Cry Uncle (28 page)

“
No. He uses an ugly little
pistol. At least, that was what he used to kill Larry
Ebersole.”

Joe regarded her with what appeared to be
strained patience. “Who’s Larry Ebersole?”

Pamela sighed. It was going to be a long
night. Edging past Joe, she reached for the unopened bottle of beer
and gave the cap a sharp twist. “If you really want to go into all
this, let’s sit down.”

Joe nodded, but instead of pulling out a
chair at the kitchen table, he took Pamela’s hand and his beer and
led her out onto the screened porch, onto the old sofa along the
back wall. Light from the kitchen spilled through the door, and the
air on the porch was stirred by the songs of the night—crickets,
bullfrogs and the whisper of the wind as it sifted through the
fronds of the royal palms surrounding the house.

Pamela eyed the wrought-iron table on the
other side of the porch. She remembered the luncheon Joe had hosted
on the porch to press his case for marriage. Lizard had called her
ugly that afternoon, and Pamela had felt emotionally battered and
afraid.

She no longer felt battered. She probably
should feel afraid—the word from Seattle was that Morrow was still
out on bail—but somehow, being married to Joe had given her
courage. If she could take on Lizard and win, if she could endure
her inscrutable husband, if she could survive the dense, muggy heat
of Key West, then surely she could handle Mick Morrow’s being at
liberty in Seattle.

Joe sat a couple of feet away from her on the
couch, angling his body so he could view her. The diffuse light
from the kitchen transformed his face into a study of amber-lighted
planes and shadows. The gold hoop in his earlobe looked like a tiny
arc of sunshine when the light caught it.

Despite his earring, despite his mussed hair
and his torn jeans, he didn’t seem like a bum to her now. He was
too complicated to be a bum. Too perplexing. The way he scrutinized
her, the way he waited to hear her explanation, the way his eyes
glinted with a strange blend of distrust and need and hope...

She had to remind herself that this man, this
utter stranger, this impish bartender and doting uncle, was her
husband.

“
I was the architect on a
project,” she began, then took a sip of her beer and turned to
stare out at the dark back yard. “A suburban mini-mall. Larry
Ebersole was the contractor.”

Joe nodded.

“
Larry had low-balled the
project, snagged the contract, and found a million ways to jack up
the price once ground-breaking began. That’s how contractors
work—they write up as cheap an estimate as they dare, and once the
project is underway, they tell the owner, ‘Oh, you wanted
double-glazed windows? The estimate was only for single-glazed.
Double-glazed is going to cost you more.’ Or, ‘You want French
doors? Read the small print. The estimate stipulates sliders, not
French doors.’ And they inflate the price to cover all the specs
they pretend they didn’t know about when they’d gone to
contract.”

“
Pretty sleazy.”

“
That’s the way they work.
Anyway, the owner of this project wasn’t having any of it. He
insisted he’d contracted for double-glazed windows from the start,
and if Larry Ebersole didn’t bring the job in at the agreed-upon
price, the owner intended to sue the pants off him. So Larry was in
a financial bind.”

“
What did you have to do
with this?”

“
Nothing—except that as the
architect on the project, I would visit the site every now and then
to see how things were moving along. A few times when I was there,
I saw Larry talking to this fellow, Mick Morrow. Larry told me
Morrow was a money man who could extend him the credit he needed to
get the job done on budget. That was all I knew. The financing of
the project was none of my business. My firm had gotten its design
fee directly from the owner.”

She drank some more beer and glanced at Joe,
wondering how such details could possibly interest him. He appeared
fascinated, though, so she lowered her bottle and continued.

“
One evening, I was supposed
to meet some friends at the symphony. I decided to detour to the
construction site, just to see how things were progressing. When I
approached the trailer I heard voices through the window. Mick
Morrow was yelling at Larry Ebersole for failing to make timely
payments, or some such thing. I have the feeling Morrow had
bankrolled him for a lot more than just this one
project.

“
In any case, Larry bolted
from the trailer, and Morrow followed him. He kind of...tackled
Larry.” Her voice trailed off; her hands grew clammy in her lap.
Shivers traveled the length of her nervous system. Describing the
scene forced her to relive it, picturing it vividly, feeling the
cool evening air at the construction site, hiding in the dank
shadows of the construction tractors. “When Larry was on the
ground, Morrow pulled out this little gun and shot him in the back
of the head.” She had to force out the words. Her throat was
squeezed shut, choking her.

Joe slid along the sofa cushions until he
could put his arm around her. “Not a pretty picture,” he said.

“
No.” The single syllable
slid out on a whimper.

Joe ran his hand up and down her arm,
consoling. “I take it this thug didn’t realize he had an
audience.”

She confirmed his guess with a shake of her
head. “I stayed in the shadows. I probably should have stepped
forward, though. Maybe Larry would be alive today if I had.”

“
Or maybe you
wouldn’t
be alive today.
If the guy could kill one person, he’d kill two. You think he’s
still trying to kill you now. I’m sure it would have been easier
for him to off you then and there.”

She nodded, trying to shrug off the chills
that continued to rack her. Joe tightened his arm around her. “I
suppose I knew instinctively that I ought to stay in the shadows. I
didn’t move until Morrow had driven away. Then I went over to
Larry. He...he was...”

Joe spared her from having to say it. “I get
the idea.” His hand continued to caress her, his palm warm and
strong on her bare skin. It wasn’t the sort of thing an utter
stranger or a bum did, or even a man trying to get a woman into
bed. It was the gesture of a friend, a husband. “You didn’t have to
testify against him, did you?”

“
Of course I did. Testifying
against him was the proper thing to do. The moral thing. He was
convicted of first-degree murder, thanks to my
testimony.”

“
Which has endeared you to
him forever.”

“
I wouldn’t have been in
trouble today if the conviction hadn’t been set aside.” The chills
lost their grip on her. Joe’s nearness thawed her.

“
How did that happen? What
went wrong?”

“
One of the jurors had gone
to primary school with Larry’s widow. Why that fact didn’t emerge
during jury selection is a mystery, but the judge had to throw out
the verdict and schedule a new trial. And meanwhile, Morrow somehow
got himself released on bail. He’s free to roam the streets and
hunt me down.”

“
Do you have nightmares?” he
asked.

She shot him a surprised look. Nobody—not
even her parents—had ever thought to ask her that. “Yes,” she
admitted. “Sometimes. I see Larry Ebersole lying on the ground,
with that little hole at the base of his skull. There wasn’t much
blood. It was just...this horrible little hole.” She closed her
eyes, trying to erase the image.

Joe eased her against him, guiding her head
to rest on his shoulder. “So...once they put this ass back on
trial, you intend to testify against him again?”

“
I have to. If I don’t, he
goes free.”

“
I can’t believe they
released him on bail.”

“
I think he has friends in
high places.”

“
How do you know he’s still
in Seattle?”

“
I call my attorney on a
regular basis—and once the phone bill comes, Joe, I’ll reimburse
you for those calls.”

“
Forget that,” he said
sharply. His tone was gentler when he asked, “Who keeps your folks
up on things?”

“
The police.”

“
The same police who don’t
believe your in any danger?”

She smiled grimly. “Also the D.A.’s office.
He’s on my side, at least. He needs me alive to make his case.” She
relaxed in the protective curve of his arm, soothed by the patterns
his fingers traced against the skin of her upper arm. She hadn’t
felt this close to him since their wedding. “Why did you ask me all
this tonight, Jonas?”

He sighed, set his bottle down beside hers on
the floor, and closed both arms around her. “I don’t know,” he
said, then shook his head. “Yeah, I do know. I didn’t believe
you.”

She flinched. Wriggling out of his arms, she
twisted to confront him. “What do you mean?”

“
Pam.” Without her to hold,
he didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands. He folded them,
then separated them and tapped his fingertips against his knees.
“You showed up on the island one day, out of the blue, and when
Kitty told you I was looking for a wife, you actually agreed to
meet me. Look at us, Pam—we’re a total mismatch, right? You’re a
fancy architect and I’m a no-frills barkeep.” He spread his hands
palm up, as if to say,
Here I am—what you
see is what you get
. “We swapped stories,
got hitched, and—let’s face it—you’ve had proof that my story is
true. Lizard exists, the social worker’s been here, you’ve talked
to my lawyer.... You know I was telling the truth about why I
wanted to marry you. You’ve seen my evidence.”

“
And you haven’t seen mine,”
she said quietly, her voice edged with indignation.

“
That’s right. I
haven’t.”

All this time—had he thought she was lying?
Misrepresenting herself? Marrying him under false pretenses? Trying
to trick him for some reason?

Perhaps she didn’t have the right to resent
him for not trusting her—but for heaven’s sake, he trusted her with
his niece. He trusted her with his home. “Maybe if you were around
more often, you would have found plenty of reasons to believe me.
You would have seen me telephoning my parents—”

“
Pamela.” He gathered her
hands in his. “I haven’t been around very much because I want you.
And I kept asking myself, ‘Who is this woman?’ I had no answers,
Pam—and it scared me, because even though I didn’t know who the
hell you were or what you were up to, I still wanted
you.”

“
Well.” She wished she could
stay angry, but his candor wouldn’t allow it. “Do you have answers
now?”

“
I guess I have enough.” His
hands were so much larger than hers, his fingers long and blunt,
his palms thick and smooth. “Tonight, when you lit into me...” He
grinned and shook his head. “It didn’t matter anymore what your
story was or how much evidence I’d seen. All that mattered was that
you cared enough about Lizard to fight for her. You were ready to
go the distance for her, just because you cared. And damn it,
Pam—that made me want you even more. More than I thought I’d ever
want a woman.”

He kissed her again, slowly this time, not to
shut her up but to open her. His lips caressed hers, brushed and
brushed again, teasing, enticing, melting the last vestiges of her
resistance. Joe didn’t want her because she was pretty. He didn’t
want her because he was horny. He wanted her because she’d cared
enough about his niece—and about what was right—to fight him.

And that, she realized, was exactly what she
wanted him to want her for.

He drew her onto his lap and circled his arms
around her waist. His mouth opened against hers, and she welcomed
the sweet invasion of his tongue. He slid his hand across her back,
exploring the ridge of her spine, the bony width of her shoulders.
“Pam,” he whispered, “Pam...”

She felt his tension in his legs, in the
motion of his hips as he shifted under her, in the swift beat of
his heart as she skimmed her hands across his chest. Through his
T-shirt she discerned the smooth lines of his torso, the sleek,
firm muscles, the convulsive clenching of his abdomen when she
approached the waistband of his jeans. And then he shifted again,
lifting and turning her until she was lying on the cushions, under
him.

His kisses grew hungrier, greedier. His body,
stretched on top of hers, grew harder. He pulled her shirt free of
her shorts and yanked it up over her head; she shoved his shirt up
until it was bunched around his arms. This wasn’t just about Joe
wanting her, she acknowledged. This was about her wanting him,
wanting his trust, his friendship, his passion.

His chest was magnificent, the muscles not
bulky but cleanly defined, enhanced by an arrow of dark-blond hair
aimed at his navel. She ran her hands over his skin, savoring its
warmth, savoring even more the way his breath caught and then
emerged in a low moan when she rubbed her fingertips across his
nipples. He propped himself up so he wouldn’t crush her, and she
took advantage of the space between them to caress his shoulders,
the arch of his ribs, the indentations below his stomach. When she
once again reached the waist of his jeans, he nudged her hands
aside and tugged open the button of his fly, and then the
zipper.

She peered up at him. Her
eyes had grown accustomed to the dimness, and she could make out
the glint of his earring, the silken tumble of his hair across his
brow, the profound yearning in his gaze—yearning, and desire,
and...
trust
. She
saw it, recognized it, and knew that even if they were a total
mismatch, even if this marriage was a sham, an understanding
existed between her and Jonas Brenner, an empathy as precious and
binding as love.