Reconcilable Differences

by Ana Leigh

  Regardless of what he said now, she would never believe that would be what he’d want her to do either. Physically, he had a strong sex drive and she knew every spot on that magnificent body of his that could turn him on. Turn her on.

  Don’t go there, girl.

  She quickly turned away and got a pillow and blanket out of the closet, then gently lowered him until he was stretched out. Then she removed his shoes and covered him up.

  For a long moment she stood above him, then unable to avoid the temptation, she lowered her head and pressed a light kiss to his forehead.

  It was almost midnight and Joe Brady crumpled up the paper cup and tossed it onto the floor of the back seat.

  “If I drink any more coffee I’m going to piss in my pants.”

  “Then lay off it,” MacPherson said, swallowing the final draft from the cup he held.

  “What’d I tell you?” Brady said. “The guy’s gonna spend the night. You convinced now?”

  “That don’t mean they whacked her husband. We need some evidence.”

  “Motive, partner. Name of the game is motive. That’s as good as evidence. So let’s book ’em so’s we can get home and catch some shuteye ourselves.”

  “Motive might impress a jury, but it sure as hell ain’t enough to lock them up,” Wally said.

  “Yeah, but once we start squeezing them, one of ’em will start to squeal. Don’t think he’ll break, but I figure she’ll give him up, and convince a jury with those innocent baby-blues of hers.”

  “I think you’re wrong.”

  “Okay, so he’ll cop a plea and give her up.”

  “No, I still figure neither of them did it.”

  “Geez, Wally, get real. The woman’s husband ain’t even planted yet, and the two of ’em are up there banging away.”

  “Still doesn’t mean they killed him. We’ve been tailing her for a few days now. I ain’t seen one move that’s cause for suspicion.”

  “What do you call tonight? You think they’re up there reading bedtime stories to each other? They’re guilty as hell.”

  “They’re also too smart to be this careless then. We don’t have one bit of evidence on either one of them.”

  “Look, partner, she says she was just driving around D.C. the night her husband was killed. He says he never went out. We’ve interviewed a couple of dozen people in the area of the crime scene. Nobody saw a thing. We’ve interviewed people where Manning worked. No suspect there.”

  “I’m not so sure. The secretary says she and Manning had an affair, but it ended over a year ago. And his boss came on a little suspicious to me, too.”

  “Yeah, well he’s the wife’s father. The old man is probably trying to cover for his daughter. Get real, Wally. The newspapers, Captain Cummings and the D.A. are on our backs. Here we sit doing nothing while the guilty parties are upstairs making up for lost time.”

  “That’s just it. Joe. If they killed him without leaving a clue—keep in mind the M.E. found no trace of either of their DNA on the body—why would they blow it now by sleeping together?” He shook his head. “No, it don’t figure. Maybe Manning’s got a girlfriend we don’t know about. Let’s go back to the office and check those credit cards again.”

  “Credit cards, my foot! Insurance policies, partner. Insurance policies.”

  Wally turned on the ignition and pulled away.

  Chapter 8

  The persistent ring of the cell phone woke Dave. He opened his eyes and became aware of sunlight streaming through the windows and sat up in surprise. What in hell was he doing in Trish’s apartment? The last thing he remembered was waiting for her to give him an address. Good Lord! He’d fallen asleep and spent the night on the couch.

  The ring continued and he dug the phone out of his pocket. “Yeah!” he grumbled.

  “Dave, where in hell are you?” Kurt Bolen said.

  “Why? What’s up?”

  “Obviously you aren’t. You told us to meet you at your apartment at 0700.”

  “What time is it now?”

  “Eight o’clock. Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I overslept.”

  He stood up to stretch the stiffness out of his legs and back. He mustn’t have moved a muscle all night. He could hear the shower running, so Trish must have stayed here, too.

  “Overslept? Where?”

  “On the couch at Manning’s apartment. Since we’re assigned to guarding Mrs. Manning, I didn’t want to leave her alone.”

  “Apartment? I thought she lived with her father in one of those Georgetown digs.”

  “Apparently she’s moving back in here now that her husband’s dead.”

  “In a situation like this, wouldn’t a woman normally move out, not in?”

  “How the hell would I know?” Dave grumbled. “Maybe the rent’s paid up for the month. Besides, who said this situation was normal?

  “You guys get over here fast so I can leave and go back to my apartment to change clothes. I have to attend Manning’s funeral at eleven o’clock.” He gave Kurt the address and hung up.

  He needed a shower to knock the fuzz off his brain. And he was barefoot. Trish must have removed his shoes when she tucked him in for the night. Dammit! This situation could only get worse. He sat down and put on his socks and shoes.

  The smell of coffee lured him to the kitchen where a freshly brewed pot was ready and waiting. So Trish had been up and around. He found a cup and sat down on a stool waiting for it to cool enough to swallow.

  He was into his second cup when she came out of the bedroom dressed in a white furry robe. Curse him for a fool, but he couldn’t help wondering if she had anything on under it. She looked refreshed…and kissable. She always did look good in the morning.

  “Good morning.” She poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down at the table.

  “Why in hell didn’t you wake me?” he asked gruffly. “I thought you needed the sleep.”

  “That’s not your problem. What time did you say we had to be at that service?”

  “Eleven o’clock.”

  “My squad should be here in a few minutes. Then I’ll leave to go and change clothes. Do you need a ride home?”

  “I have what I need. I’ve moved some of my things back here.”

  “Daddy give you permission?”

  “You’re determined to start an argument, aren’t you, Dave? Would you be less grumpy on a full stomach? I’d be glad to make you some breakfast.”

  “This will do. At least if you had wakened me when you put the coffee on, there’d be less rushing around now.”

  “Welcome to the twenty-first century, Agent Cassidy. I put the coffee on last night and set the timer for it to go on this morning.”

  The buzzer prevented him from having to apologize. “I suggest you get dressed while I brief the squad.”

  She snapped to attention and saluted. “Yes, sir.” Then buzzed them in.

  “For the sake of propriety, Mrs. Manning, it wouldn’t hurt if you made some attempt to appear the grieving widow.”

  “For whose benefit, Dave?”

  “The police department for one. They’ll be taking this all in.”

  “I’ve been very candid with them regarding my feelings for Robert. I’m not a hypocrite.”

  “No, but you are a suspect…and thanks to you, so am I.”

  “Anyone who knew Robert Manning is a suspect,” she said.

  “Good God, lady, he was your husband. You must have one tender memory of him.”

  “Not one. Robert was not a nice person. The marriage was a nightmare from the beginning.”

  “Didn’t you ever love him?”

  “No. And I’m sure the feeling was mutual.” She headed for the bedroom.

  “Then why in hell did you marry him?” he yelled.

  Trish halted and turned to look at him. “Can’t you guess? Retribution, Dave. I figured I didn’t deserve anyone better.”

  She continued on to the bedroom and closed the door.


  What the hell was that supposed to mean?

  Dave remained deep in thought until the knock on the door snapped him back into action.

  Before leaving, he gave the men instructions not to let her out of their sight. Then he hurried down to his car. There was a parking ticket on the windshield. The day could only get worse.

  Back at his apartment he showered and dressed, then arrived at the chapel just as the service was about to begin.

  He glanced around at the small crowd assembled in bored silence staring at a lone pedestal holding the urn that contained the ashes of Robert Manning.

  There wasn’t a wet eye in sight.

  Their attention shifted to him when he came in and sat down next to Trish. A few low murmurs broke the silence.

  A somewhat bewildered clergyman offered the usual words of comfort to the mourners then commended Manning’s soul to heaven.

  Someone in the rear actually snorted.

  The whole ceremony didn’t take more than fifteen minutes. A black limo immediately whisked Uncle Philip—with the urn of ashes in hand—back to the airport.

  Debra and Tom Carpenter, Trish’s closest friends, converged on Dave as he waited for Trish to finish speaking to Manning’s lawyer.

  “Dave, darling, you look marvelous,” Deb gushed as they hugged and kissed. “Where have you been these past years?”

  “Seeing the world,” he said.

  Which was more truth than fiction. Trouble was most of what he’d seen had been at night. But he left that unsaid.

  Dave had always liked the couple. Beneath Debra’s demonstrative facade lay a mind like a steel trap, an inviolable love for the man she married and an inflexible loyalty to Trish. Rumor had it that Henry Hunter had once proposed marriage to her, which neither party would affirm or deny.

  She wouldn’t be easy to fool. Dave knew Deb would be the real test of whether he and Trish could pull off the appearance of a renewed relationship.

  “Please tell us that you and Trish are an item again,” Deb said.

  “Debra!” Tom reprimanded, shaking Dave’s hand. “Sorry, Dave. As you can see, six years hasn’t changed my dear wife. I usually just let her out on weekends and holidays.”

  “Tom, you know you would like to see it as much as I would,” she said. “Dave, I hope you didn’t get married while you were off seeing the world.”

  “Now, how could I? You and Trish were the only two I’d ever considered. And you were both married.”

  “How I love this man, darling,” Deb said when Trish came over and joined them. “Let’s all go out for an early lunch. I’m dying to talk to him. We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

  Trish gave him a nervous glance. “I’m sure Dave has business plans.”

  He slipped an arm around her shoulders. “Nothing I can’t get out of, sweetheart. I just have to make a quick phone call.” He figured he deserved an Academy Award for his performance.

  Dave scanned the spectators. He spied Bolen and Addison across the street and knew Don Fraser had to be around somewhere, too. The two D.C. detectives were also taking in the scene from their blue sedan.

  However, there was no sign of Colin McDermott, the one he hoped to see. Not that the elusive terrorist would make himself visible. If he was watching—and Dave’s instinct told him he was—McDermott would be disguised.

  He stepped away and called Bolen to tell him their intentions. By the time he hung up, Henry Hunter had joined the others. The two men nodded to one another but didn’t shake hands.

  Two battle-scarred enemies sizing each other up.

  Henry made no attempt to hide his displeasure when Trish told him they were all going to lunch. To Dave’s relief, her father declined the invitation to join them.

  “I see you and Henry are still at swords’ points,” Deb murmured when Hunter said a quick goodbye and departed.

  “Let’s not even go there,” Dave said quickly.

  Trish and Dave agreed to join the Carpenters at a restaurant the two couples had frequented often when they double-dated.

  Dave stole a glance at Trish as he wove through traffic. She was quiet and looked despondent. Maybe she was taking her husband’s death harder than she wanted people to think.

  “You okay, Trish?” he asked.

  “Yes, I’m fine. I just don’t like deceiving Deb and Tom. I wish we could at least be honest with them.”

  “I warned you what you were letting yourself in for with this charade. You can still stop it before it goes any further.”

  “Is that what you would like to do, Dave?”

  “It doesn’t matter what I would like.”

  She turned her head and looked at him. “It matters to me.”

  The slight tremor in her voice drew his gaze. A hint of moisture shimmered on the surface of her incredible sapphire eyes. She looked wounded. Vulnerable. She was hurting.

  He wanted to stop the car. Take her in his arms and hold her. Comfort her. Kiss her. He couldn’t remember a time he’d ever wanted to kiss her as much as he did at that moment.

  He shifted his attention back to the road. He had to stay focused and not confuse sentiment with reality.

  Neither of them was the same man or woman they once were.

  “Considering how bitter you really feel toward me, I know it must be difficult for you to go through the motions that you still care.”

  Once again their gazes met and for an instant his mouth curved with a wistful smile.

  “I think it’s a double-edged sword for both of us, Trish.”

  She turned away and gazed out the window.

  Once they were seated and settled in, Deb raised her glass of wine in a toast.

  “Here’s to the four of us back together again.”

  “Here! Here!” Tom agreed.

  “The four of us,” Dave said.

  He felt as guilty as Trish and wished they didn’t have to deceive the couple.

  “Well now, Dave, you’ve got some explaining to do,” Deb said. “We haven’t heard one word from you in six years. It was as if you’d dropped off the earth. So let’s begin with whom you’re working for.”

  “I work for the government.”

  “Really!” Tom said. “Legislative or executive?”

  “I’d rather not say,” he said.

  “You mean your job is classified?” Deb asked.

  “Come on, honey, you heard the man,” Tom said. “So stop grilling him.”

  “I’m just curious.” She cocked her head and studied Dave. “I bet you work for the FBI or Central Intelligence Agency. Am I right, Trish?”

  “Please keep me out of this conversation,” Trish said.

  “Now I know I’m right,” Deb exclaimed. “Which is it, Dave? Bet it’s the CIA.”

  “Why would you think that?” he asked.

  “Because you’re tall, dark, handsome—and acting very mysterious.”

  Dave only grinned.

  “That’s marvelous! Did you hear that, Tom?” Deb exclaimed. “We can sleep peacefully knowing Dave’s running the CIA.”

  “Debra, I can assure you I am not running the CIA,” Dave replied with a clear conscience.

  Deb broke into a dimpled smile. “It’s just a matter of time, darling.”

  “Deb, do me a favor. For the time being, please don’t express your suspicions to anyone.”

  “Are you working undercover?” she asked.

  “That’s not the kind of work I do.”

  She leaned across the table and said sotto voce, “Covert operations?”

  “You mean as in spy?” he whispered back. She nodded.

  He had her, but he could no longer keep a straight face. “’Fraid not, honey. Nothing so mysterious. I’m in RATCOM, the Agency’s rescue and anti-terrorist unit. We don’t infiltrate. We’re a special operations force whose primary duty is to rescue hostages.”

  Good sport that she was, Deb broke into laughter. “You dog! So you were pulling my leg. I guess I deserved it.
But why the big secret?”

  “We prefer not to advertise. Only our families and close friends usually know.”

  “And the intelligence departments of our enemies,” Tom piped in.

  Dave chuckled. “You’ve got that right, pal.”

  “I don’t think that’s funny,” Trish said. “You or one of the squad could have been killed the night you rescued me in Morocco.”

  Deb started to choke on the bite of food she’d just swallowed. “He rescued you in Morocco!” she said breathlessly when she was able to speak.

  “He and his squad.”

  “Girl, we’ve got to talk.”

  Deb grabbed Trish’s hand and they headed to the powder room.

  After lunch they moved to a booth in the barroom and for the next several hours they talked about old times.

  And a strange thing happened to Dave. In those same hours he relaxed and forgot about pretense. The woman sitting next to him became the cherished love he adored. Unintentionally, his arm slipped around Trish’s shoulders, his hand reached for hers instinctively.

  The blinding gleam of a flashbulb jolted him back to the here and now, and the sight of Kurt and Don nudging the photographer away.

  The balloon had burst. They said goodbye to the Carpenters and drove to his apartment. Dave shucked the suit and changed into jeans and a knit shirt. Then he packed a change of clothing and some toilet articles.

  “Your apartment could use a woman’s touch,” Trish said when he came out of the bedroom. She picked up a framed photograph of the squad and recognized Mike Bishop among them.

  “Was Mr. Bishop a member of the squad?”

  “He was the leader.”

  “I don’t see Justin, but I recognize everyone else except this one,” she said, pointing to a good-looking, dark-haired man on the photograph.

  He came over and glanced at the picture. The essence he emanated encompassed her. Today sitting beside him in the restaurant, feeling his arm around her, the warmth and strength of his hand holding hers, had rekindled the excitement his nearness always generated. She yearned to feel his arms around her again, the muscular warmth of his body.