Joe sighed and looked apprehensively at Pamela. He had introduced her to Birdie right after the first Stand By M” dance, aware that Pamela and Birdie were going to have to get to know each other so they could coordinate Lizard’s schedule. Pamela hadn’t blinked at the older woman’s odd attire, although she did have a little difficulty understanding Birdie’s speech. Despite the many years she’d lived in Key West, Birdie still spoke with a Haitian accent.
Evidently Pamela wasn’t having much difficulty understanding her now. “You’re going to take Lizard home with you?” she asked.
“That’s right. You have a honeymoon tonight. You get Lizard back tomorrow.”
Pamela nodded. “I think she’s right. It’s time for us to say good-night to all your friends.”
It occurred to Joe that Pamela was exhausted. Her eyes were bleary, her hair limp.
“Okay,” he said, wishing there could be a real honeymoon for him and Pamela. He was married. His wife belonged in his bed, didn’t she?
No, of course not. This wasn’t that kind of marriage, and he knew it. If he did anything that even remotely resembled what a husband did with a wife on their wedding night, she’d have the marriage annulled quicker than if he’d crammed cake into her mouth. He’d better keep a lid on his libido.
It took him and Pamela a good ten minutes to work their way through the mob. At the front door, Pamela tossed her bouquet over her shoulder. Lizard elbowed at least three women out of her way so she could catch it.
A few guys showered Pamela and Joe with beer nuts as they swept out the door. Pamela’s laughter was breezy, lighter than the sticky night air. “Lord, it’s hot out here,” she said. “Does it ever cool down?”
“For three days in January.” He took her hand again, casually, as if it didn’t signify anything. It truly didn’t, he told himself—other than the fact that he’d just gotten married and this woman was his wife.
His wife. What a weird concept.
“Well,” she said, her laughter waning as they strolled to his car. “I owe you an apology.”
“For what?”
“That champagne was delicious.”
He feigned indignation at her implied insult. “You thought I’d serve lousy champagne?”
“As a matter of fact, yes.”
“I’ll have you know, Pam, that I’m a pretty classy guy.”
“You are,” she agreed, a serious undertone in her words. When he leaned past her to unlock the passenger door, she brushed her finger across the floppy petals of his orchid boutonniere. “It was a nice party, Jonas. Not like any I’ve ever been to before, but I had fun.”
“I’m glad.” He honestly was. If she was stuck being his wife for the next however-many months, he wanted her to be, if not thrilled, at least passably happy. He wanted her to feel at home with his friends, in his place of business.
He helped her into the seat, then jogged around to the driver’s side. “How about, I’ll detour to your apartment and we can pick up your car?”
“All right.”
He revved the engine and eased away from the curb. A quick glance at her informed him that she’d grown subdued. He couldn’t blame her. Just the two of them, alone in his car, driving through the darkness.... It was a heavy dose of reality. God help them, they were married.
The silence made him uneasy. “You’re a good dancer,” he said.
“It’s a miracle I can still walk. That bartender—Brick, was that his name?” Joe nodded, and she continued. “He kept stomping on my toes when we danced.”
“He’s a good guy.”
“He doesn’t talk much, does he.”
“One of his finest attributes.”
“And Birdie... What is it with the feathers?”
“Why do you think everybody calls her Birdie?”
“Can she fly?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised.” He chuckled. “She and Lizard go down to the town beach almost every day. They like to collect gull feathers. When Lizard absolutely refused to carry flowers, it was Birdie’s idea to make her a feather girl instead of a flower girl.”
“It certainly was original. And in the spirit of compromise, it worked.”
They had reached the parking lot of the apartment complex. Pamela smiled and let herself out of his car once he’d braked to a halt next to hers. His car seemed painfully empty without her in it.
He wasn’t supposed to be thinking along the lines of a real marriage, of having Pamela fill his car and his life. He hardly knew her enough to consider her a friend, let alone a spouse. Why should he be so fixated on the slight shimmy of her hips as she settled behind the wheel of her own car? Why should he be inhaling deeply, trying to capture her lingering scent?
Too much champagne, he supposed. Too much dancing and laughing. The party had worked its magic on him, infused him with benevolence, made him want to embrace the world and everyone in it. Especially Pamela.
His wife.
He checked his rearview mirror to make sure her car was directly behind his. She knew the way to his house, but even so, he wanted her to arrive there with him.
He wondered what he was going to do with her once they were home. Kitty had brought Pamela’s suitcases over earlier that day, and he’d put them in Pamela’s room. When they got home, would she want to unpack and go straight to sleep? Or would she be practical and request that he show her where the utensils and spices were stored in the kitchen, and where the laundry hamper was located?
He wanted just to talk with her awhile, maybe sit with her in the living room with a couple of cold drinks—lemonade would do, if she’d reached her booze limit. He wanted to get used to her presence in his house. He wanted to stop thinking of her hips, and her silver eyes, and the hollows of her cheeks. He wanted to stop remembering how soft her lips had felt beneath his when the judge had pronounced them husband and wife.
He’d left a couple of lights on inside the house so it would look warm and welcoming. He pulled all the way into the carport, and Pamela parked on the driveway behind him. They got out of the cars and met on the grass.
“Well, Mrs. Brenner, be it ever so humble...”
“There’s no place like home,” she concluded.
He was thrilled that she could think of his house as home, even if only temporarily. He took her hand, then thought better of it and reached around her, hoisting her into his arms.
She let out a shriek, then a giggle. “Put me down, Joe! I’m too heavy for you!”
“You’re too light, is what you are,” he refuted her. “And I believe there’s some sort of law that says I’ve got to carry you over the threshold.”
“Well, I wouldn’t want you breaking any laws on my account,” she said, looping her hands around his neck, settling against his chest and smiling up at him.
Maybe it was the champagne. Maybe it was the bright half-moon, or the spark of playfulness he hadn’t before glimpsed in her. Or maybe it was Joe, high on champagne and moonlight and just as willing to play the game.
Because the instant he’d swung open the front door, carried her inside and lowered her to her feet in their house, their home, the legal residence of Mr. and Mrs. Jonas Brenner, he knew he was going to kiss her. She was his wife, his mate, his partner in the dance of life.
And he was going to pretend it was real.
Chapter Six
HE LEFT ONE ARM around her when he set her down. He lifted his other hand to her cheek and angled her face to his. She gazed up into azure eyes that shimmered with trust. And then he touched his lips to hers.
Her mind told her this was a bad idea—but her heart was full of music and dancing and champagne that drowned the whispers of doubt. She was a married woman, and Jonas Brenner was her husband, and married people were allowed to kiss each other.
His kiss was light, tender, questioning. She answered with a sigh, and he covered her mouth with his once more, this time less tentatively. When she sighed again, he slid his tongue between her parted lips
. Her eyelids grew heavy at the gentle assault of his tongue.
She sensed nothing demanding in the kiss. He was too clever to resort to force. Instead, he lured, he tempted, he made her want to give so he wouldn’t have to take. He was, she conceded as her body warmed to his sensual advances, a sublime kisser.
She wedged her hands under his jacket and around his waist. His sides were lean and hard, rib and muscle. Through the soft linen of his shirt she felt the contours of his back, sleek and supple, flexing beneath her touch.
He lifted his hand to her temple and into her hair, combing through it to the nape of her neck. As his tongue surged against hers, she heard him groan, and groan again when her fingers dug into his back. She was afraid that if she relaxed her hold on him her legs would buckle, so she clung to him tightly, kissing him with a passion that matched his. A voice deep inside her soul whispered, It’s all right. He’s your husband. It’s all right.
It wasn’t all right, her conscience argued—but for the moment she didn’t care. She cared only about the sweet seduction of his mouth, the restrained aggression of his lips and tongue, the possessiveness of his embrace as he pressed his body to hers.
He stroked his fingers along the edge of her neckline, then slipped under the fabric to trace the ridge of her spine. His hand felt so good on her skin, too good. She wished he would move his hand forward to her throat, to her breasts. She wished he would touch her everywhere. She wished he would tear off his clothing and hers, so the hard swell of him would no longer be seeking her, as it was now, through the barriers of his trousers and her dress.
She heard his breath catch as she brought her hands down to his hips and held him against her. A shudder of yearning rippled through her as he rocked against her, slowly, sinuously. She wanted him, wanted Jonas Brenner. Wanted the man with the devilish blue eyes and the earring.
She wanted her husband.
“Pam,” he murmured, his breath caressing her lips. “Let’s go to bed.”
Bed. Wait a minute! This wasn’t supposed to happen. She and Joe had entered into their marriage with the understanding that it wasn’t about love or sex. It was about social workers and custody hearings, and it was about eluding a murderer until said murderer was brought to justice. Having already risked her life in the matter of Mick Morrow, Pamela wasn’t about to risk her heart in the matter of Joe.
“I...” She swallowed to clear the huskiness from her voice. “I don’t think that’s a very good idea.”
He loosened his hold on her and leaned back so he could view her in the amber light of the entry hall. Letting out a long, weary breath, he shook his head and dropped his arms to his sides. “Sorry,” he muttered, looking supremely disappointed. “I guess I broke a few rules, huh.”
No more than she had. She’d been as caught up in the kiss as he. Until he’d mentioned the word bed, she’d been quite content to yield to the mutual desire that had unexpectedly ignited between them.
She averted her gaze and fussed with her hair, which Joe had done an effective job of tangling into knots—just like her emotions. “I’m sorry, too, Jonas...”
“No. My fault.” He held up his hands in mock surrender. He was smiling, but she saw no trace of his dimple, no glint of humor in his eyes. “Why don’t you go upstairs and get settled in? I brought all your stuff to your room.”
“Thanks,” she mumbled. She was thanking him not for having lugged her suitcases up the stairs for her, but for having taken all the guilt upon himself, even though she deserved at least fifty percent of it. If she had his courage, she would acknowledge her share. She would tell him he had nothing to apologize for.
But she’d exhausted her supply of courage earlier that evening when she’d walked down the aisle to take Joe for her lawfully wedded husband. As craven as it was, she couldn’t look at him, let alone share the blame for the passion that had briefly claimed them. She could scarcely admit to herself how much she’d ached for him when his arms and his mouth and his desire had held her captive.
It was a desire she was going to have to forget. Once the champagne wore off and she had a good night’s sleep, she would come to her senses. So would Joe. They would make this marriage work the way they’d intended when they’d come to terms, and any errant longings would be squelched.
That was the way it had to be.
***
MICK MORROW DROVE smoothly and calmly out of the parking lot. After a few blocks, he steered to the curb, shifted into neutral and reached under the passenger seat.
It there was, just as Tony had promised: a thick yellow envelope.
Although Tony was supposed to be tailing Mick, he didn’t want them to be seen together in public. So Mick had traveled to an agreed-upon suburban mall parking lot at an agreed-upon hour, parked his car in Section 3-A and left it unlocked so Tony could leave the envelope under the seat. Mick had gone into a drug store, browsed for ten minutes, and bought a pack of gum. When he’d come back outside, there had been no sign of Tony.
The envelope was exactly where Tony had promised it would be, though. The guy had come through. Mick owed him.
He slid it back out of sight under the passenger seat and cruised home, resisting the temptation to open his special-delivery package until he was safely inside his apartment. The dreary drizzle of a Seattle summer evening couldn’t get him down. In that envelope lay a route to Pamela Hayes. Let it rain—Mick was too pleased to care.
“I couldn’t get much through her motor vehicle records,” Tony had told him over the phone yesterday. “But you mentioned she owned a condominium, so I thought, maybe she’s sitting on a mortgage. Sure enough, I was able to get hold of her credit report. Lots of interesting material, Mick. Information you might find useful.”
Her credit report! Her charge accounts! Her bank accounts! The most intimate details of a woman’s life, more significant than her height or weight or hair color, more personal than who she was sleeping with and what positions she’d rather die than try. “It could have possibilities,” Mick had agreed, refusing to let Tony hear how thrilled he was.
“I can get these documents to you tomorrow, as long as we don’t have to come face to face.”
“Is anyone gonna be able to trace this to you?” Mick asked. His largesse purchased only so much loyalty from Tony. If the guy got caught, Mick didn’t doubt for a minute that he’d sing like the proverbial canary.
“I left no fingerprints. I know how to do this sort of thing.”
“That’s why I love you,” Mick had said before working out the arrangements for the drop.
Inside his kitchen, he unlaced the tie that held the manila envelope shut, and pulled out the papers. Oh, yes indeed, this was interesting material, very useful. Her bank account numbers. Her credit card numbers. Previous apartments she’d lived in before she’d bought her condo. The condo price. Her income. The graduate school loan she’d taken years ago, paid back in full.
Mick resisted the urge to shout for joy.
One of her charge accounts was with a local bank. He dialed, asked for the credit office, and said, “Hello, I’m calling about my wife’s credit card. Her name is Pamela Hayes.” He read off the account number, then continued, “She’s out of town, and I can’t make head or tails of her bookkeeping—”
“Excuse me, sir, but according to our records, Ms. Hayes isn’t married.”
He suffered a twinge of reflexive anger—it always flared when someone questioned him on anything. Smothering his temper, he faked a chuckle and said, “Well, Pamela is a stubborn feminist. She kept her own name, her own accounts and everything else. She doesn’t use my income to get her credit line higher. That’s the way she likes it.”
“I see.” The lady at the other end of the line hesitated. “What did you say your name was?”
“Andrew Pitt.” It had been one of his aliases back in the olden days, when he’d been running errands for a thug out of Newark.
“And your social security number, Mr. Pitt?”
“Okay. Is Ms. Hayes planning to have a credit card issued in your name?”
“No. I’m just trying to sort through her receipts here. I think she may have run up some charges on this business trip she’s taken, and I’d like a record of what she’s billed so she doesn’t bankrupt me. You know women,” he added with another phony laugh.
The lady in the bank’s credit department didn’t share his amusement. “In other words, you want to know her last few charges?”
“That’s right.”
“We’ve received a motel charge of seventyeight dollars and change in Boise, Idaho, and a gas station charge of thirty-six fifty in Salt Lake City.”
“Great. Anything else?”
“No. That’s it. Those charges came in two weeks ago. Apparently she hasn’t used her card since.”
Shit. “Okay, great,” he grumbled, then remembered to thank the lady and say good-bye.
The bitch hadn’t used her card in two weeks. She was smart; she must have figured out that by charging all her expenses she would leave a trail for him to follow. She could be anywhere right now. How was he going to track her down if she’d taken to using cash?
On the other hand, how much cash could she possibly have on her? According to her credit report, she had a cushy little nest egg sitting at the local bank, not to mention the mutual fund she was into, and the Treasury bills. Surely she hadn’t liquidated her entire savings account. If she was smart enough to have eluded him, she was too smart to go driving around with tens of thousands of dollars in cash stuffed into her bra.
Maybe she’d switched to one of her other credit cards once she’d left Utah. Maybe she thought she could fool him by using one card one week and another card the next.
Nobody fooled Mick Morrow for long. Whistling to himself, he looked up the phone number of the company that had issued her other major credit card. If he didn’t strike pay dirt there, he’d call back her bank and find out how much money she’d withdrawn before she’d left town. If he knew how much she had, he could calculate how far she would get before she ran out of legal tender and had to start paying her bills with plastic again.
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