One True Thing

by Marilyn Pappano

  There was so much in that snippet of conversation that she wanted to respond to that she didn’t know where to start. Amanda had dumped him? Why? Had he loved her? Was he over her, or did it still hurt? His parents liked her? How did he know? Had they told him so? If they liked her enough to be disappointed because of her, did that mean they had hopes for her and their son? Had he said anything to dissuade them? Did he have any hopes?

  For the first time in years, she was having a few. At least, she thought that was what the quivery, anticipatory, apprehensive feelings in her gut were. She’d been without hope for so long, though, she couldn’t be sure.

  It would be foolish to start hoping again, she chastised herself. So what if she’d been safe and happy and comfortable at Buffalo Lake? So what if she’d let other people into her life, even on the most superficial basis, for the first time in three years? So what if some of those people seemed to genuinely like her? She couldn’t stay. Sooner or later, something would happen. Jace would get tired of all his questions and start snooping into the stories she’d told him. Some cop would run her tag and want to know why Cassidy McRae’s car was registered to Stacy Beauchamp—if not her, then to Linda Valdez—and if he was particularly nosy, he would want to know why neither Cassidy nor Stacy nor Linda really existed.

  Sooner or later everything would fall apart and she would have no choice but to run away again, and it would be so damn hard if she’d let herself hope.

  Now the melancholy she’d expected earlier came, settling over her like a fog that diminished the sun’s brightness and made the hot heavy air even heavier. It made breathing difficult and tempted her to strip off her clothes, dive into the water and not come up until she was certain she could breathe again.

  Instead, she fixed her gaze on Jace and took steady, if shallow, breaths. “Tell me about Amanda.”

  He shrugged. “She hung out at the same bar a bunch of cops did. We dated. She moved in. I planned to give her an engagement ring on Valentine’s Day.”

  So Jace had a romantic streak. Sometimes she’d missed that with Phil. His idea of a romantic gesture had been having his secretary order flowers for her on her birthday, anniversary and Valentine’s Day. Red roses. Even though they were her least favorite flower in the world.

  “You brought her home to meet your family and neither side was impressed. Then what?”

  “I found out she’d suckered me. She didn’t love me. She loved cops. That’s why she hung out at that bar and hadn’t dated anyone in five years who wasn’t a cop. When I…” For an instant his features hardened and took on a cold distance. It passed in degrees, though his jaw was still clenched when he finally went on. “When I got suspended, she started looking for a replacement. I went home one day and she was gone.”

  It didn’t matter that she hadn’t loved him, Cassidy thought. The important thing was that he had loved her, had wanted to marry her. “When I asked you that day if you’d ever come close to getting married and you said no, it wasn’t exactly the truth,” she said softly.

  “No,” he agreed, his mouth curving in a cynical smile. “Not exactly.”

  “You still love her?”

  “No.”

  He could be lying again, to salve his wounded ego, but she believed him. As he’d said earlier, love could damn well be killed, and apparently, Amanda had been lethal.

  “I’m sorry.”

  He gave an easy shrug that made the muscles in his arms ripple. “It was for the best. If we’d gotten married, it wouldn’t have lasted. Getting dumped by a girlfriend has to be easier than getting divorced. There was no home to break up, no kids to uproot, no property settlement to fight over.”

  Leaning forward, she picked up the Royals cap he’d tossed into the bottom of the boat and settled it on her own head. “And it’s easier to be philosophical about it six or eight months out, isn’t it?”

  He grinned. “Damn straight.”

  Slipping off her shoes, she crossed one ankle over the other and gazed around. She knew from the map that, as lakes went, Buffalo Lake was rather small, but it didn’t look it from the middle. The water seemed to stretch out forever, though she suspected from the concentrated shimmer that seemed was the operative word. Some of it, she was sure, was merely an optical illusion, caused by the blinding sun almost directly overhead.

  They saw plenty of boats in the distance, everything from canoes to john boats to ski boats, and once a couple of Jet Skis driven by two Indian boys raced past. Both raised their hands in greeting, and one swung the Jet Ski in a wide circle around them with a whoop before tearing off after the other.

  “Let me guess,” Cassidy said dryly. “More Barnett relatives.”

  “Actually, Greenfeather relatives. My uncle Ronald’s grandsons.”

  Even when she’d had family, she’d never had a lot of them. She envied him so many relatives that he could hardly leave home without running into one. If she could stay, if she could have a future and have it with him, she could have all those relatives, too. She could go to family get-togethers of seventy people or more—could even contribute to the more part.

  No foolish daydreams, she cautioned herself.

  Even if daydreams were all she could have.

  Before long they reached the boat ramp and the store Jace had told her about—a tiny cinder-block building flaking sky-blue paint. The goods it offered were about evenly divided between ice and cold drinks, fishing equipment, and barbecue chips and cookies. While she waited near the door, Jace bought four pork sandwiches, a family size bag of potato chips and a package of Oreos. Outside once again, they settled at a warped redwood table under a shade tree near the water’s edge.

  “When I was a kid,” she began after they’d each had a chance to make a good start on their meal, “I truly believed Mom did something special to the food we took to the lake with us. She usually fixed tuna-salad sandwiches, chips and brownies, and it always tasted so much better when we were waterlogged and sunburned than it did any other time.”

  For a long time he looked at her, his expression intense. Then he reached into his pocket, pulled out a handful of change and slapped it down on the table in front of her.

  “What’s that for?”

  “There’s a pay phone around front. Call home.”

  She stared at the coins, then abruptly picked up the second half of her sandwich. Her movements were so shaky that pork spilled onto the paper wrapper. “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “I just can’t.”

  “Whatever you did, whatever your husband did, it’s over and done with. They’ll forgive it.”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  “It can’t be as difficult as you make it.”

  Heat flushed her face. “I haven’t made anything difficult! It was Phil who—” Breaking off, she clamped her mouth shut.

  “Phil who did what? Who forced you to choose between him and your family?”

  She said nothing.

  “Phil’s dead. Call your mom and dad. They’ll be happy to hear from you.”

  “That’s never been the problem.”

  “Then what is?”

  She stared at him, grateful for the sunglasses and ball cap that offered her some small protection. As soon as the thought formed, though, he reached across, removed the cap and tossed it on the table, then followed it with her glasses.

  “What is the problem, Cassidy?” he repeated. “If you’re sure they would be happy to hear from you, why won’t you call? Are you angry with them? Are you punishing them?”

  Breaking contact with him, she looked down and saw her sandwich was gone. Of course. She got upset, she ate. She reached for the last sandwich, tore it in two and took a bite. After washing it down with bottled water from the cooler, she met his gaze with a callousness she was far, far from feeling. “Not everyone thinks family is as important as you do.”

  “Are you telling me you don’t miss your parents? You wouldn’t love to talk to them, see them
? Because there’s no way in hell I’ll believe that.”

  “It’s true,” she replied coolly, and he snorted. “Whether you believe it doesn’t matter. You don’t matter.”

  Two more damned lies. Dear God, someday they were going to collapse and bury her under their weight.

  In some perverse way, she looked forward to it. At least then she would have some peace.

  Chapter 10

  Pointing the boat at the grass, Jace added enough power to run it partly out of the water, though thanks to the additional weight, not as far as usual. That didn’t deter Cassidy, though. The instant it stopped moving, she was on her feet, stepping out onto the ground quickly enough to rock the boat. By the time he cut the engine, she was striding past the cabin, and by the time he hauled the boat the rest of the way out of the water, she was crossing the bridge.

  He couldn’t think of many better ways to spend the first really hot day of summer than on the water with a pretty woman—except in bed with the same pretty woman—but their conversation over lunch had zapped the enjoyment right out of the day. Instead of the lazy going-nowhere afternoon he’d planned, after lunch they’d headed straight back home. She’d sat stiffly on the bench, her back to him, and said nothing the entire trip. He hadn’t spoken, either. After her closing shot— “You don’t matter”—he hadn’t been able to find anything worth saying.

  He’d had it with trying to be friendly, with acting neighborly. He didn’t need this kind of hassle. From now on he would be the kind of neighbor she wanted—distant. Uninterested. Unattracted.

  He couldn’t contain the snort that broke free at that last thought. As if it was that easy to turn off sexual attraction. But, damn, getting laid was not worth the trouble. There were plenty of women out there who would require a whole lot less effort. He was going to stick to that type and to hell with Cassidy McRae.

  He grabbed the cooler and went inside, leaving it on the kitchen counter before stripping down and climbing into the shower. The steady beat of the water cooled him down significantly, though he was pretty sure that the steam filling the bathroom came from him and not from the lukewarm water.

  He’d just pulled on a clean pair of cutoffs when a slam echoed across the inlet. He looked out the living-room window in time to see Cassidy step off her deck, her arms cradling an open box from which kitchen stuff stuck out. Without stopping to put on shoes, he charged out the door, across the deck and across the bridge.

  She had showered, too, leaving her hair damp and finger-combed, and changed into a sleeveless cotton dress that ended well above her knees. She stopped abruptly when she saw him, hesitated, then, her mouth in a thin line, dropped the box in the open trunk of her car before starting back to the cabin. He followed.

  The screen door slamming in his face didn’t deter him one bit. He jerked it open, let it slam again behind him, then glanced around. The cabin looked as if it had been ransacked while they were gone. Stacks of clothes still on hangers were spread across the couch, the laptop was zipped into its carrying case, and boxes were scattered haphazardly, holding dishes, books, bath stuff and linens. He could see through the open door that the bed had been stripped, accounting for the pile of sheets on top of it.

  Cassidy approached with another box, clearly expecting him to politely step aside and let her pass. He stood his ground, arms folded over his chest. “Running away?”

  Her fingers tightened around the box, but she didn’t raise her gaze higher than his chest. “Help or get out of my way.”

  “Okay.” He took hold of the box, containing the boom box, an assortment of CDs and a plastic zippered bag filled with silverware, and set it on the floor before taking hold of her. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “I’m leaving.”

  “Running.”

  Her jaw clenched. “Going home.”

  “And where is that?”

  “I told you—”

  He snorted. “I’ll wager every penny I might ever have that you’ve never set foot in Lemon Grove, California, in your life.”

  She tried to pull free, but he held tighter—not enough to hurt her. Just enough to let her know she wasn’t going anywhere. “Where I’ve been and where I’m going are none of your business,” she declared hotly. “Like I said, either help me load the car or get the hell out of my way!”

  “You’re wrong, sweetheart. I’m making it my business.”

  “As if you have the right.” She wrenched away hard and he let her go. He could have restrained her, but not without causing pain, and while she might enjoy doing that, he didn’t.

  She retrieved the box he’d set on the floor, pushed past him and carried it outside. Jaw clenched, he turned to watch as she shoved it in the trunk, then ducked out of sight for a moment. When she straightened again, for one instant she looked so damn bleak, but she hid it immediately behind a coldly emotionless look.

  He felt a twinge of guilt for thinking she enjoyed inflicting pain. She didn’t. God knew, she seemed to have suffered enough of it herself. Maybe there had never been a husband or a murder, and maybe there was no estrangement between her and her family. Maybe every damned word she had ever said to him was a lie…but she was still more alone and lonely than anyone he’d ever known. She was vulnerable and needy, and even though the last thing in the world he wanted was to get involved in somebody else’s problems, he couldn’t just let her leave like this. He wished he could.

  She came back inside, picked up another box and started toward the door. He waited until she was even with him to speak. “Where are you going?”

  Still refusing to meet his gaze, still wearing that tautly controlled look that showed nothing, she gave a hint of a shrug. “Away.”

  Not home. He doubted she had a home. Everything she owned was in this shabby rented cabin and the dirty red Honda. Whatever the reason, she stayed on the move and she made up lies about a home that didn’t exist. The big question was, Were the lies for him, to satisfy his curiosity?

  Or for herself?

  “Where?”

  She shook her head.

  “Do you even know, or do you plan to just get in the car and drive until you come to a likely place? Is that how you wound up here?” Building anger made his voice louder than normal. “You came here on a whim? You screwed around with my life on a whim?”

  “I didn’t—!” Finally she looked up at him and he saw that she’d been crying. He was as compassionate as the next guy, but years as a cop had given him a certain immunity to tears. He’d seen too many women turn them on and off at will to trust in their sincerity most of the time.

  But Cassidy wasn’t trying to manipulate him with her tears. She hadn’t wanted him to know—that was why she’d refused to meet his gaze—and even now she was doing her best to keep the fresh tears welling in her eyes at bay. Walk out the door, he counseled himself. Wish her well and get the hell out before you do something you can’t turn away from.

  Good advice, and it sounded so doable. All he had to do was look away, walk away, forget her. But he couldn’t manage even the first step.

  “Yes, you did,” he disagreed, his voice no more than a murmur after practically shouting his accusation at her. “I was just fine here alone, doing nothing, thinking about nothing, and then you showed up, and nothing’s been the same since. From the first time I saw you, I wanted—” He broke off to clear the hoarseness from his throat. It didn’t work. “I wanted you. I did everything I could think of to get you to spend time with me, to pay attention to me, to get you to want me, and now you plan to leave…damn it, Cassidy, you can’t just go.”

  “I have to,” she whispered as a tear spilled over. He stopped its downward slide, catching it with his fingertip, drying the wet path it left on her cheek. Closing her eyes, she rubbed her cheek against his palm so lightly he could have imagined it. Then, as if that moment of weakness was all she could allow herself, she opened her eyes, squared her shoulders and tried for cool and unemotional again. It was a pathetic at
tempt, though, and one he didn’t give a chance as he cupped her face in his hands, tilted her head back and kissed her.

  She gave a helpless whimper and raised onto her toes, leaning into the kiss. They couldn’t get closer, though, not with the box she still held between them. He took it from her and shoved it blindly in the direction of the couch, then heard a series of thuds as it apparently dumped its contents onto the floor. It didn’t sound as if anything broke, though, and it certainly didn’t break their kiss. Without the barrier, she closed the distance between them, wrapped her arms around his neck, pressed her body against his and made a soft, satisfied mmm sound deep in her throat.

  He slid his hands to her bottom, lifting her against his erection, and she made that sound again, a sweet moan from her mouth into his. Only dimly aware of what he was doing, he moved toward the bedroom, coaxing her, kissing her, with him, and she followed without protest. By the time they reached the bed, she had unfastened his cutoffs enough to slide one hand inside and, with one caress, she made his vision go dark and his heart skip a few beats. Now the groan was his, frantic, raw.

  He found the zipper on the back of her dress and yanked it down. She shimmied out of it, unhooked her bra—the pretty lacy kind designed for nothing more than driving a man out of his mind—then added her panties to the pile of clothes on the floor. His cutoffs and briefs followed, then they fell to the bed, the pile of sheets lifting her hips at an inviting angle.

  Once he’d pushed inside her, stretching her until she’d taken every inch of him, he clasped her hands in his, pinned them to the mattress at either side of her head and stared down at her. She wore a strained look of need, and her maybe-brown eyes had gone soft and hazy. Her lips were parted, her breath coming in soft puffs, and her nipples were hard, her breasts rising with each breath. With her tousled blond hair, pale, golden skin, kiss-swollen lips and taut muscles, she looked the perfect picture of aroused woman.