Where There's Smoke
“Three years.”
“Who’s counting?”
“Apparently you. That’s why you’re trying to back out. You could h
ave a woman much younger than I.”
“Shit!” He paced in a small circle, swearing under his breath. Finally he came back around and looked down at her with annoyance. “How long did it take you to dream up that crap? For chrissake, I didn’t even know how old you were, and even if I had known, it wouldn’t have made any difference. Don’t you know me better than that? Shit.”
“Then why?”
His aggravation dissolved, and he knelt in front of her, clasping her hands. “Janellen, as far as I’m concerned, you’re way up there above any other human who’s ever drawn breath. I’d rather lose my right arm than hurt you. That’s why I never should have let this get started. The first time I felt that yearning for you, I should have packed up and left town. I knew better, only I couldn’t help myself.”
He paused, searching her face with such intensity that he seemed to be memorizing it. He ran his thumb across her trembling lips. “I love you better’n I love my own self. That’s why I won’t sneak you in and out of rented bedrooms, hide you like you were a floozie, and have you gossiped about like you’re white trash.”
He came to his feet and reached for his hat. “I won’t do that to you. No way in hell. No, ma’am.” He placed his hat on his head and gave the brim a firm tug. “That’s the end of it.”
Lara weakly leaned her head against the doorjamb. “This isn’t a good idea, Key.”
“Since when has anything involving you been a good idea?”
He forced his way past her. She closed the back door behind him after checking to make sure no one was around to see his arrival. It was a futile precaution. Having the distinctive yellow Lincoln parked in her driveway was as good as announcing it on local radio.
When she turned back into the room, he was leaning against a supply cabinet. His shirttail was hanging loose outside his jeans. He was an untidy, disturbing, sexy reminder of the first time she’d seen him in this same room.
That night he’d asked her for whiskey. This time he’d brought his own. The liquor sloshed inside the bottle when he raised it to his mouth and took a drink. The gash on his temple had closed, but the skin around it was still bruised. So were his ribs. His expression was insolent, his complexion flushed.
“You’re drunk.”
“You’re right.”
She folded her arms across her middle. “Why’d you come here?”
“Can Ambassador Porter come out and play?” he asked mockingly.
“He’s still in Washington.”
“But he’ll be here tomorrow. They printed a story about it in the evening edition. ‘Hero Statesman Visits Eden Pass.’ Big fuckin’ deal.”
“If you knew he wasn’t here, why’d you ask?”
He grinned. “Just to get a rise out of you. To see if your heart would go pitter-pat at the mention of his name.”
“I think you’d better go.” Coldly turning her back to him, she opened the door.
His hand shot forward from behind her and slammed it shut; then he kept his palm flattened against the wood, trapping her between himself and the door. In the small wedge of space, she turned to face him.
“You never did answer my question.”
“What question?”
“About your daughter. Since we made it back alive, I want to know. Was she Clark’s kid?”
What did he want to hear? she wondered. What did she want to tell him?
The unvarnished truth.
Oh, God, what a liberating luxury that would be. She could fully explain the situation, fill in all the unknown details, and, by doing so, perhaps make Key feel more charitable toward her.