RUNAWAY (6 page)

His eyes had narrowed to slits. His uncasted hand was curled into a tense fist. “It’s none of your damn business, Izzy.”

“Owen—”

“Why don’t you just move to a hotel? From there
you can figure out what we need to do about this marriage, then we’ll sign the damn papers.”

“Your signing hand is in a cast,” she pointed out.

And it wasn’t just his body that was damaged. She knew now that something deeper was hurt, as well. And Izzy Cavaletti owed this man her help until he healed—all the way. “So I’m sticking,” she told him.

Of course, he didn’t look very happy about it.

She raised her brows. “Think about it, my friend. Do you want your parents and Bryce here hovering? Or just me?”

She had him there. She knew it.

Except he was looking angry again, instead of grateful, and there was no sign of the man who had kissed her silly just a few minutes before. “Fine,” he finally ground out. “Stay. But if you’re not in my bed, Isabella Cavaletti, then you stay the hell out of my head!”

Since sharing his bed was about the worst idea she could think of, Izzy welcomed the distinctive ring of her cell phone—”Bohemian Rhapsody”—and hurried away to answer it. Her retreat gave Owen the last word, but that seemed the safest course.

Chapter Four

C
ollege football played on Owen’s big-screen TV. He was lying on his bed, pretending to be immersed in each play, when all he saw were figures of blue and red scrambling on a green field. He made himself blink every once in a while to keep the colors in focus, but he let the rest of his consciousness drift, thinking about nothing, willing himself into a comfortable catatonic state.

Izzy moved into the periphery of his vision and he drew his eyebrows together, as if the success of the defensive line was tantamount to victory for the free world—or at least as if he had some cash riding
on the game. Anything to get Izzy to go away and leave him alone.

“Look who’s here,” she called out brightly, waving a hand. “And they brought lunch.”

Owen slid his gaze in her direction. Damn, there was a “who” all right, two of them, and they were beaming smiles and bearing bags. He felt obliged to smile at them, because at least they’d serve as a temporary buffer between Owen and all the things he didn’t want to think about. “Will,” he said, greeting his best friend and colleague at the Paxton F.D. “And Emily. It’s nice to see you again.”

The last time he’d seen the smiling woman had been in Vegas, as matron of honor to Izzy, his bride.

Will gripped his right hand, giving it a strong squeeze. “You said you were doing well on the phone, but Emily said she had to see you in person.”

Emily frowned and shoved her husband aside to kiss Owen on the cheek. “It was all his idea,” she whispered. “Not that I didn’t want to see you myself, but apparently he feels it necessary to hide behind me in order to preserve his macho image.”

Owen could certainly understand that. Right now he was all about preserving his macho image, which wasn’t easy when a man was laid up, with a lousy memory and a temporary wife he was forced to depend on for his every mouthful. Except this time Will and Emily had brought a meal. “What’s in the bags?” he asked, glancing at Will.

His friend was finishing rearranging the furniture in the living area of the master bedroom suite so that Owen could remain propped on the bed yet still be part of the group when they settled onto the sofa and chairs. “Subs from Louie’s,” he said, and grabbed up the remote on the bedside table to thumb off the TV.

“Hey!” Owen said. “I’m into the game.”

Will blinked at him. “You never watch college football.”

“It’s a new habit.” A new habit that was better than watching his wife and
much
better than talking to her. No, it wasn’t that he didn’t want to talk to Izzy. At the moment, he didn’t much want to talk to anyone. He took a big bite of the salami-and-cheese sandwich Emily handed to him on a paper plate. “Put it back on, Will.”

With a shrug, his friend complied, but he muted the sound. Owen frowned, but what could he do? He supposed he could take fifteen or so minutes of innocuous conversation.

“So are you all moved into Will’s?” Izzy asked Emily.

She nodded and started chattering about painting a bathroom. Owen tuned out, then realized that his best friend was staring at him again. “What now?” He grabbed up a napkin and wiped his chin. “Mustard?”

“I’m just waiting for the ‘I told you so.’” Will glanced over at the two women, who were immersed in their own conversation.

“Huh?”

Will chewed a bite of his own sandwich. “The last time we really talked was on the night of the fire.”

The night that was only that smoky memory to Owen, and hadn’t he established that he liked it that way? “Busy time,” he mumbled.

“We were studying for the haz-mat course we’re enrolled in. I was bemoaning my married state and wondered aloud how two such smart guys as ourselves could have gotten hitched in Vegas. You know, that big mistake of ours.”

“Huh,” Owen grunted. He remembered also vowing that he was going to track down Izzy after that very shift ended. Goes to show he should have been more careful about what he wished for. He should have been specific that tracking her down didn’t include taking her into his home.

Okay, fine, he’d agreed to letting her stay here. But he hadn’t realized how pretty she would look in the morning, and how sexy she’d look at noon and how good she’d smell at night, straight from the shower. And he hadn’t considered how talkative she would be, too. She was a librarian, for God’s sake! He expected more of her nose in a book and less of her nose in his life.

She’d casually asked him a couple of questions about the fire. The name Jerry Palmer had passed her lips a time or two.

He didn’t want to talk about the fire or Jerry.

“You asked me,” Will said, breaking into his thoughts, “if I was so sure that what we’d done in Vegas was a mistake.”

“Of course it was a mistake,” Owen blurted out. Then he realized the women had gone quiet and that both of them were looking at him. Great. He’d just insulted his best friend and his best friend’s wife. Not to mention the woman he’d married, too.

“I mean…I mean…” He shoved his plate off his lap. Hell. “No offense meant, okay?”

Will calmly took another bite of his sandwich. “Best damn mistake of my whole life.” Reaching over, he ruffled the ends of Emily’s hair. She beamed back sexy sunshine that softened her husband’s face.

Izzy was the one sending him a dirty look. Her usually warm brown eyes were cooling, and that plump bottom lip of hers was pushed out in disapproval. “I’m sure the newlyweds appreciate your best wishes.”

He swallowed his groan. “Look—”

Emily hopped up, interrupting his apology. “I brought chocolate chip cookies, too. C’mon, Iz, help me get them.” She dragged her friend up by the elbow.

As the women left the room, taking the remains of the sandwiches and plates, Will grinned at Owen. “That’s right. She said chocolate chip cookies. My wife bakes.”

Wife.
“But…but…” Regardless of what he’d expressed on the night of the fire, could this really be
his best friend’s happy ending? “Are you absolutely sure you want to be a married man?”

That, after all, had been the opposite of what Will wanted for himself as they’d headed for Vegas going on six weeks ago. Finally freed of the responsibilities of raising five younger siblings, Will had professed to be ready to take up the reins of a wild bachelorhood.

Will propped his feet on the nearby ottoman. “I
want
to be married to Emily.”

And she was already living with Will, just as Izzy was living with Owen. Didn’t Will find all the female companionship distracting? The soft patter of their footsteps, the heady smell of their perfume, the way they looked in jeans, or a robe or even a towel turban? But then, Will got to work out his distraction between the sheets, while Owen had to ignore his by watching college football on TV or pretending to take another dozenth nap.

“You okay, Owen?”

“Huh,” he grunted again, and grabbed up the remote to thumb up the sound on his set. More little insects scrambled across the green screen. Go…whichever team was losing. He was identifying with the underdog these days, big time.

“How’re things with you and Izzy?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Remember, he didn’t want to talk about anything! Why else did Will think he had the volume up loud enough to hear the
announcers drone on about their glory days throwing the pigskin around? Good God, was there no one more self-involved than a sports announcer with a pretty face and a half-dozen seasons in the NFL?

“What about the night of the fire? The night that Jerry died and we were hurt?” Will asked.

We were hurt.
Oh, crap. Yeah, there was someone more self-involved than those bull-necked bobble-heads on TV. And that would be him. Will had been injured that night, too—he’d gone through his own harrowing experience. “Are
you
okay?”

“Twisted ankle, already all healed up. Nothing close to what you’re dealing with.” He looked at his feet, propped on the ottoman, then he looked back over at Owen. “The worst part was when I was trapped under that metal awning. I had a few bad moments wondering if I was going to be crushed under the metal or cooked like stew over a camp stove. Put a few things in perspective for me. My brothers and sisters. Emily.”

“Yeah,” Owen replied. He had bad moments, too, recalling that hazy night. What had he done wrong? How had he let Jerry down? Surely there was something…

“Tell me, Will,” he said gruffly. He couldn’t retreat to the land of silence any longer. There was no way he could duck the thoughts in his head. “Tell me about that night.”

Will frowned. “You remember.”

“I can’t…” Owen rubbed a hand over his hair, wishing he could still put off the truth forever. “I don’t have the details straight. But I must have made an error in judgment.”

“No.” Will’s adamant voice came clearly through the bedroom doorway, halting Izzy in her trip back to the bedroom with Emily and the cookies. “It wasn’t you, Owen. You didn’t do anything wrong. That damn fire was responsible for Jerry’s death.”

Izzy’s heart flopped in her chest. Oh, no. Oh, God. This is what she’d been worrying about. She shifted closer to hear better, then felt her friend yank her back by the arm. “Downstairs and to the kitchen for us,” she whispered.

“But…” But then she let her words subside. Owen would have clammed up if she and Emily returned, and it was important that he get out whatever he was bottling up inside him. His emotions definitely needed a release.

And she could use the respite from her own. A little chat with her best friend should be the soothing balm she needed.

The two women retreated to the kitchen, and Izzy set down the tray on the counter. “Shall I make some tea?” she asked her friend.

Emily smiled. “Really? You? Tea? Quite the domestic goddess you’ve turned out to be.”

“You should see what I can do with those little
coffeemakers that come in hotel rooms. Three-course meals—though all with the distinctive seasoning of Sanka.”

“Ew.” Emily leaned against the countertop as Izzy bustled around the kitchen. “So, what’s new besides your new stint as ‘Isabella Cavaletti, Home Nurse?’”

Izzy gave a little shrug. “Not much. I heard that my
Zia
Sophia passed away.”

“Oh, Iz…”

She shrugged again. “She was ninety-seven when she died. I lived with her in third grade—so, twenty years ago? Funny lady. She made a mean ziti and never rose before noon.”

Emily frowned. “Never rose before noon? Who got you up for school? Made your breakfast?”

“The saintly three of me, myself and I.” She caught the look of sympathy in Emily’s gaze. “Girlfriend, it wasn’t Dickens. There were clean, folded clothes in the drawers and Pop-Tarts in the kitchen cupboard.”

“Still…”

“A mean ziti can overcome many nutritional challenges.” The kettle was starting to whistle, so Izzy hurried to the stovetop.

“Do you need some time away from Owen to attend the funeral? I’m sure Owen’s brother would help out, since his parents and sister are on that cruise. If not, Will or I—”

“Oh, no.” Izzy waved off the offer. “
Zia
was laid to rest about four months ago. I only heard because
I made a call to one of my cousins last week. I was concerned because my mother’s number hasn’t been working.”

“Izzy.”
Emily took a breath, seeming to get a hold of herself. “All right, the homicidal urge over the way your family forgets about you is passing. Wait—did you say your mother’s number wasn’t working? Is
she
all right?”

“Yes. She’s on a trip, packing for a trip, unpacking for a trip, planning her next trip. One of those.” Her parents had led tours throughout Europe for the past thirty years. “She got a new phone and a new number for reasons not quite clear to me in the fifteen seconds we had to talk before her flight was called.”

“And your father?”

“He was reading a newspaper, but apparently gave a pinkie-wave when he heard it was me on the phone.”

Emily heaved a sigh. “They’re not—”

“Anything different than they’ve ever been. It’s when you start expecting more that you get disappointed by people.”

“Some people
won’t
disappoint you, Iz. Some people will be there always and—”

Izzy shut her up with a brief, hard hug. “Sure. Like Will is there for you, Emily.”

Emily’s eyes narrowed. “Is there some other family thing you should be telling me about?”

“No! You already know all about my family ‘things.’” And the last thing that would relax her
was a rehash of her relatives. “So, spill all about marital bliss.”

“You’re married, too, Izzy.”

“And I’m going to have to do something about that, I realize. Did you get very far in finding out what it takes to annul—” She broke off at the odd expression crossing her friend’s face. “Let’s not talk annulments then. Let’s talk happy husbands and winsome wives.”