She's Gotta Be Mine (16 page)

The sun settled down over the detached garage as he squatted, scrubbing the wheels viciously. His gut roiled. That’s what he got for thinking about her date tomorrow with
Brax
and the condoms Fry had stuffed in that damn bag she’d clutched tightly beneath her arm. That’s what he got for following her in there in the first place.

Get out unless you want to buy something
. The old man’s usual down-his-nose look had never bothered Nick before. So why now? Because Bobbie had witnessed the antagonism? What the hell did that matter?

He’d scrub off the chrome if he wasn’t careful. He stood, slammed the sponge into the bucket, spraying soapy water over his legs up to his cutoffs.

That’s when she came out on her porch. He had to admit, washing the car had been an excuse to wait for her. Christ, he’d morphed back to high school.

She stopped, waved at him, then scampered down her steps to her car, legs wobbling as if she wasn’t quite used to the height of those heels. The skirt of her
flippy
black dress swished around her thighs. Sequins glinted in the early evening sunlight. Two thin straps holding the dress up bared her shoulders. Nick held his breath waiting for a glimpse of the neckline. Plunging, he was sure. His heart plunged with it. She beeped her car open and climbed in.

Where the hell was she going dressed for a party?

And worse, who was she going with?

* * * * *

The Chalet.
 
Five miles out of town along Highway 26, the restaurant nestled in pine and oak. She’d wanted expensive and fancy, and Mavis had said she wouldn’t find more expensive or fancy unless she drove fifty miles into Red Cliff.

The purpose for her dinner out? She’d never in her life had a fancy dinner all by herself. Even on her infrequent business trips, she’d ordered room service. In her view, people didn’t go out by themselves, as if dressing up and treating yourself was something you only did with someone else. As if it lost its taste when done alone.

Only a confident, self-assured woman would dress up in a skimpy cocktail dress and ask for a table for one. And that same woman would buy birth control without embarrassment, because it was her God-given right as a woman.

Nick would not be thinking about some girl he may or may not have gotten pregnant years ago when he was looking at Bobbie today. And he
had
been looking as she bopped out to her car tonight. Oh yes, he had. A mutant tingle still lingered in her mid-section.

Her champagne cocktail arrived, the sugar cube still fizzling at the bottom of the glass.

“We have some wonderful specials tonight, ma’am...” Her waiter proceeded to enumerate them all.

She didn’t listen. In her head, she played
eenie-meenie-minie-mo
. She wanted the most expensive thing on the menu, which was lobster, because she never ordered the most expensive. Warren had always gotten that
look
on his face when he got the bill, even if she’d ordered chicken.

Lobster? Or braised chicken livers? She adored chicken livers, but she’d only ever had them when Warren had a late meeting because he hated the aroma of cooked chicken livers. He said it smelled like...piss. She could hear him now.
You want to order something that smells like piss in a five-star restaurant
?

“I’ll take the chicken livers.”

“Wonderful choice, ma’am.”

“It is, isn’t it.” Not a question at all, a powerful statement. Her waiter went on his merry way, to the next table.

Chicken livers or lobster. The concept could actually be applied to the idea of the sheriff or the serial killer. Lobster was flashy and showy and best when dipped in hot butter, sort of like Nick. Chicken livers were less exotic, more of a staple, but they melted deliciously on your tongue when done just right. Sort of like the sheriff. Except for the piss part.

Eenie-meenie-minie-mo
. The sheriff or the serial killer. They were both interested. Weren’t they? Yes, they were—be confident.

The sparkling wine sizzled down her throat.

And suddenly stopped halfway down when she saw The Cookie Monster. Bobbie wheezed, swallowed. Cookie Beaumont had ordered the lobster. She laughed; Bobbie imagined it was the off-key tinkle of an out-of-tune piano. Only it wasn’t. It was pretty and sweet. Freaking melodious. And her hair was long and blonde.

That
wasn’t
Warren with her.

Cookie Beaumont was holding
Jimbo
-from-the-diner’s hand. A bottle of champagne—probably Dom
Perignon
—cooled in a bucket beside him. A small jewelry case sat on one corner of the table. Cookie flashed an enormous ring under her companion’s nose.

Bobbie’s waiter brought her chicken livers. They smelled like piss.

“By the way, who is that happy couple over there?”

“Why that’s Jim Beaumont and his wife. They come here every year for their wedding anniversary. I think it’s fifteen years this time.”

Jimbo
? Jim Beaumont? His
wife
? A
happy
couple?

The Cookie Monster didn’t look like she was getting ready to ask for a divorce. Not if she wanted to keep eating lobster, drinking Dom
Perignon
, and wearing rocks the size of Kansas.

What on earth was Warren thinking?

* * * * *

Warren parked his BMW in front of the house next to Roberta’s. He wasn’t sure why the clandestine action, but he felt better doing it.

She pulled into her driveway only minutes later, slammed her car door, then tottered over on those ridiculously high heels of hers. Roberta hadn’t owned a pair of heels over a sensible two inches. Nor a dress that short or low-cut. And she was gorgeous in both. He’d never thought of her as gorgeous, not since...well, never.

She signaled him to roll down his window.

“You really should leave your porch light on when you go out at night.”

She’d called him half an hour ago, at nine o’clock on a Saturday. And she was dressed to party. Where had she been?

“My porch is my business, Warren. I want to talk to you.”

He unlatched his door, started to open it. “Why don’t we talk inside your place?”

Again, that niggling fear that someone was watching, that someone wouldn’t want him talking to Roberta.

“You’re not coming in my house.”

Her eyes widened with something like horror, but there was just the slightest curl to her upper lip, a sharp edge to her tone that sliced him cleanly like a freshly sharpened knife. He’d put it there, anger barely veiled with sarcasm. When Roberta got angry, she was either hurt or afraid. Maybe both this time, hurt for the past, fear of the future. Because of him.

“In my car then?” A question, but he expected her to fall in line. Roberta always fell in line with whatever he said. At least she had once upon a time.

He closed his own door. She slammed the passenger side as she climbed in. She started in before the sound of it died away.

“She isn’t getting a divorce, is she?”

He didn’t have to ask who. “Roberta, you—”

“Don’t call me Roberta. My name is Bobbie.”

“Bobbie...” She didn’t sound like the same woman he’d been married to for fifteen years. Shit. If she wasn’t, it was his own fault. “Bobbie, it’s very complicated.”

All the while, his mind worked furiously at what was the best way to protect Cookie.

“
You
didn’t find it too complicated to say ‘I want a divorce.’ Why does
she
?”

He winced. Is that how he’d said it? That cold and callous? No, it was just her interpretation.

“Her situation is different.” Maybe the truth would make Roberta feel empathy.
Right
. But it was all he had.

“I’m sure it is. She didn’t have an adoring partner sitting in front of the computer for six months, night after night, addressing envelopes, licking stamps, taking the letters down to the post office instead of trusting the mail lady, thinking this would solve all the problems.” She took a deep breath as if there was so much more inside that had yet to burst out. Held seconds longer than he could have held his own, she finally let it wheeze out like the air from a balloon.

She had done all that for him. Roberta had always been a good hand holder. But...why hadn’t she fought for him?

The reason no longer mattered, hadn’t from the moment he’d found Cookie again. “Will you please let me explain?”

Her jaw flexed, her lips thinned, then finally, “What does she want from you, Warren?”

Not that it was really any of Roberta’s business. Yes, he’d done what he’d done to her, but once done, the rest of it had nothing to do with her.

“As I was saying, her situation’s very complicated. Her husband—”

“
Jimbo
. At least call him by his name while you steal his wife.”

God, she was angry. Roberta would never boil over, but she was on a slow simmer that could eventually sear his ass if he wasn’t careful. Even if he deserved it.

“
Jimbo
has a temper,” he told her.

“That sweet old guy?”

“It’s just a facade,
Rober
—” She gave him the eye, and he cut himself off. “Everybody loves
Jimbo
, but at home, he’s not such a sweet guy.”

“You’re saying he beats her?”

“Yes.”

“Warren, I don’t mean to be cruel.” She gave him a long look. “But you’re stupid. I saw them at The Chalet tonight, and she”—said like something the cat dragged in—“was the furthest thing from unhappy I’ve ever seen. He’d given her this huge diamond rock, and she was holding it to the light, this way and that way, looking at all the different refractions. It was pathetic.”

“It’s an act she has to put on. He gets...upset if she doesn’t show the proper respect for the things he gives her.” Cocooned in the dark car, he felt safe telling her these things.

“She’s got you snowed. Did she tell you how she threatened me the other day?”

Warren sighed. He didn’t want to fight. He didn’t want to have to defend Cookie or his decision. “She told me
you
threatened
her
.”

“That bitch.” There wasn’t the slightest hesitation in the use of the word. Nor a hint of apology since she was talking about the woman he intended to marry as soon as he could.

Good politics
not
to mention her new penchant for bad language, though. “I’m sure she didn’t mean it the way you think.”

“She told me to quit messing with her plans or she would make sure you didn’t give me a dime.”

Roberta just didn’t understand that Cookie was afraid. It wasn’t really a threat. “You know you get fifty percent.”

“I should get the one hundred thousand off the top of the house sale because we used
my
inheritance from
my
mother to pay off the mortgage.” Another deep breath, then she cleared her throat. “But I’m sure you’ll be fair, Warren.”

She was right about the money. He’d already taken it into account. But it wasn’t like Roberta to harp on it. Two months ago, she’d have trusted him.

“About Cookie. She needs me, Rob—Bobbie.”

Roberta’s nostrils flared. Maybe she was closer to the boil than he’d thought.

Warren stoically persevered. “Her husband’s erratic. She says he’s impotent and he beats her up when he can’t...” He waved his hands in the air ineffectually.

“Can’t get it up?”

“Yes.” Her tone made bile rise in Warren’s throat. He hadn’t exactly been impotent, not like Jim Beaumont; it was the drugs. His psychiatrist said so. But there was always that little voice in the back of his head—one that sounded like Roberta—saying yeah, but what about before the drugs?

He’d never meant to hurt her. How had things gotten so complicated? All he’d wanted to do was find himself, rid himself of the anxiety. Instead he’d created a mess.