“Let me get you a towel.”
She left him standing in the foyer, and returned in less than a minute with a fluffy, cream-colored towel. He took it from her and dried his face, then ran its thickness over his dripping hair.
“Why don’t you get out of those wet clothes and I’ll throw them in the dryer?” she suggested.
He stopped towel-drying his hair and met her gaze. A faint smile quirked the corner of his mouth. “And run around in the buff?”
A lovely shade of pink suffused her face. “No,” she said primly. “I haven’t cleaned out all of Anthony’s stuff yet. I’m sure I’ve got an extra pair of sweats you can use.”
A shiver snaked down his spine, making him all too aware that he was chilled to the bone-and would remain so for hours if he didn’t change out of his wet clothes. He’d be no help to Paige if he got sick; she needed him healthy, his mind sharp and his body alert.
“I’d appreciate that.” Unzipping his jacket, he shrugged it off and hung it to air-dry on the elegantly carved mahogany coatrack by the door.
Her gaze went to the holster strapped to his left shoulder, and the 9mm Beretta tucked within it, a direct reminder of who and what he was. A cop. His automatic pistol was as much a part of him as his limbs were, a natural extension of his persona as a homicide detective. He rarely left home without it, and it would be his constant companion until this new ordeal was over.
Judging by the aversion glittering in her eyes, she resented that particular intrusion into her home. Her life.
Guilt rippled through him, and he resisted the impulse to reach out and touch her, to offer reassurances. But he couldn’t extend false hope. Couldn’t dispense with his weapon no matter how much she wanted him to. Not when her life was at stake, and the future so uncertain. She needed to accept his presence, and reconcile herself to the fact that he would protect her with the most persuasive, and lethal, means possible.
Before the night was over, she would understand his purpose, and accept it. She had no choice.
Finally, she turned away, heading toward the main part of the house. “Come on in to the living room where it’s warm,” she said over her shoulder. “And I’ll get you the sweats to change into.”
She veered off to the right, disappearing down the hall that led to the master bedroom, a guest room and an office. Josh stepped into the living room and gravitated toward the dying fire in the hearth. He tossed a few more logs on the grate, and absorbed the warmth while his eyes surveyed the room and its rich, luxurious furnishings.
Josh had often wondered how Anthony had been able to afford such an extravagant and somewhat pretentious home on a relatively modest salary. Over the years, Anthony’s outrageous spending habits had included custom-made racing boats, fast sports cars and other expensive, frivolous toys. Anthony had always lived life to its fullest, never hesitating before purchasing his newest whim-not before Paige had come into the picture, and certainly not after.
So where had that constant flow of cash come from? Anthony had no wealthy family to back him up, and no inheritance or trust fund drawing interest In light of recent events, the most logical explanation burned like acid in Josh’s stomach.
Soft, relaxing music drifted from the speakers mounted in the corners of the room, and his gaze took in the invoices, files and catalogs spread out on the coffee table. A nearly empty glass of wine sat in the midst of the paperwork.
Investigative instincts prompted him to move closer. He caught the name of Paige’s boutique, the Wild Rose, embossed in mauve on cream-hued stationery. A deep green vine and dew-pearled roses trailed across the heading and down the left side. The letter was addressed to a broker, the contents half-covered by another piece of paper with impressive dollar amounts listed.
Frowning, and wondering what kind of business Paige might have with a broker, he reached for the letter.
“Are you looking for something in particular, Detective?”
Damn. He casually straightened and glanced at Paige, who stood at the end of the leather couch, sweats in hand, watching him steadily. “Nope.” He grinned. “Just admiring your pretty stationery.”
A faint smile touched her lips, but didn’t reach her eyes. “If I knew you had a penchant for roses and trailing vines, I would have given you your own personalized notepaper for Christmas.” Her words were sugarcoated, but not enough to sweeten the sarcasm in her voice.
He shrugged. “Maybe next year.”
“Don’t play those games with me, Josh,” she said, her mouth thinning in anger. “I had enough of them with Anthony.”
He had no desire to be compared to her deceased husband. “Fair enough.” At that moment, he decided candidness between them was crucial. “I was curious as to why the Wild Rose would be contacting a broker.”
She stared at him for a long, hard moment, a range of emotions flitting across her face-none of which were complimentary or reassuring. Finally, she said, “It’s none of your business.”
He wanted to refute that and demand answers, especially since she was being so vague and secretive. As a friend, he had an interest in her life. She’d certainly never been reticent about information about her flourishing boutique before, so it was even more disturbing that she was now. As the man assigned to protect her, his concern stemmed from that essential need to know all the facts so nothing took him by surprise.
She approached him, dismissing their conversation by handing over the gray cotton sweats. “You’re welcome to take a hot shower to get rid of the chill.”
He let the subject slide, for now. There were more pressing issues to address than the fate of her boutique. “Thanks. I think I will. I’ll be a few minutes, and then we’ll talk.”
“I can hardly wait,” he heard her mutter beneath her breath as he headed out of the room.
DAMN JOSH ANYWAY!
Paige didn’t need whatever “official business” he was here to disclose, not when she was desperately trying to get her life back on track. Not when she was so close to making decisions that affected her future. The last thing she needed was more emotional turmoil clouding her judgment.
And a deep, gut instinct warned her that the investigation on Anthony’s death had been concluded, and that was the reason for Josh’s formal visit.
You’re the one who insisted Josh give you answers, a part of her mind chided.
Yeah, well, over the passing three months she’d had a change of heart. Her initial anger over the situation had eased, and she’d managed to bury her resentment of the undercover work her husband had thrived on. Anthony was gone, and nothing anyone could say or do could turn back the dock. Did she really want to know the gory details of why there wasn’t enough left of Anthony after the fatal explosion to justify a casket?
No, she didn’t.
She’d come to terms with his death, and the choices he’d made, despite the heartache it had cost her. Now, all she wanted was to put this chapter of her life behind her, and begin anew.
Rubbing the slow throb beginning at her temple, Paige forced herself to regain her composure. It wasn’t easy, considering the negative vibes Josh had brought with him today. His tension had been nearly palpable, touching off emotions that made her feel uncomfortably vulnerable.
She knew Josh well, in some ways better than she’d known her own husband. She’d learned to gauge his moods, valued his openness and appreciated his honesty, elements her relationship with Anthony had lacked. During the past year she’d spent more time with Josh than she had with Anthony. Josh didn’t realize it, but his friendship and companionship had kept her sane during a very turbulent and emotionally draining marriage.
Anthony hadn’t turned out to be the man he’d presented during their whirlwind, three-month courtship. Kindness, tenderness and consideration, the very traits she’d fallen in love with, had waned just months after the wedding. The dreams she’d harbored since she was a little girl had diminished within a year, yet she’d always held on to a small glimmer of hop
e that things would change…that Anthony would realize just how rich and wonderful having a family could be. That there was more to life than the next exciting undercover case.
A burst of derisive laughter escaped her. She’d been kidding herself. Anthony had been too egotistical to stretch beyond his own wants and needs, and too arrogant and possessive to let her go when there was no incentive for her to remain in a loveless marriage.
Lightning flashed through the glass slider leading to the deck, and thunder rumbled in the distance, startling her back to the present. Shaking off her unsettling thoughts, she sat on the couch and began clearing the coffee table and putting files back into her briefcase. She would review her paperwork later, after Mr. Inquisitive left.
Picking up her glass of wine, she debated on a refill, then decided that Josh could probably use a cup of coffee, and since she’d be making a pot, she might as well join him. Padding into the kitchen, she filled the carafe with water, then scooped French Vanilla coffee into the basket. While the coffee percolated, she washed the few dinner dishes she’d left in the sink. Once that was done, she found herself staring out the kitchen window to the darkness beyond, trying to think of the best way to tell Josh she no longer had a burning desire to know the details of Anthony’s death. That she preferred to remember the few good memories she had of Anthony.
“Ummm. Coffee smells great.”
Paige turned at the sound of Josh’s deep, rumbling voice, the offer to pour him a cup dying on her lips before it even formed. Her heart did a funny little leap in her chest as he walked toward her, wearing a smile and the sweatpants she’d given him. Nothing else. His chest was bare, its width tightly muscled and sprinkled with a dusting of dark curls that still looked damp from his shower. The trail tapered down a flat, lean belly, whorled around his navel and disappeared into the waistband of his drawstring sweats.
Heat suffused her entire body, a sensual, feminine kind of awareness that made her skin tingle. Her reaction shocked her-she’d seen Josh without a shirt plenty of times, and never had she experienced this deep, coiling need in the pit of her belly. In the summer, he would often come over, lounge around on the beach and swim in the ocean, wearing nothing more than a pair of swimming trunks. But there was something incredibly intimate and sexy about seeing him after a shower, his skin still flushed from the heat of the water, his black hair a silky tumble around his head. The dark stubble lining his jaw intensified the fascinating, rich shade of those brown-gold eyes that at times seemed to mesmerize her.
Like now.
She swallowed, hard. There’d always been a certain attraction between the two of them; she’d be a hypocrite to deny the underlying magnetism to their friendship. But she’d never given a thought to pursuing something so forbidden. No matter how strained her relationship with Anthony had been, no matter how lonely she’d been, no matter that Josh had filled that emptiness within her, her marriage vows had been sacred.
Josh had been nothing more than a friend, someone to talk to when she needed to vent, a person who understood her better than her husband because Josh took the time to listen. A companion when Anthony chose work, and even more often play, over the plans she’d made for them.
He’d always been a platonic friend.
Circumstances had changed, and she realized her feelings for him now had intensified-both physically and emotionally. The realization scared the hell out of her. The mere idea of investing emotions in another relationship strained by the pressures, dangers, and stress of working in law enforcement terrified her.
“Where’s the sweatshirt?” she blurted, wanting to do something about the more immediate hazard to her senses.
“It’s too small, and I can barely fit it over my head,” he said, absently rubbing a hand over that bare chest of his. “The sweatpants aren’t quite my size, either, but they’ll do.”
Her traitorous gaze slid downward, past the waistband of his sweats this time. The soft cotton clinging to his lean hips, muscular thighs, and more masculine anatomy confirmed his claim. The hems of the sweats ended at his shins. Anthony had been shorter than Josh by a few inches, and not nearly so wide across the chest and shoulders.
“I’ll go see if I can find a larger shirt that might fit,” she said, and started around him.
He caught her arm, gently. The heat of his fingers seeped through the knit of her sweater, tripping old, familiar sensations her body had been denied for too long. She struggled to ignore the physical response, the ache and need that tightened her chest.
“Paige, I’m fine, really.” He looked at her oddly, making her realize how extreme her behavior had become. How ridiculous she was being. “The shower took away the chill, and the living room is warm enough. This will do until my clothes are dry.”
She forced a bright, everything-is-okay smile. “I’ll go put them in the dryer.” The sooner he was fully clothed, the better.
“I already did it,” he told her, and released her arm.
“Oh.” Her voice reflected her surprise. “I would have done it for you.”
He chucked her gently beneath the chin, a fond gesture he’d used many times in the past. It brought her back to familiar territory. Friends.
“I know you would have, but I’m perfectly capable of doing it myself.” His grin was all Marchiano charm. “Being a bachelor has some merits, one of which is learning to do your own laundry.”
Anthony had never learned that particular skill. She doubted he even knew how to operate the fancy, digital washing machine in the laundry room. Before he’d married her, he’d had a housekeeper who’d taken care of washing the day-to-day essentials, and a drycleaning service that picked up and delivered other items needing more care.
“Would you like some soup and fresh sourdough bread?” she asked, grabbing at the most logical way to stall the inevitable.
He shook his head, his expression taking a serious turn. “Maybe later.”
We need to talk. She read the words in his eyes, knew it was unavoidable. Knew it was time.
“Coffee?”
“Yeah, I could use a cup.”
She opened the cupboard next to the sink and brought down two mugs. “Why don’t you go put a few more logs on the fire, and I’ll be right there?”
“Okay.”
He left the kitchen, and moments later she heard a muted “thump,” then the snap and crackle of fire licking at fresh wood. Pouring the fresh-brewed coffee into their mugs, she added cream and sugar to hers, and left his black, the way he preferred it. She carried the two cups into the living room and set them on the coffee table.
She’d forgotten about his gun, but Josh obviously hadn’t. He’d removed the pistol from his holster, and had placed it on the end table. The dark steel gleamed dully in the warm firelight, serving as a jarring reminder of the danger that surrounded Josh on a daily basis. He didn’t work undercover like Anthony had, but that didn’t make his job as a homicide detective any less perilous.
Before she could question if having the pistol so readily accessible was necessary, he began closing her drapes, shutting out the darkness, the tempestuous weather, shrouding them in a different kind of foreboding.
Unease slithered down her spine. “Josh, what are you doing?”
“Closing the drapes.” The smooth muscles across his back flexed as he gave the cord one last tug. The curtains fell into place, swaying gently.
“I prefer them open.”
He moved away from the covered slider and toward her. “I don’t like that I can’t see out at night, and anyone who happens to walk by can see in.”
“Anthony used to say the same thing. I believe I called him paranoid.” The implication that Josh suffered the same affliction was clear.
She’d meant to lighten the moment, but her attempt fell flat.
Josh stopped a foot away, bringing with him a heat more intense than the fire in the hearth. His gaze locked with hers, shrewd and uncompromising. “Anthony must have had a lot to be paranoi
d about.”
2
A NTHONY MUST HAVE HAD a lot to be paranoid about.
Apprehension crawled along Paige’s skin. Josh’s comment wasn’t an off-the-cuff jest, or a typical response to her own remark about paranoia. There wasn’t an ounce of humor in his too-serious expression or the grim set of his jaw.
It had been a statement of fact.
Paige lowered herself to the couch, recalling Anthony’s behavior the last time he’d been home before his death, remembering how on edge he’d been. Every little sound that echoed in their house had made him so suspicious he hadn’t been able to sleep at night. He’d closed the curtains in every room, latched the locks on all the doors and windows and prowled restlessly through the house. On their last morning together, she’d found him sleeping on the couch, sitting upright, his body finally claimed by exhaustion. His gun was clutched in his hand, resting in his lap, index finger curled around the trigger. When she’d gently touched his shoulder to wake him, he’d bolted off the couch and leveled his pistol straight at her heart. His eyes were wild, his savage expression that of the stranger he’d become.
She’d waited for the gun in her husband’s hand to explode, wondering in that flash of an instant what kind of terror drove him to such extremes. Her body began to tremble, and the hot, aching tears she’d stored for months rushed forward.
Finally, he’d lowered the gun, looking around as if his surroundings were coming into focus. He hadn’t apologized or comforted her for scaring the life out of her. Instead, his gaze had narrowed into a menacing glare and he’d roared, “Goddammit, Paige, don’t ever sneak up on me that way again!”
What little was left of her feelings for him shattered in that moment. “It’s over, Anthony,” she’d told him, and meant it. “I can’t keep living like this. I want the divorce I asked for months ago.”
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