FORGOTTEN VOWS

by Maggie Shayne

  One pair of eyes probed his. "Are you going to turn Aunt Joey into a boring-Suzy-Homemaker-baby-machine?"

  That question, coming from such a pint-size spokesperson, almost made him laugh out loud. "A what?"

  The second one, Brittany, joined her sister. "That's what happens when you get married," she explained seriously. "You never get to have any fun anymore. You have to stay home and do laundry and have babies."

  "And husbands boss you around and tell you what to do."

  "We're never getting married."

  "Never."

  Both girls stood before him, pudgy arms crossed, jewel blue eyes hostile, pale golden brows furrowed. They could have passed for twins.

  "Just who told you all that?" he asked, amused.

  "Aunt Joey," they chorused.

  All eyes turned to her, and she shrugged helplessly.

  "Well, you see, when your Aunt Joey met me she decided it wouldn't be so bad to do laundry and have babies, after all."

  "The hell I did." She clapped a hand over her mouth, but her eyes shot daggers at him.

  The little girls studied him, tilting their golden heads to one side.

  "Look, we'd better go." Caroline tugged at the girls. "I want to have you over for dinner. Soon. I'll call you, Joey. We'll talk." She paused at the stairway, glanced at her sister and frowned hard. "Is everything all right?"

  "Yeah. Stop worrying."

  Caroline nodded, hugged her sister once more and opened the back door.

  "He's very handsome, Mommy." He thought that was Brittany. It was hard to be sure. They were dressed alike in denim bib overalls with little pink bows down the seams. The only difference in them that he could detect was that Brittany was about an inch shorter. And they wore different colored hair ribbons.

  "Will he make Aunt Joey stop riding the motorcycle?" That was the yellow ribbon. Bethany, he thought.

  "Will she still get to take us sp'lunkin' when we're big enough?" And that was the red—wait a minute. Sp'lunkin'?

  That was all he heard, because the door was closed and the girls hustled outside. He cocked a brow at Joey. "Sp'lunkin'?"

  "Caving." If looks could kill, Ash figured he'd better start on his last will and testament.

  "Caving?"

  Her glare was ferocious. "How could you do that? Just stand there and blurt out that we were married? I could kill you!"

  Interesting choice of words, considering that someone had so recently tried. "Well, what was I supposed to do? You are my wife. Aren't you?''

  She shook her head fast. "I wanted to tell her in my own way. She's going to think I've lost my mind!"

  "No doubt, seeing your views on marriage. Boring Suzy Homemaker baby machine?"

  Her eyes narrowed. "It's accurate. Look at Caroline. She used to be crazy, fun, confident. Lately Ted's turning her into a—" She bit her lip, stopping herself.

  "Go on, into a what?"

  She shook her head. "Doesn't matter. It's a whole different situation. You're nothing like Ted."

  "Are you sure?" He really wanted to hear more about her feministic views of male domination. Caroline looked perfectly content to him. Obviously loved her girls. Then again, who wouldn't? They were heart grabbers, those two. And some women enjoyed being Suzy Homemaker. He was sure of it...though he had yet to meet one of those.

  She glanced up at him from beneath her lashes. "That you're nothing like Ted? The day you prove otherwise, you're out the door, pal."

  He shrugged. "So what's for dinner?"

  She held her anger for a moment longer. Then it dissolved and she laughed. It was a small laugh, but a laugh all the same. For a second he was insanely glad he'd managed to douse her blazing anger and make her smile. Just because she wasn't the type of woman he'd spent most of his life looking for didn't mean she had to be his enemy.

  But if she were plotting something, like his murder, for example, she definitely was.

  "I'm not much of a cook. And I don't aspire to be. There are more exciting ways to kill time, you know."

  Figured. Not only did she dress almost as provocatively as his mother had, she didn't cook, either. A sudden suspicion hit him. Maybe that was why she wouldn't tell him what she did for a living. If she were a business consultant, then he was a brain surgeon. Maybe she was a whore.

  He searched her face and glanced again at the surroundings. It certainly didn't look like the kind of place where men trooped in and out at all hours. The kind of place where a young boy would huddle in the darkness, afraid of the sounds coming from his mother's room, afraid of the harsh, deep voices of strangers.

  "Is anything wrong?"

  He shook his head, dousing the surge of memory with a supreme and practiced act of will. "If you don't cook, then what do you eat?"

  "You have anything against pizza?"

  "Nope."

  She frowned, tilting her head to one side. "What is it, Ash?" She took a step nearer, searching his face with those sparkling green eyes that seemed to exude laser beams. "You remembered something, didn't you?"

  He shook his head. "No. I was trying to remember, but no luck." Actually, his childhood with his sex-for-hire mother was something he wished he could forget. "So are you going to call for that pizza, or am I? I'm starving."

  Something was bothering him, she was certain of that much. But if he wouldn't say, she sure wasn't going to press him. It wasn't as if she had any right to. She wasn't really his wife.

  Still, the preoccupied look in his dark, shadowy eyes remained throughout dinner and right up to the late news.

  "I take it ours wasn't a long courtship."

  She swallowed hard and faced him across the room. He was in the forest green recliner, but not tipped back. She sat curled with her legs under her on the matching sofa. "What makes you say that?"

  "Your sister has never met me."

  He was watching her face as she answered, and she couldn't help but avoid his probing eyes. She hated lying. If there were any other way, she'd have taken it. "It was kind of a whirlwind thing."

  "I swept you off your feet, hmm?"

  "Something like that."

  "Wined you and dined you until you couldn't resist me?"

  "God, no. Wining and dining would bore me to tears!" Her answer was spontaneous, and honest

  He leaned forward in his chair. "Then what? What kinds of things did we do together?"

  She pressed her lips tightly. She'd rather say nothing than spin blatant lies. Best to stick as near the truth as possible. She could tell him the kinds of things she liked doing, even though she'd never done any of them with him.

  "I have an aversion to all things boring, but sometimes a night vegetating in front of the TV is just what the doctor ordered."

  "And when we weren't vegging?" He was just a little pale, and there were lines of tension in his face, like he was just barely restraining himself from grimacing. She felt a dull throbbing in her head, and knew it was his, not her own.

  "Sometimes we'd jump on the bike and ride south till we'd see more cows then people. Then we'd find a likely patch of wilderness and do a little poking around. Sometimes we'd just stay home and laze in the backyard. Especially on a warm, clear night, with the river sloshing along and the crickets raising a ruckus. I'm a die-hard star-gazer, you know."

  "No. I didn't know."

  She felt a little uncomfortable under his intense gaze. "No, how could you?"

  He shifted in the chair, elbows on his knees. "No nightclubs? No dance parties?"

  "Do I look like a party animal to you?"

  He nodded.

  She couldn't hide her surprise. "Really? Well, I'm not I. like excitement, but that doesn't do it for me."

  "What does? Sp'lunkin'?"

  She nodded hard. "Ever tried it?"

  "I don't know. Have I?"

  She could have slapped herself for making a slip like that. "Like I said, we haven't known each other that long. You've never tried it with me. But that doesn't mean... I keep fo
rgetting you can't remember."

  He shrugged. "I can't imagine it's anything I'd find to be much of a thrill. Find a cave and snoop around inside. Stir up a few bats and step in stagnant water. Doesn't sound all that interesting to me."

  She laughed a little, but she was getting the strangest feelings from him. Like unease. He didn't like talking about caves, much less, she imagined, exploring them. The idea of the small, dark spaces gave him an unreasonable amount of trepidation, or something. Something he was trying not to feel.

  "There's a lot more to it than that, Ash. I've been miles into a cave, miles underground, in places where no one's ever set foot before. I've crawled through passages on my belly, only to emerge at a three-hundred-foot drop, then rappelled down it with nothing but my rope and carabiners." She shook her head, remembering that particular trip. She felt, just for an instant, the thrill she'd felt then race up her spine. An instant later, she sensed the small tremor that raced up his, only his wasn't caused by excitement. It was something darker. And then it was gone.

  “Sounds dangerous.''

  "Risky is a better word. Of course, the more experienced you are, and the more care you take, the less the risk."

  "And you're experienced?"

  "Umm-hmm."

  "And you take the utmost of care?"

  She averted her eyes. "Pretty much."

  "Interesting."

  She glanced at him, saw his studious frown and wondered what he was thinking. Then his gaze dropped to the neckline of her blouse and narrowed.

  "Ready for bed?"

  She drew a sudden breath, then caught it, releasing it in a controlled manner. "I've been meaning to talk to you about that."

  "I figured you had."

  She licked her lips and swallowed. His eyes followed the motion. "For all practical purposes, Ash, we're strangers. I mean, for all you know about me, we could have just met today."

  "Can't argue with you there."

  She squared her shoulders and rushed on. "So I think it would be best if we used separate bedrooms."

  He bit his inner cheek. "Because you don't believe in sleeping with strangers?"

  She frowned hard. "What kind of a question is that?"

  "A fair one, I think. I was wondering if it applied to all strangers or only the ones you happen to be married to."

  For a second she gaped. She snapped her jaw shut with an effort and tried to control the surge of anger. "You're really a jerk, you know that?"

  "I've been called worse." He was silent a moment "Don't you think a good screw would jog my memory?"

  "I don't give a damn what it would jog!" Even amnesia wasn't a good enough excuse for that kind of crudeness. She got to her feet, anger beginning to reach a full boil. "At the top of the stairs, turn left. That's your room."

  He stood, as well. "You know, for a newly married woman you're not acting very wifely."

  "I don't feel very 'wifely,'" she said.

  He took a step forward, bringing him very close to her. He caught her shoulders in his hands. "I could fix that." With a tug, she was flattened to his body. She felt the hard planes of it through his shirt and a tiny tongue of heat curled in some unexplored cave within her.

  She drew back her hand and slapped him.

  He released her, blinking in shock. "What the hell was that for?"

  "For trying to push me into something I don't want"

  His eyes hardened. "But you're my wife."

  "And like most men, you assume that means I provide sex on demand, right? And if I refuse, you just go find it elsewhere. That's the way it works, isn't it?" She was angry, blurting things out as they entered her mind without thought to what he'd make of them.

  He stepped away from her and gave a derisive snort. "You have one hell of a warped outlook, lady."

  "I've seen enough to confirm it as fact. Good night, Mr. Coye." She turned on her heel and marched up the stairs.

  "'Night...Mrs. Coye."

  She stopped on the fifth step, her back stiffening. Then she forced herself to continue.

  Chapter Three

  His head throbbed, reminding him painfully of the very real injury behind his feigned memory loss. He had a hell of a concussion. He was lucky that was all he had, considering his brake line had been cut, and his car totaled from the impact with a city dump truck. He was still more tired than a man in the shape he was in had any business being.

  Still, he wondered. Why hadn't Joey been willing to take him to bed to perpetuate her little lie? Was it just another cover? Did she know, somehow, what kind of woman he'd been looking for and intend to convince him that she was it? He didn't want a woman like his mother. He wanted one like...

  The image that he'd held in his mind for so long floated before him now. A sweet, shy, sensible woman. One who would stay at home and raise his kids the way kids ought to be raised...not the way he'd grown up. One who would make pot roast for Sunday dinners. One who wouldn't hop into bed with him on the first date.

  He didn't want a whore.

  And he certainly didn't want a biker babe, or a thrill seeker. Joey Bradshaw didn't even come close to the model wife he was looking for. So it was a bitter irony that she was the first woman in a long time to say no to him.

  Of course, just because she'd refused him didn't mean she made a practice of abstaining. She was just trying to keep him convinced she was on the up-and-up, fighting her natural tendency toward wildness. All that talk about stargazing and hiking in the woods. Right, next she'd want him to believe she was fond of daisy picking and orphaned puppies.

  It was time to do a little serious investigating. He'd take out his frustration that way.

  He knew perfectly well that this weekend he hadn't been getting married in Vegas. He'd been checking the details of a string of murders committed five years ago. Murders remarkably similar to the ones taking place in the Syracuse area now.

  In the past, the victims had consisted of four men and one woman. All killed by a single, swift slash to the jugular. They had all been attacked between midnight and 3:00 a.m. No one had reported hearing anything, not a scream, not a scuffle, though the bodies had been found in busy areas. And none of the victims seemed to have had a thing in common, besides the manner in which they'd died.

  So far, in Syracuse, three bodies had been found. All men. The MO was the same, from the nature of the wounds to the probable times of death. Only this time there was one more clue—cigarette butts found at all of the crime scenes, coral-frost lipstick stains ringing the filters. And for the first time, the police were entertaining the notion that the killer was female.

  She'd have to be strong, but not unnaturally so. Just enough to grab a man from behind and draw a razor-sharp blade across his throat. It would only take an instant.

  Ash thought again of the trim, firm shape of Joey Bradshaw's arms, and then of the weight bench downstairs. He shook his head, still finding it difficult to believe it could be her.

  Then why's she lying, pretending to be my wife? And why did her sister make that remark about the murders getting Joey into trouble?

  Again he shook his head. It just wasn't credible. But he found himself recalling her nasty remarks about men a few minutes ago, and wondering what made her so disdainful of his gender. Just how much of a man hater was she?

  He began in the living room, and he went through everything. Every cabinet, every closet, every drawer. He found little of interest. Some high-topped, deep-treaded boots in the closet, along with a pair of helmets with lamps on top, and several neatly looped ropes with some sort of hardware attached. Looked as if she hadn't been kidding about the caving.

  Then, on the top shelf of the living room closet, his hand closed around a cool metallic object. A chill raced through him as he pulled it down. A nine-millimeter Ruger. A full clip.

  "Damn."

  He glanced up the stairs. If there was anything to find, he'd more than likely find it in her bedroom. But how could he look with her sleeping right there?
/>
  Maybe the opportunity would arise later. He slipped into the kitchen and picked up the phone, quickly punching in Radley's number. A sleepy voice answered.

  "Rad, it's Ash. What have you got on her?"

  "Nothing yet, pal. I'll have a full report for you by tomorrow. I've got people on it. How's it going?"

  "Damned if I know. She's not...she's not a run-of-the-mill-type woman, Radley."

  "In what way?"

  Ash sighed hard. "She packs a cannon and rides a Harley, for starters."

  "She rides a... Holy crap. Listen, Ash, this might be something. I got a look at the police reports today. They put a woman on a motorcycle at the scene of two of the three murders. She showed up when the bodies were found. A gaper, you know. They only started taking notes the second time around."

  "Description?" Ash wondered why he felt so disappointed.

  "Small woman, large bike, dark helmet with a tinted visor over her face."

  Ash swore fluently.

  "Maybe you ought to pull out of there, Ash."

  "I think I'll stick with her awhile."

  "If you're sure..."

  "I am. Let me know when you get the rest of the info, Rad."

  Ash replaced the receiver. Before he mounted the stairs, he took the clip out and replaced the gun in the closet.

  #

  She knew she was asleep. It wasn't a normal dream, it was lucid. And she knew she didn't want to see it, but she also knew she had to. She might learn something, see something she hadn't seen before. So she didn't struggle against it. Struggling wouldn't make it go away. It would only distract her from paying attention.

  There was Ash. He was falling in slow motion. Falling, his back hitting the carpeted floor hard, then his head. His eyes were closed. He wasn't getting up. A hand came then, blocking the view of Ash. The hand seemed to linger before the lens of her vision. It was gloved...a black glove. Buttery-soft kid leather. She could smell it. And there were two small buttons at the wrist. The hand clutched a jeweled dagger...and the end of the dagger was stained dark, and she knew the stain came from blood.