“Where is he going?” she asked.
“To meet someone, I’d guess.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know, but it’s not on the up and up. Nothing good happens after midnight.”
“I think we just proved that,” she said, furious with herself. How had she been so stupid, such a foolish woman to give into her basest of needs? “I’ve got to go to bed.” She hesitated, then added, “Alone.” She started toward the door, but he caught her wrist in his fingers.
“I’m not going to apologize, Marla,” he said, his blue eyes dark with challenge.
She angled up her chin. “Good. Neither am I.” Then, before she said anything she’d regret, she turned and took the stairs two at a time to the sanctuary of her perfectly decorated and oh, so cold, bedroom.
Slut! She was nothing more than a damned, dirty slut.
He stared up at the house, raindrops peppering his bare head, fogging his glasses as he watched the window where he’d seen the lovers. The man had been behind, caressing her, kissing her, his face hidden in the shadowy room. Through the drizzled glass he’d observed from a distance, his binoculars not allowing him to get the view he wanted, but he recognized Marla letting the man strip her and touch her and though it had been too dark to see just how far they’d gone, he’d gotten hard, had to touch himself, couldn’t wait until he was the one fondling and touching her, he was the one rubbing his rough hands over those luscious breasts.
“Just you wait, baby,” he whispered, then seeing the garage door open, he ducked quickly down the street, feeling the cold rain run down his neck and knowing that it was just a matter of time before it was his turn.
He licked his lips.
He couldn’t wait.
Chapter Thirteen
You nearly made love to Nick.
“Damn it.” Lying in bed, Marla smashed her fist into the mattress. “What’s wrong with you?” She thought of his hot breath against her nape and the back of her throat went dry. “Fool, fool, fool!” she chastised, throwing herself out from under the covers and padding to the bathroom.
She stripped off her clothes, determined to force the erotic images from her mind, but under the shower’s pulsing spray with the glass steaming, she thought of him and the way his hands felt on her breasts, how he’d rubbed the silken fabric of her pajamas against her fevered skin.
“Stop it!” she shouted, shampooing quickly and turning the water cold enough to chase all her wanton thoughts from her mind. Dear Lord, she was going to make herself crazier than she already was. “If that’s possible,” she muttered, turning off the faucet, grabbing a towel and drying as she stepped into the bathroom. She was determined not to think of Nick this morning, but images of his naked torso, tight abdomen and the way his jeans had been slung low over his hips, his crotch bulging, continued to chase after her as she threw on a pair of jeans and a sweater, slapped lipstick over her mouth, brushed mascara over her lashes and dabbed mousse in her short curls. A volatile mixture of emotions—shame, disbelief, as well as a tiny bit of satisfaction and a grain of hope—roiled within her. She knew a relationship with her brother-in-law was doomed.
Yet, she couldn’t forget the feel of his lips, the heat of his touch and how violently and passionately she had responded to him.
Oh, God, what had she been thinking? She scowled into the mirror in her bathroom as she ruffled her wet hair with her fingers.
“You weren’t,” she told her reflection firmly and hated the gleam of mischief she saw in her eyes. “You’ve got tons of things to do today. Tons! You don’t have time for any romantic nonsense.” Yet she couldn’t help but wonder as she slid into tennis shoes and hurried downstairs, if she was just naturally lusty and passionate, or was it only with Nick?
The truth of the matter is that you . . . well, you’ve been interested in other men. Alex’s condemnation echoed through her mind.
“Don’t think about it,” she warned herself. She didn’t have time for recriminations. “Just go forward from here.”
For the first time since waking from her coma Marla felt alive. Energized. Ready to take on the world and figure out who the hell she was, what had happened on the night of the accident, and why she felt like a prisoner and stranger in her own home. Last night she’d suffered through Phil Robertson’s apologies and her husband’s angry silence before she’d encountered Nick coming up the stairs, but she couldn’t forgive Alex for taking away five days of her life.
Fine. He messed up. But that’s no reason to go sneaking behind his back with Nick.
What she felt about Nick had nothing to do with Alex. She tried to tamp down the rage that tore through her. She’d lost five days of her life. Nearly a week! Because her husband thought it best.
Bullshit. That’s all it was.
The pain in her jaw reminded her that she wasn’t completely healed, so she tossed back a couple of aspirin with a swig of water and wasn’t going to let a dull ache stop her. She managed to reach the kitchen and coffeepot in time to say good-bye to Cissy as the girl, backpack in tow, breezed out the door.
Alex, she was told by Carmen, had already left for the office and she wondered if he’d even bothered to come home last night. Where had he gone? Who had he met? Why the hell was he sneaking around in the middle of night?
She’d find out. She just had to decide whether to confront him or do a little research first. She had a gut feeling that she was good at this sort of thing, though she couldn’
t for the life of her figure out why. But it didn’t matter. She was sick and tired of being the damned victim here, of playing the role of the poor, sickly, amnesic wife and mother.