“Of course it doesn’t have anything to do with Pat,” Aunt Ermy chimed in. “Do you suppose my poor little girl would let herself be browbeaten by that towering bully? I warned him when I saw him tonight—I wouldn’t stand by and let him order you about.”
“And what did he say to that?” Molly asked curiously.
Uncle Willy snorted. “Told her what she could do with her advice, and that he’d order you about as much as he pleased. Ermy didn’t care for that mud, did you, dearie?” He laughed again, and the sound was a high-pitched giggle.
Molly rose suddenly, disgusted by the two of them. “I think I’ll go up to bed,” she said. “It’s been a long day and I still don’t feel recovered from this morning.”
“Oh, yes, Willy was telling me about your accident.” Was there a slight emphasis on the word accident? Aunt Ermy seemed all solicitude. “You really should be more careful, Molly dear. Certain people could find your death very convenient. Very convenient indeed. If I were you I wouldn’t go out alone.” She nodded her head meaningfully, and Molly calmly considered hitting her.
“Thank you for your concern, Aunt Ermy,” she said in a deceptively even voice. “Patrick has already suggested the same thing. I’ll be sure to take very good care of myself.” She started out of the room, Beastie at her side. He obviously cared no more for those two than she herself did, Molly thought gratefully.
“Don’t forget your cranberry juice, Molly.” Willy placed the cool glass in her hand.
She took it with her, managing a tight-lipped smile of thanks.
Nine
He shouldn’t have kissed her. He’d done a lot of stupid things in his life, so many he’d lost count, but kissing her yesterday had to be one of the worst.
He could make all sorts of excuses. She was standing in his darkened bedroom, looking up at him as if he were a cross between Jack the Ripper and Tom Cruise, acting as if she’d never seen a man’s naked chest before. When he knew she’d seen a lot more.
He wasn’t sure what made him put his bands on her. His mouth on hers. The anger that consumed him whenever he saw her, thought of her. Curiosity, to see just what she’d learned from all the men she’d been with.
He’d been tempting fate as well. Checking to see whether he could remain immune to her. He should have known he couldn’t. The touch, the taste of her, had burned itself into his brain.
Why couldn’t life be simple? Why couldn’t he have fallen in love with someone like Lisa Canning? Lisa, who’d offer him everything and expect not much more than energetic sex and a certain tolerant discretion. Why did he have to want someone like Molly?
It had been a mistake, but not a fatal one. So he’d kissed her. So he’d felt her arms, tight around him, and the tremor that rippled through her body. He’d heard that soft, plaintive sound she’d made in the back of her throat, and he’d frozen. He’d had the sense to push her away, send her away.
And he had the sense to keep away himself.
It wouldn’t happen again. If worse came to worst he’d take what Lisa Canning had been offering so blatantly, just to get it out of his system.
Sooner or later Molly would grow tired of this charade, tell the police what they needed to know, and then he could get rid of her. And in doing so, he’d spike his father’s final, biggest wish.
It had to be a charade. There was no way she could possibly be the wide-eyed innocent she appeared to be.
And it was his own stupid fault for wanting to believe her. Thinking with his hormones instead of his head.
She’d have to admit the truth. Whatever the hell the truth might be. And then the two of them could go their separate ways. Forever.
So why didn’t the prospect seem more like a victory, instead of petty revenge?
She was sick again the next morning. This time she didn’t wreck the carpet—she had thoughtfully provided herself with an empty wastebasket on the chance that this morning would parallel the others. She was vaguely hoping against hope that she’d be well this morning: no little babies to complicate her life. But fate didn’t want to cooperate. She lay back in bed, shivering with the aftermath.
This time she didn’t fall back asleep. It was stormy again, and the steady beat of the rain seemed to pound even louder in her throbbing head. There was no point in delaying—she climbed wearily out of her oversoft bed and prepared to face the day.
There was no one stirring in the darkened kitchen. And no wonder—5:30 was a bit early even for a farm. She made a full pot of coffee, lit the fire that had already been laid in the hearth, and huddled close to it. Eventually, somewhere in the middle of her second cup of coffee, the rain slackened off a bit, and she listened to the noise of an approaching car with interest. It was her dear husband in the old van, presumably back from a night in the arms of the grieving widow. The surge of anger and jealousy that swept through Molly frightened her, and she put down the cup with trembling fingers.
She saw him long before he saw her. There was a cold, discontented look on his lean face, which pleased her enormously. It certainly wasn’t the proper expression for a man returning from a satisfying night of love.
He ran in the door, shaking off the dinging raindrops from his long black hair. Then his eyes met hers, and he stopped dead.
“Good morning,” she greeted him evenly, willing herself sternly to forget the last moment she had seen him, the overwhelming reaction she’d had to his kiss.
He moved closer into the room, relaxing slightly. “You’re up early,” he observed. “Is there any more coffee?”
“In the carafe.” She picked up her cup and took another sip, the trembling in her hand down to a bare minimum. “How’s Lisa?” She could have kicked herself for saying that.
