Perfect (Second Opportunities 2)

"I was discussing the cooking chores around here." Shoving her hands into the back waistband of her pants, she teased, "You are in violation of the hostage bill of rights."

"What are you talking about?" Zack said, trying fiercely to believe she'd be safe if she stayed here … trying to forget the way she'd looked, crouched under that tree, shaking all over, clutching a jacket to her chest … trying to convince himself it had been an isolated incident that wouldn't be repeated.

She gave him one of her breathtaking smiles. "I am talking about cooking chores, Mr. Benedict! Under the laws of the Geneva Convention, a prisoner is not to be subjected to cruel or unjust treatment, and making me do all the cooking for two consecutive days constitutes just that. Don't you agree?"

Zack managed an unconvincing imitation of a smile and nodded. All he wanted to do at that moment was take her to bed and lose himself in her, to forget for a blissful hour what had happened and what he now knew had to happen next, and much sooner than he'd planned.

Chapter 38

Julie's hope that he'd bounce back from his somber mood proved to be a little too optimistic this time. He was polite but preoccupied through most of their meal and now that she'd cleared the dishes away, she was resorting to the underhanded but hopefully effective trick of trying to loosen him up with wine. She had questions to ask, and she felt she had a better chance to get forthright, complete answers if he were relaxed and his guard was down.

Leaning forward, she picked up the bottle and carefully refilled his glass for the fourth time, then she handed it to him, congratulating herself on her subtlety.

Zack looked from the wine glass to her face. "I hope you aren't trying to get me drunk," he stated drily, "because if you are, wine isn't the way to go about it."

"Shall I get the Scotch instead?" Julie said, stifling a nervous laugh.

Zack stopped with the glass halfway to his lips, belatedly realizing that she had been deliberately trying to pour wine down him as fast as he could drink it as well as watching him with a strange look throughout most of the meal. "Am I going to need it?"

"I don't know."

With a feeling of vague foreboding, he watched her shift positions so that her back was against the arm of the sofa and she was facing him. Her opening question seemed like a joking and innocuous one: "Zack, wouldn't you say I've been a model hostage?"

"Exemplary," he agreed, smiling a little at her contagious humor and trying to match her mood.

"Wouldn't you also say I've been obedient, cooperative pleasant, orderly and—and that I've even done more than my share of the cooking?"

"Yes to all but the 'obedient' pan."

She smiled at that. "And as an exemplary prisoner, don't you agree that I'm entitled to certain … well … extra privileges."

"What do you have in mind?"

"Answers to some questions."

Julie watched his expression turn guarded. "Possibly. It depends on the questions."

A little unnerved by his unencouraging response, she nevertheless forged ahead: "You do intend to try to find out who really killed your wife, don't you?"

"Ask another question," he said flatly.

"Okay. Do you have any ideas about who the murderer really is?"

"Try a different topic."

His unnecessary curtness grated on her, not only because loving him made her extremely sensitive to his attitudes, but because Julie honestly felt she was entitled to answers. Keeping her voice sincere and level, she said, "Please don't brush me off like this."

"Then please pick another topic."

"Will you stop being flippant and listen to me? Try to understand—I was away on a foreign-exchange college program when your trial took place. I don't even know exactly what happened, and I want to very much."

"You'll find it all in your local library in old newspapers. Look it up when you get home."

Sarcasm was always guaranteed to rile Julie. "I don't want to read the media's version, damn it! I want to hear yours. I need to know what happened—from you."

"You're out of luck." He stood up, put his glass down, and held out his hand to her.

Julie stood up, too, so that he didn't dwarf her and automatically started to put her hand in his, thinking it was a conciliating gesture.

"Let's go to bed."

She snatched her hand back, hurt and insulted by the injustice of his attitude. "I will not. What I'm asking of you is very little compared to what you've demanded of me since we met and you know it!"

"I am not going to go through a blow-by-blow description of that day again for you or for anybody else," he snapped. "I did it a hundred times before the trial for cops and lawyers. It's over. Closed."

"But I want to help. It's been five years. Your viewpoint and memories may be different. I thought we could start by making out a list of everyone who was there the day it happened, and you could tell me about each of them. I'm completely unbiased, so I'll have a fresh perspective. Maybe I can help you think of something you overlooked—"

His scornful laugh cut her to the quick. "How could you possibly help me?"

"I could try!"

"You're being ridiculous. I spent over $2 million on lawyers and investigators and nobody could turn up a logical suspect other than me."

"But—"

"Drop it, Julie!"

"I won't drop it! I have a right to an explanation!"

"You have no rights to anything," Zack snapped. "And I don't need or want your help."

Julie stiffened as if he'd hit her, but she managed to keep her fury and humiliation out of her voice. "I see." And she did—she saw now that he had no use for her at all except her body. She wasn't supposed to think; she wasn't supposed to feel; she was just supposed to amuse him while he was bored and spread her legs for him whenever he was in the mood.

Reaching out, he put his hands on her arms to draw her forward, "Let's go to bed."

"Take your hands off of me!" Julie hissed, jerking away out of his reach. Shaking with fury and anguish at her own gullibility, she wrapped her arms around her stomach, backing around the sofa and coffee table until she had a free path to her own bedroom.

"What the hell are you trying to pull?"

"I'm not pulling anything, I've just realized what a heartless bastard you really are!" The freezing look on his face as he watched her moving away from him was nothing compared to her own fury. "You're running away when you leave here, aren't you! You have no intention of trying to find the real killer, do you?"