THE FUTURE WIDOW'S CLUB

by Rhonda Nelson

  The case was getting cold, and frankly, no one seemed particularly interested in seeing Marshall's killer brought to justice, himself included. Nevertheless, a crime had been committed and he was bound by the law to do everything in his power to see that the person responsible was punished to the fullest extent of that law.

  Rather than risk Jolie's wrath, he'd covertly scoped out Fran and ruled her out as a suspect. She'd been at the Methodist Church Bazaar the night of the murder and dozens of people had confirmed her whereabouts. Dean had vouched for Emily, and the mayor's daughter had been off with Tad Ralston, the county agent who'd been trying to solve the mayor's skunk problems. To no avail, Jake thought, grimacing as he remembered the stench. His eyes had watered while he'd waited at the door. Jesus, he didn't know how they stood it. It was awful.

  As for working the money angle, Jolie had done such a good job of covering up for most of Chris's antics that the majority of the investors hadn't realized until she'd paid them back in full that Chris had been screwing them. That had derailed that potential train of thought.

  Aside from a single green thread and a few fibers that were consistent with the other hand towel left in the bathroom, Marshall's dick had been a dead end as well. He and Mike had canvassed the square, talked to practically every resident in Moon Valley and none of them had seen a thing.

  Either the person he was looking for was damned good, or Moon Valley residents were the most unobservant people on the planet. In fact, most people had been more interested in knowing what sort of adhesive had been used to glue the dick to the friggin' statue. Had to have been good glue, Otis Harper had remarked thoughtfully. He'd like to have some of—

  Jake started as a knock sounded at his driver's side window. He looked up to see Jolie's smiling, paint-smeared face and swore. Feeling his cheeks flame with embarrassment, he lowered the window.

  "You might want to take another course on stealth tactics, Detective," she remarked, her voice laden with droll humor.

  "I was thinking."

  "I noticed. It looked painful."

  "It is painful," Jake told her, shifting uncomfortably. "My ass is numb."

  Jolie held up a wet paint brush and cocked her head. "I have a cure. If you're going to have to watch me, the least you could do is help."

  Jake smiled at her, shook his head. "Not dressed for it. I could ruin my shirt." As if that would be such a loss. Like he didn't have a dozen more white shirts. What the hell. It kept laundry simple.

  To his slack-jawed astonishment, Jolie reached through the window and painted his sleeve. "Oh, darn," she deadpanned, eyes wide in mock innocence. "There goes that excuse."

  A stunned chuckle bubbled up his throat. "You're evil, you know that?"

  "I prefer resourceful." Eyes twinkling with devilish humor, she jerked her head toward the house. "Come in and help me, you big jerk," she admonished. "You've been sitting out here watching me for hours. What sort of man are you, anyway?"

  Jake followed her, letting his gaze drop to her backside and felt an arrow of heat land in his groin. "The kind who hates to paint."

  "Oh, you won't feel that way once you're high from the fumes."

  Jake sighed. "So long as there's something to look forward to."

  "You mean the pleasure of my company isn't enough?" she teased.

  Just watching her had been enough, Jake thought, accepting a roller from her. "I'm still mad at you."

  He heard a protracted sigh. "I'm sorry."

  "Sorry that I'm mad or sorry that you're hiding something from me?"

  "Both."

  Jake methodically rolled paint onto the wall, admiring the color. "You could remedy that easily enough by telling me what I need to know."

  "That's just it," she said, a hint of frustration entering that cool, lyrical voice. "You don't need to know. It won't help you, won't do anything for the investigation … but it could hurt a lot of innocent people and I—" She stopped short, dashed a stray strand of hair off her cheek. "I can't be responsible for that."

  "Just because you don't think that it's relevant to the investigation doesn't mean that I wouldn't."

  "Believe me, Jake. It's not."

  He paused and let his gaze trace the familiar slope of her cheek, the delicate arch of her brow. A landslide of emotion and heat swept through him. "If you hadn't hidden everything else, Jo, I might."

  She looked away, silently acknowledging the truth of that statement, then growled low in her throat. "I know that I should have told you about the accounts and whatnot, but I just didn't want to deal with the unpleasantness of it all."

  His lips curled. "Translate: you didn't want to hear a lecture."

  She turned around, darted a look at him and the corner of her mouth tucked into a grin. "That's probably an accurate assessment. But I was just tired of it, dammit. I told you from the get-go that I planned to move on, that I wasn't wasting another minute of my life. Is that so hard to understand?"

  "I do understand," Jake told her. "I just wish you'd confided in me."

  "We all make mistakes," she said, subtlety reminding him of his. She gestured toward a ladder. "Would you mind helping me move this?"

  Jake nodded, grabbed one end and helped her position it where she wanted. For a while they worked without the noise of conversation, merely listened to Norah's smooth voice sing "Come Away With Me" and other poignant ballads, which undoubtedly made them both think about what they'd lost, what they'd missed. Jolie worked on cutting in the trim, occasionally asking for his assistance with the ladder.

  When she'd finally finished the last corner, she paused and inspected her handiwork. "You think it's going to need a second coat?"

  Without a doubt, Jake thought. He shook his head. "No."

  She grinned and he felt that smile land in his heart, then settle behind his zipper. God, she was gorgeous. Simply breathtaking.

  "Yes, it does," she said with wry exasperation. "But I'm willing to feed you first. How about I order a pizza?"

  He wasn't hungry, but any reason to avoid painting appealed to him, so he nodded. "Pizza sounds good."

  Her shrewd gaze narrowed and her smile widened. "You're not even hungry are you?"

  "Oh, yes I am. I'm starving." He eagerly set his paint roller aside, affecting a frown. "In fact, I'm gonna faint from hunger. I don't think I can work anymore until I've had something to eat."

  Jolie rolled her eyes, then set her brush lengthwise over the bowl she'd been working from and started down the ladder. "You're so full of sh—"

  She squealed as her foot slipped three rungs from the bottom. Lucky for her, he'd been admiring her ass, otherwise he might not have lunged in time to catch her.

  She'd instinctively turned around to brace her fall and landed smack dab against his chest. The impact knocked the breath from his lungs in a startled whoosh, he lost his footing and toppled backward, landing painfully on his previously numb ass, Jolie right on top of him.

  Her small body aligned perfectly against his and he barely had time to note the fit of her hips over his groin, the lush mounds of her breasts against his chest before she braced her hands on either side of his head and her eyes widened in shock-delayed humor. Laughter fizzed up her throat in a long infectious stream that made him chuckle, too, and soon they were both howling like a couple of psychotic hyenas. He settled his hands at her waist and absorbed the delectable feel of her shaking frame above his.

  After a moment, her laughter petered out and she seemed to realize their position. Her light green gaze darkened to a mossy hue, then dropped to his mouth and she moistened her lips. He caught the faint fluttering of her pulse in her neck, carefully drawing in a vanilla scented breath and resisting the urge to kiss her, to align his mouth to hers and eat every breath she exhaled, to roll her over onto her back and make long, slow beautiful love to her.

  The desire was there, of course, the pressing need to firmly root himself between her thighs, but with Jolie it was more than that. Always had been. T
here was something painfully sweet about being with her, where love met lust and turned the generic act of sex into a commingling of souls, a meeting of the minds, ritual instead of rote.

  He wanted to taste her—needed to—more than his next breath, and yet he didn't. That move had to be hers. Given what she'd been through and how he'd indirectly contributed to it, Jake couldn't allow himself to take that decision out of her hands. He was hers for the taking, when and if she was ever ready.

  And it wouldn't be tonight, he realized, squashing an immediate sense of disappointment as she ultimately rolled away. She covered the move with another laugh, tried to pretend the awkward moment away. "That was graceless, eh?"

  "Not really," Jake told her, forcing a chuckle for her benefit. "You swan-dived into me."

  "Are you hurt?"

  "Yes," he said. He closed his eyes and massaged the bridge of his nose, barely resisted the urge to massage another part of his anatomy. "My painting arm is broken."

  She snorted, leaned up on her elbow and glared at him accusingly. "Fraud. You just don't like painting."

  He turned his head toward her and offered an unrepentant grin. "There is that."

  "Fine," she said with a dramatic sigh. "You can watch me paint. Without my pizza. From your truck."

  Jake laughed, lifted his right hand and wiggled it around. "Look at that," he told her, feigning delighted surprise. "I'm healed."

  Her lips slid into a wry grin. "A miraculous recovery. I expected as much."

  Jake gingerly got to his feet and offered her a hand up. "Must be nice," he told her. "With you, I never know what to expect."

  She batted her lashes shamelessly at him. "It's part of my charm."

  Indeed it was, Jake thought, hopelessly in love with her. He picked up his roller and set back to work while she called in the pizza.

  Indeed it was…

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Jolie walked outside, waved at Jake who'd been parked at her curb the majority of the day and, smiling, got into her car. Predictably, he dropped his shades in place and fell in behind her. He'd lessened his so-called surveillance over the past couple of days, had taken to driving by a couple of times a day, checking on Marzipan, then coming over after his shift.

  Jolie felt a smile tug at her lips. For someone who didn't enjoy painting, he'd shown up each night this week in an old T-shirt and shorts, ready to get started. As a result of his help, they'd managed to get every room in the house painted except for the spare bedroom. He'd mentioned knocking that room out tonight and she'd very casually reminded him of her bridge meeting. Those carnal lips had slid into a knowing smile and he'd merely inclined his head. Maybe you could teach me, he'd said, a careless taunt that had made her heart skip an unsteady beat.

  Jolie caught sight of him in her rearview mirror and felt a flutter of heat wing around her belly, then nestle between her legs. She let go a stuttering breath. Being with him every night, being able to covertly study the familiar cut of his jaw, those silvery gray eyes, and the way his muscles rippled beneath his shirt as he pushed his hands through those dark chocolate locks had been a feast for her senses. Every move he made was unhurried and sensual and reeked of familiarity. His presence warmed her in neglected places, making her shake like an addict in withdrawal.

  The night she'd literally fallen into him had been the sweetest form of torture imaginable. Feeling that hard body beneath hers, that husky intimate laugh breezing across her neck and vibrating her nipples had all but made her come unglued. She'd been mentally praying—wishing—that he'd kiss her, and though she knew he'd wanted to, he'd held back.

  As much as Jolie wished he'd have taken the decision out of her hands at the time, in retrospect she appreciated that he hadn't and the respect for her behind the decision. If things moved forward for them, it would be completely up to her. She knew him well enough to realize that he'd held back because he understood her desire to make her own decisions.

  It hardly seemed real that Chris was gone and she was actually thinking about a tentative future with Jake. Madness, she knew, but she couldn't seem to help herself. She'd wanted control of her life and in just under a week she'd managed to put the majority of what Chris had ruined over the course of two years back to rights. She'd sold his car yesterday and, while the house hadn't garnered an offer yet, she knew it was just a matter of time. Hell, whoever bought it was getting the damned thing practically furnished.

  Since Jake had been so against her moving things along as swiftly as she had, Jolie had held off meeting with the life insurance agent. She'd been in a hurry to give everybody else's money back and therefore hadn't been too concerned with her own. Once that was done, there wouldn't be anything left to do.

  When not working on her house, she'd managed to get her office up and running and fully anticipated officially opening for business in a couple of weeks. She'd already had a couple of potential clients drop by, the majority of them wondering why she hadn't simply converted Marshall Inc. into her headquarters, but as much as she liked the square atmosphere, she thought she'd enjoy the privacy of being one block removed from the hub of activity. She could reap the benefits without being in the middle of things.

  Jolie pulled up in front of Meredith's house, snagged her purse and apple dumplings from the car and made her way up the walk. She turned to wave at Jake, who'd pulled in a couple of car lengths behind her, but paused as the thump of music reached her ears.

  It didn't take long to recognize the tune and once she did, a bark of laughter erupted from her throat. Gloria Gaynor's "I Will Survive" vibrated through the walls, then practically knocked her down when Meredith opened the door. Decked out in black sweats, her black hat—which had been topped with a party hat—and a kazoo in her hand, Meredith smiled, darted a look over Jolie's shoulder, then spotting Jake, jerked Jolie inside.

  "What's he doing?" she shouted above the din. "Why's he out there?"

  "He's following me," Jolie explained. "I'm under surveillance." Which admittedly was nice, but a complete waste of his time if he planned on finding the real killer.

  Meredith's perfectly lined brows folded into a faint scowl. "Oh, well. Let him sit there. We're going to party."

  Jolie followed Meredith into the living room and when she walked in, every member of the FWC whooped with joy. Then they killed Gloria and started singing their own custom version of "Ding Dong the Witch Is Dead!"

  "Ding dong the bastard's dead,

  the mean old bastard's dead!

  Who's old bastard? Jolie's old bastard!

  Ding dong—and he was missing his dong—

  Ha! Ha! Ha!

  The mean old bastard's dead!"

  They finished the end with a flourish, dragging "dead" out until Jolie was certain every pair of ears in a ten mile radius had heard them.

  Which was particularly unsettling when she knew Jake was outside.

  Before she could think about it anymore, however, someone turned the music back up, pressed a drink in her hand, and they formed a train, dancing around the living room.

  Like Meredith everyone had donned black—except for her, Jolie thought wryly, who'd apparently missed the memo—and had placed a party hat on top of their regular widow hats. Looking even more lovely than usual—there was a certain glow about her—Sophia cha-cha-cha-ed up next to her, then pulled her out of the line.

  "How's everything going, dear?"

  "Great," Jolie called above the noise. She thought she'd better tell her about Jake, but Meredith had already beaten her to the punch.

  "I've already been outside and taken him a drink and a couple of petite fours—had to practically wrestle the damned things away from Bitsy," she said, exasperated. "I told him that we were having an anniversary party for the Club."

  Jolie grinned at her ingenuity. "He bought it?"

  She snorted indelicately. "Of course, not," she scoffed. "He's a smart man … but he's got too much class to argue with an old woman."

  Ah, yes,
Jolie thought, inclining her head. That sounded about right.

  "Anyway," Sophia told her, "tonight is your night, dear. This is your 'official' party."

  She took Jolie's hand and tugged her toward the living room, leading her to a chair that had been moved to the middle of the room where Sophia typically stood, then urged her to sit down. Somewhat baffled, Jolie sat patiently while the rest of the members crowded into the room.

  Sophia waited for someone to turn down the music, then snapped at Bitsy—who was doing a disjointed Egyptian Walk around the room while trying to eat a piece of coconut cake—to do it. "For the love of God, Bitsy, would you turn that down?"

  Startled, Bitsy stopped and quickly moved to do as she asked. When the music was finally turned off, Sophia smoothed her hair, gathered her thoughts, and smiled. "Now then. As we all know, making the transition to Official status is an important milestone in a Future Widows' Club member's life. It's a rebirth of sorts, a new beginning. From here on out, Jolie will enjoy the privileges of her new status. She'll be revered, admired, even pitied by the unenlightened who don't realize that she's better off." Sophia shook her head at this presumed tragedy, then continued. "Tonight, we'll celebrate her newfound freedom by presenting her with this pin—" Sophia reached down and attached a small rhinestone hat and gloves pin—the same logo she'd noted on her handbook, Jolie realized—onto her collar "—and party!"

  Bitsy cranked the music back up—the Dixie Chicks' "Goodbye Earl"—and, like her first meeting, everyone came by and paid their respects once again.

  "May he rot in hell."

  "May he never rest in peace."

  "I envy your loss."

  Bitsy started the train again, someone pressed another drink in Jolie's hand, and the entire congregation proceeded to get smashed, herself included. Meredith proved very adept at making Daiquiris, and Cora, of all people, ended up doing a table dance before the night was over. Most of the ladies had either planned to spend the night or had arranged for someone to pick them up, but Jolie, unaware that she'd need to do one or the other, ended up walking outside and asking Jake to take her home.