Friday, December 23 #2
“I believe you …” she sighed, wondering whether what she can remember and what she can’t are the same.
In his arms, Angelica’s mind and body felt as if they were trapped in a time capsule. Was it possible to forget the past and find happiness with Nicky again? They had been happy once. She needed to let go. As they say, time heals all wounds. But how much time does it take to heal?
After dinner, they sat in twin club chairs before the windows, watched over by the star-crested sky, savoring champagne as the faux fireplace cast fake ambiance. Angelica envied the flaming, electric showcase. It didn’t have to play any role other than that.
Nicholas held a fluted glass in one hand and her hand in the other, across the side table. “I don’t think you’ll ever find anyone who loves you as much as I do,” he said with an air of confidence, or perhaps arrogance.
“You’re probably right, Nicky,” Angelica mumbled on a lengthy sigh.
“Talk to me, sweetheart. I told you I’d listen. What do you want from me?”
“I wish you’d stop pressuring me. That’s all I ask,” she said, or maybe pleaded. “Let’s see what happens, if anything happens. It’s been a long time.”
“I’ll try, darling, but I’m not going to lie about my feelings,” Nicholas said. He reached for the bottle of champagne and refilled his goblet.
“You talk and I’ll listen.” That went well, didn’t it! Sipping her champagne, she didn’t notice its taste or smoothness. All she cared about was the calming effect it didn’t seem to have on her.
Nicholas let out a loud sigh. Angelica thought he sounded disheartened. Perhaps he now understands how she feels.
“It’s been a long day, dear. Let’s go to bed.” He stood, and with dark eyes that could hypnotize and make a hundred women swoon, he leaned over to kiss her. His passionate, urgent lips, speaking of more than friendship, heatedly proclaimed untold promises and invited her to his bedroom.
Temptation called to her, but reason won out. Not ready and unsure when—or if—she ever would be, she declined his offer.
Burdened by unresolved emotions, she shuffled down the long hall to the room that had been her haven during her stay with Nicky.
How many times over the years had she come down this hall, pushing her rollator or being pushed in a wheelchair? Angelica didn’t know the answer, but she knew that each time she felt such injustice.
She hadn’t seen Nicky since they’d broken up when she was in high school, and suddenly they were living in proximity that was worse than too close for comfort; it was torturous for Angelica.
Over time, she learned to tolerate him because he was paying for her health care and all her bills.
He even footed her tuition at the Art Institute.
Now he was looking for payback.
Angelica changed into her nightgown, slid between the sheets, and turned off the bedside lamp. As soon as her head sank into the pillow’s soft feathers, her mind treated her to a free repeat showing of her midnight special—the terrifying horror flick, complete with screams.
Run! Run! Don’t stop! He’s getting closer … He’s going to kill her! Never stop running …!
* * *
Garrett went to Angelica’s house after a day spent unsuccessfully searching for Jane Doe’s killer and gulping down a fast-food dinner. Her porch light was on as he turned into the driveway, but the house looked empty and cold, with the blinds closed. Her car sat in its usual spot, too.
She must have gone with a friend. A man. A debonair one. Why not a man?
“The man who gave her the gold and silver bracelets and diamond earrings she listed as stolen,” he groaned aloud, combing his fingers through his hair in the dark cab. “Something he’ll never be able to do.”
Whoa! Was he jealous? Absolutely! Jealousy is a cruel master; it wrecks your heart, lunges, and tears you to pieces. However, the chances of Angelica going away with a man were close to zero. That’s why she asked him to stay in her living room, not the phantom guy clutching gemstones in both hands.
Garrett pulled up next to her SUV, shut off his truck’s engine, and left the headlights on.
The house sat tucked away in the woods, a surprise at the end of the bumpy lane with a clearing in front and on both sides.
Its latticed peak more resembled a chalet than a rustic cabin.
Windows with royal blue shutters and matching blue window boxes framed the front door.
He imagined Angelica tending tulips in the spring and whatever flowers ladies plant in summer, just like her children.
The house suited her. It was the right size for the little pixie. But if she got married … Did she want to get married? Did she want children? This house wouldn’t work if she did. She and her husband would outgrow it in a week, or before the first kid came along.
Take his two-story house. It suited a family, with three bedrooms and a basement, providing plenty of space for the kids. Did he buy it with that in mind? Would the woman who lived in this cozy place find his home suitable, good enough, or grand enough?
What the hell is wrong with him? Married? Kids? Family house? Get a grip! He desperately needs some sex. Wild sex. A few one-night stands. He should have done that years ago.
Garrett shook his head, got out of his pickup truck, and lowered the tailgate. Duly prepared for this evening’s work—plywood, a battery-operated circular saw, a toolbox, and a camp light—he walked to the side of the house.
After measuring the damaged kitchen door, he set up the light and pencil-marked the measurements on the wood protruding from the tailgate.
He put on goggles, gripped the end of the 4x8 plywood sheet, and the whining blade roared to life.
The evening breeze scattered sawdust everywhere—across the plywood, the truck bed, and the sleeves of Garrett’s denim work shirt—and it settled like fine, tan snowflakes on his hair.
Sawdust. It covered the bar floor that night.
In the corner, a duet—a guitarist and a female vocalist—performed a country song for an inattentive audience packed in for the Friday night mixer with half-price drinks.
It was also the first bar he passed after leaving a gruesome homicide scene, and he would have paid double for a drink that evening.
After he squeezed through the crowd and edged up to the bar, he wouldn’t have noticed or cared, even if Taylor Swift was performing.
But someone did see him. No sooner had his elbow settled on the polished bar top, bearing scars and scratches from stories of other times and sprinkled with moisture rings from long-removed glasses merrily emptied, than a hand landed on his worsted-wool blazer sleeve.
Scowling, he peered down at the intrusive long fingers with bright pink acrylic nails.
“Buy me a drink, please,” the owner of that hand murmured into his ear, her voice hot and seductive.
Annoyed as hell and in no mood for anything but a mug of cold, frothy beer, he turned to the woman invading his headspace and trying to drain his wallet dry.
She was tall—maybe five feet ten—and blessed with looks from God. Even in the dim light and shadows, her stunning features shone through—green eyes sparkling like emeralds, high cheekbones, and full, red-stained lips parted just enough to reveal the tip of her tongue, calling for a kiss.
On top of that, the package came gift-wrapped, with long, silky flaxen hair falling on her bountiful cleavage and spilling out of her more-than-daring, low-cut blouse.
Their eyes locked. She moved her hand from his arm, but this goddess didn’t reclaim it. She relocated it, inching the tip of her deft index finger down the side of his 5 o’clock-shadowed face.
“I’m Carolyn. Who are you?” she asked on a long breath, standing invitingly in front of him in high heels and tight leather pants, wanting far more than his name.
He wasn’t immune. Hell, he was a man. He stepped closer, and her free hand traveled under his blazer, stealthily slipping into his pants pocket. His body reacted big-time behind his zipper. He was a dumb ass.
Why did he mistake what developed as love? He had just been a placeholder on the tarmac until someone better came along. Carolyn found “better” in a younger model.
Based on his hard-earned experience, Garrett concluded that women possessed the power to topple a dynasty without lifting a finger. No matter the build, strength, status, or empire, as with Samson, the scent of a woman can ignite a man’s hormones and be his downfall, bringing him to his knees.
He might have been sweating from his work, but a shiver ran through him. He’d been an idiot, allowing Carolyn to take him down, and he almost stayed down like a battered boxer at the ten-count.
Then consider Angelica Whitely. She’s the antithesis of his wife and seems unaware of her allure. That tiny woman could destroy a kingdom.
He set the saw aside, picked up the trimmed wood, and headed for the side door. After venting his frustrations on the nails by hammering the life out of them—and then some—he planned to continue his search for Jane Doe’s killer. His destination—shabby bars near Cooper’s cabin.
Garrett might be a washed-up, burned-out, divorced man in his forties with little hope of finding a decent woman, but he portrayed a hound dog when it came to catching a killer.
Maybe that’s all he’ll ever be.