutely no self-control.”

  “How do you know I was the seducer?” J.T. quizzed innocently.

  Marion shook her head. “Give it up, Jordan. If you were turned loose in a nunnery, by the end of the day they’d all renounce God.”

  “Thank you. I try.” J.T. gave Tess a look that was blatantly wolfish. “Did I scare you?”

  “When?” She was having trouble concentrating.

  “Earlier. When I asked Marion to call the police.”

  “I guess. I have a lot to be scared of.”

  “You have both Marion and me here, Tess. It’s even legal for Marion to shoot to kill.”

  “He’s right, you know,” Marion said. “At least this time. It’s not easy to become an FBI agent, and it’s even harder for a woman. I’m good. I’ll make sure nothing happens to you, Tess.”

  Tess didn’t answer; she’d been told such things before, and none of the assurance had helped her when Jim had stepped out of her closet and hefted a bat to his shoulder. She said, “That was a nice thing you did—putting away the beer. Teetotaling is really getting to him.”

  “Yeah, I guess it is. I knew about the annual tequila binges, but they’re only once a year and, well, given the circumstances . . .”

  “His wife’s death?” Tess guessed.

  Marion nodded. “Teddy died instantly. But Rachel . . . She was in a coma for five days. J.T. just kept sitting there in the hospital, holding her hand. He seemed so certain that she would open her eyes and be with him again. He just couldn’t let her go. He’s weak that way.” Marion pushed away from the wall. “You have to be able to cut your losses, to move on. But J.T. can’t seem to do that. He wants to go back and fix things way after the fact. It’s a waste of time.”

  J.T. lost his turn and Marion strode forward, leaving Tess to digest this unexpected burst of information. J.T. came to lean against the wall beside her, stretching out his legs and crossing his arms. He already appeared much more relaxed. She moved a little closer to him and joined him in a comfortable silence.

  It wasn’t until the seventh game that the trouble happened.

  Tess never did know who started it. One moment she was watching J.T. volley the silver ball back into the megapoints zone, the next she heard a scream followed by a crash.

  Everyone turned at once.

  A man, obviously drunk, was towering over the woman who’d been playing the car game. He pointed at her and cursed her in voluble streams of Spanish. Though only half his size, the woman didn’t give an inch. She stood to her full height and screamed right back.

  The man pulled back his arm. He slapped the woman hard, snapping her head around. She crashed against the machine, falling bonelessly to the ground.

  “For God’s sake, no!” Marion cried. She lunged for J.T.’s arm, but she was too late. J.T. lunged into the thick of it.

  Like a massive tidal wave, the crowd of people surged, some eddying out the door to escape and others moving in closely. More people—muscle-bound, testosterone-pumped men—flooded in, looking for action. Tess saw the woman try to rise, then flounder and fall back. Something dark and wet matted the woman’s hair. Blood.

  “Damn,” Marion said. She shook her head, then seemed to lose the war with herself and stepped forward.

  Tess looked at J.T. He was raising his left arm to block one blow and pulling back his right arm to deliver another. She looked at Marion, striding purposefully ahead.

  She took a deep breath.

  She set her sights on the fallen woman and stepped into the whirlpool.

  IT WAS HOT. Sweat-soaked flesh pressed against sweat-soaked flesh until the air seemed to steam. It was loud. She couldn’t distinguish any single voice or cry, she just heard the dull roar building to a crescendo. It was thick. She was too short to see over and too small to shoulder her way through. So she pushed and pawed, as if hacking her way through a dense undergrowth, trying to remember where she’d last seen the woman and head in that direction.

  She burst into a small clearing and drew in a huge gulp of air. Then, like a swimmer, she held it in her lungs and plunged back in.

  An arm caught her in the shoulder and she stumbled. Another arm caught her and tossed her back onto her feet. She lurched forward, her hands fisted at her sides, her jaw clenched. Someone jostled her, and in a spurt of terror she used some of her newly developed muscle to push back. The body gave way instantly. She was amazed.

  She pushed herself through and found the fallen woman, who was moaning and clutching her head. Tess hunched down, eyeing the woman anxiously.

  A crash resounded above them. Tess and the woman swiveled their heads simultaneously to find the new threat. A man stood beside then, looking not at them but at another charging man. The first man wielded the jagged half of a broken beer bottle in front of him.

  “Damn,” Tess swore. Out of the corner of her eye she caught Marion bursting from the crush, her hair disheveled, her blouse ripped. She didn’t even glance at Tess or the fallen woman. She went straight after the man with the broken bottle. He tried to bring up his arm to fend her off.

  He didn’t have a chance. Two smartly delivered chops, and Marion had him writhing on the ground, holding his twisted arm and screaming curses. The charging man hesitated, not sure what to do with a woman. Marion decided the matter for him. Her foot hooked him neatly behind the ankles, and with a fierce yank she toppled him to the ground. A new cry rose up from the crowd.

  Tess stopped thinking. She offered her hand to the fallen woman and helped her to her feet. The woman clutched her bloody head.

  “Look out!” Marion cried.

  Tess froze. The man who�
��d started it all was there, towering above them, his eyes bright with rage. He carried a chair leg in one hand.

  Tess stared at the rounded wood. And she thought, It’s not nearly so sturdy as a baseball bat.

  The chair leg was raised up into the air.

  Then Tess shivered, her gaze locked onto the images suddenly in her head. The baseball bat swinging down. The crack of her thigh. The burning pain. The scent of blood. The knowledge of all the other times the bat had whistled down and connected with human flesh and bone.

  How did a head sound when hit by a bat? Like wood cracking? Or more like a melon going splat?

  A dull roaring filled her ears.

  Dimly she heard the chair leg whistle down. Dimly she saw the man tossed forward and J.T. standing in his spot. Then, as if from far, far away, Marion said, “God, J.T., she’s going to faint.”

  “Shit.”

  Suddenly strong arms were around her, swinging her up. She went wild, fighting and clawing, and she couldn’t even remember what she was fighting. She just had to fight.

  J.T.’s hand caught hers, trapping them against his chest. “Shh, chiquita, I have you. I have you.”

  She buried her face against his shoulder and prayed he wouldn’t let her go.

  J.T. carried her out of the building and into the cool, fresh night.

  “ARE YOU ALL right?” J.T. asked half an hour later as he set her down on the sofa.

  Marion had dragged the wounded woman out of the bar, entrusted her to the care of the few people in the parking lot, then they’d escaped the scene. Now J.T.’s thumb brushed Tess’s cheek, then feathered through her hair. His gaze was intent as he searched for wounds.

  “Yes. Yes, I’m fine,” Tess murmured, too embarrassed to meet his gaze. J.T. and Marion had been ready to take on the place. She’d seen one raised chair leg and almost fainted. Some bad ass she was.

  “That wasn’t how the evening was supposed to turn out.”

  “I suppose it’s a bad sign when your star pupil almost loses her lunch during her first brawl. Maybe next time Jim shows up, I can vomit on him for self-defense.”

  “Tess—”

  Marion returned from checking the grounds, snapping on the living room light. She’d already spoken to the police; they hadn’t seen anyone lurking in the vicinity.

  J.T. moved back. For the first time, Tess noted the scratch running down his cheek and his bruised knuckles.

  “You’re hurt.”

  He glanced at his hands idly. “It’s nothing.” He turned to Marion. “And you?”

  “I’m fine.” Marion leaned against the doorjamb, her silk blouse ripped and linen pants beer-stained. Her hair had come undone, golden waves now rippling down her shoulders. The style took ten years off her age.

  “You should leave your hair down,” Tess blurted out. “You look beautiful.”

  “Gets in my way.” The agent was already braiding the strands.

  “Forget it,” J.T. told Tess flatly. “She likes the feminazi style.”

  “I prefer the word professional. Would you like some ice for your knuckles?”

  “Whatever.”

  Marion rolled her eyes but went after the ice.

  An awkward silence filled the room. Tess didn’t know how to break it. She examined her hands. She wished she had bruised knuckles.

  “I’m sorry,” J.T. said abruptly.

  “For what?”

  “Uh . . . the bar fight. They aren’t so unusual at that place.”

  “You wanted a fight?”

  A pause. “Maybe.”

  “All the swimming,” Tess murmured, “all the weights, the jogging, the shooting, it’s not enough for you, is it?”

  “I’m an intense kind of guy.”

  She looked at him, then she stared at the doorway that led into the kitchen. “J.T., why are you always so angry?”

  “Who, me?”

  “Marion has that anger too.”

  “Marion has ice in her veins. She likes it that way.”

  “Versus you—”

  “Who has tequila. It’s been a long night, Tess. We all need some sleep.”

  “Did you really think someone was watching the house tonight, or was that just an excuse?”

  “No,” he said immediately, but then looked troubled. “I don’t know. Maybe Marion was right. Maybe it’s just withdrawal. I’m . . . I’m a little on edge these days.” He looked her in the eye. “Tess, when it comes right down to it, Marion is the one you can count on. I have raw talent, she has follow-through. I get in trouble, she gets things done. Remember that, all right? If push comes to shove, go to Marion. She’ll take care of you.”

  “You’re wrong,” she told him. “When push comes to shove, you’re the one who’s going to help me, J.T. You’re the only one I know who’s intense enough to take on Jim.”

  He silenced further declarations with a finger over her lips. Wordlessly he took her hand and drew her off the sofa.

  There was no light on in the hallway. It loomed dark and endless, as hushed as a sanctuary. Her footsteps slowed. So did his. When they arrived at her room, she didn’t open the door. She leaned against it and stared at his face.

  She traced the fresh scratch marring his cheek. “Does that hurt?”

  “No.”

  Her fingers curled around his chin, then brushed his lips.

  “What are you doing, Tess?”

  “Nothing.” She touched his nose, his cheekbone, his eye. Her hand curved around his neck, rubbing the taut, corded muscles there, and she heard his indrawn breath leave him hoarsely.

  She liked touching him. She could feel his power, electric and tantalizing and held precariously in check. She had done the right thing in coming to him.

  She’d found the right man.

  And she wanted him.

  She knew so little about desire. She thought he was the kind of man who could teach a woman all about it. The kind of man who could draw a woman in and wring her out with passion.

  She leaned forward.

  “Don’t.” He grabbed her shoulder and pinned her back. “Don’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s not what you really want, Tess.”

  “I’m stronger then you think.”

  “Yeah. But maybe I’m not.” He let her go. “Good night.”

  “But—”

  His gaze stopped her. It washed over her and stripped her bare. He moved closer. Then closer still. His head dipped. She held her breath and opened her lips, prepared to meet him all the way.

  He twisted his head to the side at the last moment, and his teeth caught her earlobe delicately. “Go to bed, Tess. And lock your door.”

  Then he was gone.

  SEVENTEEN

  ¡MIERDA! YOU ARE not even trying!” “Jesus, lady, you’re demanding!” J.T. rolled off Rosalita, lying on his back and staring up at the swirling ceiling fan.

  Rosalita propped herself up beside him. “You are not yourself.”

  He cocked a brow. “You get off twice and you’re still so pissed you speak gringo? Rosalita, you are the Antichrist.”

  She didn’t scowl, she didn’t sulk. She looked worried instead. He hated that. God almighty, someone deliver him from the women in his house.

  Tentatively she ran one finger down the scar on his chest. He barely resisted the urge to bat it away. “It’s la chiquita, no? You like her.”

  “I don’t like anyone, Rosalita. It’s part of my charm.”

  No, he was not himself this evening. He was taut and aching. He was screwing the best whore in Nogales and thinking of another woman.

  Christ, he wanted her. He wanted to take her until she couldn’t walk, she couldn’t stand, she couldn’t breathe, until all she could do was scream. Then he wanted to take her again.

  And afterward? his mind whispered. What could you give a woman like that out of bed, J.T.? What could you offer a woman like her?

  She was changing, becoming strong, capable. He knew, because
he’d seen it before. Seen a woman come into herself and realize that she didn’t have just arms and legs but that she could run, fight, give, take. She could reclaim all the pieces of herself that had been stolen by stronger, cruel men and do whatever she wanted.

  Rachel had chosen to give herself to him. And he had loved her for that unbearably.

  He reached for the nightstand, found a crumpled pack of cigarettes, and pounded one out. He brought it to his lips and lit it. The tobacco seared ten years off his lungs. Gotta hate it. Gotta love it. It was just his style.

  Rosalita was still watching him. Now she pressed her body next to his. He could roll her over and thrust into her again and she would only sigh her contentment. He could guide her head down and she would swallow him whole. If he could think of it, she would do it, and she could probably do a few things that defied his imagination as well.

  He simply lay there, exhaling smoke and watching it drift languidly up to the whirling fan blades.

  “I’ll bring you a drink.” Rosalita climbed out of bed, wrapped the sheet around her body. “You’ll feel better then.”

  “You should get married,” he said lightly. “Find yourself a husband and raise a few kids instead of hanging out with the likes of me.”

  The look of concern on her face grew. If he did or said one more thing out of character, the woman was going to check his forehead for fever and fetch him a doctor.

  She opened the door and trailed down the hall.

  Who was she most likely to run into tonight, Tess or Marion? The woman he didn’t want to save but seemed to think that only he could save her? Or the woman he’d once tried to save but now seemed to think that he was the devil?

  “God does have such a sense of humor,” he muttered to the ceiling. “Even a worse sense than mine.”

  The cigarette burned down to his fingers. He let it drop to the floor, pressing it out with the pad of his thumb. He gave up smoking every morning and started again every night. And tonight it wasn’t even dulling his brain the way it was supposed to.

  He was still thinking of Tess and thinking of Tess made him remember Rachel. J.T. had married Rachel because he understood that she was an eighteen-year-old mother who wanted the best for her son. He’d married her because if she was as corrupt, twisted, and manipulative as Marion said, then it was the colonel who’d molded her into that shape.