His Partner's Wife (23 page)

"Oh, thanks." Natalie heaved the saddle off.
"You know, I'm not trying to show him. He and I are supposed to be having
fun."

The stable owner bent and lifted the foreleg of one of the
horses she used for lessons. Loosing a pebble with the pick, she said musingly,
"It's a shame. That horse is wasted here."

Natalie felt a blooming of a mother's pride. "You
really think he has what it takes to succeed in the showring?"

"We have a couple of Arabians here. You've seen 'em.
Nice horses." Pam set down the hoof and circled to the bay's other side.
Her voice came over his back. "Your Foxfire makes 'em look like
plugs."

"He cost a small fortune." Natalie felt a renewed
pang of guilt at Stuart's extravagance and at her own in not having promptly
sold the horse and invested the money for her future.

Pam's head appeared above the placid bay's back.
"Twenty-five thousand isn't so much. Melissa Monroe paid ten for
Baroness."

Baroness was a nice Arab mare, but not showring material.
Even Natalie could tell that.

"Foxfire and I are buddies." To heck with prudence
or anybody's opinion that her beautiful horse was wasted on her. "I don't
want to sell him, and I don't have the skill or interest in showing him. Today
was just to remind him that I
am
the boss. Even if I listen to, um, protests."

"You let that horse get by with murder." Pam's
leathery face was momentarily warmed by a smile. "But don't listen to me.
I'm jealous, remember."

As always, Natalie offered the stable owner the chance to
ride Foxfire. Also as always, Pam refused.

Grimacing at her wet hair and sweat-and-mud-streaked face in
the rearview mirror, Natalie drove home. No, not home, she hastily reminded
herself, to John's house. She was annoyed with herself when she saw his car in
the driveway and wished she could sneak in and shower before she saw him. So
what if she was grungy? He'd held her when she cried after Stuart died. He'd
seen her with middle-of-the-night hair and a face scrubbed clean of makeup.
Their friendship
was
doomed if she had to start worrying about what she looked
like every time she saw him.

Especially since they were now, however awkwardly, living
together.

"Hi." She breezed in the back door.

John was chopping onions in the kitchen, his back to her. He
glanced over his shoulder, taking her in from head to foot. "Have a good
ride?"

"Um." Natalie passed out of his line of sight as
quickly as she could without being blatant. "I'll take a fast
shower," she called.

His voice followed her. "No hurry."

That being the case, she took her sweet time, washing and
drying her hair, discarding a couple of shirts before she chose one though she
had only put on jeans, and even applying light makeup, something she rarely did
in the evening. A woman had her pride, she excused herself.

Only when she reemerged from her bedroom did she notice how
quiet the house was. Natalie paused in the hall and listened. No canned
laughter from the TV, no bickering.

No children?

Her heart turned a somersault. Did she
want
to be
alone in the house with John?

She momentarily pressed her hand to her chest, trying to
quiet the wild beats. Deep breath. Seduction was not necessarily on the menu
even if Maddie and Evan weren't home.

Finally she settled for faking poise. Strolling into the
kitchen, where John had moved to the stove, she said casually, "I don't
hear the kids."

"Mom has them." Lines carved his forehead and his
expression was unexpectedly serious. "I wanted to talk to you."

The somersault her heart had taken became a belly flop. He
sounded like a man who regretted a mistake and wanted to right it.

She knew herself the kiss shouldn't have happened, so why
feel so crushed?

"If you mean last night," she began.

He looked blank. "Last night?" His face cleared.
"Oh. I guess we should talk about that, too, but no. This is something
else."

Now her heart raced. Why so grim if he'd learned something
about the corpse in Stuart's den? Shouldn't he be
glad
if he'd
gotten somewhere on the investigation?

She groped for a stool behind the breakfast bar and sank
onto it. "What?"

He swore suddenly and turned back to the stove.

"Damn it, let me get dinner on the table. I just burned
the sauce."

The acrid scent filled the kitchen.

"I'm sorry, if you're cooking just because I'm
here."

"Don't be ridiculous," he said brusquely. "I
have to eat."

Squelched, Natalie waited in silence while he discarded the
blackened mess, cleaned the pan and got ingredients out of the refrigerator.

"Can I help?" she asked timidly at one point, but
he waved her off.

"This just takes a minute. We're having chicken and
broccoli crepes. Everything else is ready."

When he was done, they each put together their own, spooned
Swiss cheese sauce over the filled crepes, and carried them to the dining room
table, already set in a casual way.

Natalie picked up her fork, but she had no interest in
eating. "What's wrong?" she asked quietly.

John balled up his napkin and squeezed it in a fist. "I
don't know any way to say this, except straight out. It looks like Stuart
gunned down a couple of drug dealers and stole a hefty shipment of heroin. I
think it's either the heroin or the money he sold it for that has people breaking
into your house."

Natalie suddenly felt numb. The fork dropped from her hand.
"Stuart killed men for drugs?"

In a frustrated motion, John threw the napkin and reached
across the table to grip her hand. "I talked to a guy today who saw him do
it. Stuart had arrested him a couple of years ago. My gut says this guy was
telling the truth."

Still, shock held her immobile. "Stuart?"

Her husband? The man who kept an album of newspaper
clippings about the arrests he'd made and the medals he'd won and the groups to
whom he'd spoken? The hero with whom she'd fallen in love? The man she'd
married, the man who had made love to her, was not only capable of
cold-bloodedly killing for drugs or money, he'd actually done it?

John's mouth twisted. "I don't want to believe it,
either."

"Stuart? It couldn't have been Stuart. He was a
hero!" she argued, as much with herself as him. "Do you remember that
boy he pulled from the lake? No." She shook her head. "No, not
Stuart. He couldn't have."

John's gaze held compassion. "I'm afraid he did."

She tried again to grapple with the unimaginable. "But
why?" she asked in complete bafflement. "I don't understand."

His grip on her hand tightened. "I've had more time to
think about this than you have. Stuart had gotten bitter about our pay. Do you
remember how angry he was when the city council denied the chief's request for
additional budget to add five officers and give an across-the-board five
percent pay raise?"

She did remember. Stuart had come home that day with his
face contorted with rage. His ranting had scared her. When she'd set dinner on
the table, he'd picked up his plate and flung it against the wall, stomping
out, only to stagger home late that night and fall into bed drunk.

"A lousy five percent raise," she said softly.
"He kept saying that."

John let out a heavy sigh and released her hand. "His
reaction was way out of proportion. I don't think it was the money. He saw it
as a slap in the face. He wanted respect. He wanted it more badly than I
realized."

"Or than I did." Natalie stared unseeing at her
untouched dinner. "How was doing something horrible like that going to
earn him more respect?"

"Maybe it wasn't supposed to. Maybe it was payback. Or
maybe he was just fed up, and the money was a way out. Maybe, once the heat was
off, he would have handed in his badge."

She looked up swiftly. "But he loved being a police
officer! That's who he was!"

John's jaw tightened. "Was it?"

An irrelevant realization diverted her, cracked the wall of
numbness. "That's how he could afford to buy Foxfire. I thought about it
today, while I was riding." Pain seeped through. "He bought me a
present with stolen heroin. Drugs soaked in blood."

John said nothing, and she saw in his eyes that it was true.

"How would he ever have explained…" Throat
closing, she stopped. He wouldn't have explained. She had known full well that
Stuart had lost interest in her and their marriage. She had been an impulse. Or
else she'd disappointed him in some way. She would never know now. But he had
intended to leave her. No, to ask her to leave—the house was his, after all, as
he'd made plain enough. She was the
outsider.
The one who didn't really belong.

"Foxfire was … a farewell gift." She laughed
bitterly. "Like rich men with mistresses. He knew I wouldn't want a ruby
necklace."

"You don't know."

"What else?"

John swore. "How am I supposed to answer that? Maybe he
just didn't understand how you'd see it. He loved you and wanted to share his
newfound wealth."

"Oh, no." She was shaking her head hard. "He
knew. Why else didn't he tell me?"

John said nothing. She looked down at his hand, fingering
his fork. Slow understanding built into shock that made her chest hurt.

"You think he did tell me, don't you?"

He blinked. "Of course not!"

"Oh, my God." She shoved back from the table.
"You think I've known all along."

Swearing, John blundered to his feet. "No, I don't.
Damn it, Natalie."

The hurt was blinding. "Did I kill Ronald Floyd because
he wanted the money?"

"Natalie…"

She backed away when he reached for her. "Don't touch
me! I…" She pressed a hand to her mouth. "I need to leave."

He blocked her way. "You're not going anywhere until
you listen to me."

"I don't have to!" she shouted. "Why should
I? You've … you've been playing me all along, haven't you? Keeping an eye on me.
What were you doing? Waiting until I slipped out to check my stolen millions in
my secret safe-deposit box?"

She'd moved away as far as she could. He grabbed her
shoulders and gave her a firm shake. "Goddamn it, Natalie, listen to
me!"

Sobbing for breath, she stared at his furious face.

Voice low and intense, he said, "I know damn well that
Stuart didn't tell you. You're a woman of integrity. Do you think I can't see
that? I'd trust you with my life. It never crossed my mind that you have that
money."

Tears ran down her face, and still she stared.

"I promise," he said more gently.

"You … you believe me?" Her voice wobbled.

"Yeah. I believe you."

She swallowed. "Oh."

He growled something under his breath and yanked her up
against him. Natalie went, burrowing into his shirt, instinctively seeking the
powerful beat of his heart. When she found it and felt safe, she cried.

The sobs were deep and compulsive, beyond her ability to
stop. It was as if she cried for every grief at once. Every pain swirled
together in a kaleidoscope: her realization that her husband hadn't loved her;
the loss of him, the thud of dark earth on the shiny casket; her loneliness,
her bitterness, her denial; and, finally, this understanding that she had been
so wrong about who the man she married really was.

She cried until her nose ran and her eyes swelled and the
front of John's shirt was soaked. All the time, he squeezed her tight, his
hands moving in a soothing rhythm on her back. He murmured something, probably
nonsense.
It's okay. It'll be all right.
She felt his cheek against her hair, the small kisses he
pressed to the top of her head.