Starla Starrett. Can you imagine? I’d’ve kept my maiden name.
His gaze narrowed as he studied her. His hair was dark brown and so were his eyes. If eyes were the windows to the soul, this man’s soul was hard. “Where have you been?”
“I wound up in a hospital, then a shelter. My sister came back to the U.S. after the hurricane, and I spent some time with her.”
“And you never thought to call your husband?”
The same husband who’d punched his wife and held her head underwater? It would be all Jessica could do to see him without smacking him hard. “Estranged husband,” she pointed out.
“Does he know you’re back?”
“I’m sure he will once you scurry home and call him like a good little police officer.”
His gaze narrowed even more, and a muscle clenched in his beard-stubbled jaw. I don’t like Mitch, Jen had said. Though she hadn’t mentioned it, the feeling was evi dently mutual.
“He’s been worried about you.”
“So worried that he tells people I’m dead?”
“You were seen leaving the apartment with your car loaded. Your car was found a few days after the storm where it had washed off the road near Timmons Bridge, with everything still in it. You didn’t call anyone.”
“I called my sister.”
He looked as if he wanted to say something to that, but she didn’t give him a chance. “It’s late, Officer Lassiter. I’m tired. And I’m sure you’re just dying to get to a phone so you can report in to Taylor. Please close the door on your way out.”
A moment passed before he finally picked up his pistol, then turned to the door. His muscles were taut—heavens, he had a great back and backside, too—and his movements graceful as he stalked across the room, walked outside and left the door standing open.
Another moment passed before Jessica was able to move. Lacking his grace and trembling more than a little, she hurried over, closed and locked the door, then put on the security chain for good measure. Not that it would stop someone determined to come in, but it gave her a small measure of extra comfort.
As she righted the items she’d knocked over in the dark—a vase on the coffee table, a statue on the side table—she admitted that she was probably going to need whatever comfort she could get in the days to come.
Jennifer Burton was alive, well and back in Belmar.
As Mitch dialed Taylor’s number, he wondered how his boss would take the news. He was sure as hell disappointed by part of it. Not that he wished Jennifer dead, of course. But he had thought that if she’d escaped the hurricane alive, she would have had the sense to not come back to Belmar. After all, it was Taylor’s own private kingdom, where she was his own private property. He wasn’t the sort to let a woman go unless he wanted her gone, and there had seemed something not quite right about her car at the Timmons Bridge. As if the scene had been staged.
About half of the town had presumed she was dead, and Taylor had been among them. If it had been his wife, Mitch wouldn’t have given up hope until there was none left to hold on to. He would have personally searched every shelter, walked every inch of the county looking for a clue and gone to every hospital, clinic and doctor’s office within a three-state area. He would have printed flyers and offered rewards.
Not Taylor. And yet all through their separation he’d sworn he loved her and wanted her back.
On the third ring, Taylor picked up, his voice groggy, his words slurred. “Thish better be ’mergency.”
“Depends on your point of view, I guess.”
“Hey, Bubba.” That was followed by a loud yawn. “What’s up?”
That was what Taylor had called him ever since they were kids, when Mitch had come to Belmar to live with his grandmother just down the road from the Burtons. They’d been nine years old and adversarial in the beginning. After Mitch—three inches shorter and fifteen pounds lighter—had whipped Taylor’s ass, they’d become good friends and remained so, though not as close as they once were. After college, Taylor had returned to Belmar, while Mitch had taken a job in Atlanta. They’d kept in touch, though, and eventually Mitch had found himself back in town again.
Mitch wasn’t sure about the etiquette for breaking the news to someone that his loved one wasn’t dead, so he said it bluntly. “Jennifer came home tonight.”
There was utter silence on the line. Mitch would give a lot if he could see Taylor’s expression. Most people weren’t as good at hiding their feelings as Mitch was. Just a flicker could tell him a lot.
“So she’s alive.” Taylor sounded wide-awake now and his voice was quiet. Thoughtful. “Is she all right? How does she look?”
“Fine.” Mitch smiled without humor. She looked so damn much better than fine that it was laughable. Jennifer Burton was a beautiful woman. Blond hair, blue eyes, a cute little nose, a mouth made for kissing. She was five-six, maybe five-seven, slender but with enough curves to make a man grateful. Whatever part of the female anatomy a man preferred, she fulfilled every fantasy and then some. She was sexy as hell in a wholesome girl-next-door type of way.
The married girl next door.
“Did she say anything about where she’s been?”
Mitch repeated what Jennifer had told him.
“Her sister, huh?” Taylor said, then the silence returned. He’d never met Jennifer’s older sister and had never wanted to. Jennifer’s life was with him, in Belmar, he’d proclaimed. Everything and everyone in her past should stay there.
As if you could just shut out family because someone else told you to. Mitch hadn’t even been raised in the same state as his brothers, but he still had regular contact with them.
“She’s alone?”
“Apparently.”
But the rustle of background noise on the phone, followed by a murmur—a sleepy female murmur—indicated that Taylor wasn’t. When he’d mentioned the marriage in a call to Mitch six months after the fact, he’d joked about how long he would be able to stay faithful to his wedding vows.
Jeez, his wife had presumably died only three weeks ago, and he had another woman in his bed.
Scowling, Mitch rubbed the throbbing between his eyes. He and Taylor had been friends for more than twenty years, but there was a lot he didn’t like about the man. Though there was a lot he didn’t like about life in general, and Jennifer Burton’s return was probably going to add a few things to that list.
“Thanks for calling, Bubba.”
“Are you going to see her?” Mitch asked, aware it was none of his business.
“I’ve waited three weeks. Another night won’t matter. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Slowly Mitch hung up. In the first week after the hurricane, Taylor had been the personification of the grieving husband, especially after Billy Starrett had located her car. Even his worst enemies—about half the town—had felt sorry for him. Now, fourteen short days later, his dear, beloved wife had suddenly rejoined the living, and he couldn’t be bothered to leave his girlfriend in bed to go see her.
Mitch moved his gun to the nightstand on the right side of the bed, then went to the kitchen to get a bottle of water from the refrigerator. He stood at a counter identical to the one where he’d first spotted Jennifer and stared disinterestedly. The room was the standard motel room turned into a living room, a dining area and a tiny kitchen. The former connecting door led into the bedroom and bathroom. The cheap motel shag had been