The Curse of the Holy Pail #2 (39 page)

I turned onto my side and watched his face as he spoke.

"My wife was struck in the head by debris," he continued, forcing his voice to stay even. "She fell overboard and drowned. I've always blamed Stella for that. I've always blamed myself for it, too."

I reached over and stroked his face. He put a hand over mine and moved it to his lips, kissing my fingers tenderly.

"I didn't come here to kill Stella. Honest. But when I saw Enrique's gun at her head, I wanted so badly to do it. You don't know how close I came to thrusting my own gun in her face and pulling the trigger" He closed his eyes and swallowed hard.

"But when I saw you coming out of hiding with your hands up, begging for Stella and Kyle's lives-putting your own life on the line for their miserable existence-I just couldn't do it."

"It wasn't because of me," I whispered. "It's because you're not a killer."

"And neither are you."

He turned to me. One arm went around my thick middle. I felt his hand, hot and eager, against the satin of my nightshirt. He drew me close, nose to nose, mouth to mouth. Our lips played footsies with each other, barely touching, breath mingling with breath. When they came together finally in a kiss, they welded passionately, fusing us in our individual grief and need.

We kissed a long time. Over and over, our mouths locked, sometimes softly, sometimes with fervor, until our lips were chapped and tears ran down our faces, turning our kisses salty.

After a long time, Willie pulled back and looked into my eyes. "Come with me," he said.

"Go with you?" I asked with surprise.

"Yes, tonight, Odelia. Pack a few things and let's go away. I have plenty of money. I want to take care of you. I want to make you happy."

But I am happy, I thought, or at least I was.

Rolling away from him, I plucked two tissues from the box on the nightstand and handed him one. After blowing my nose, I sat up in bed.

"You want me to go away with you?"

"Yes, I do." He also sat up. "I know you didn't expect this, so let's make a deal. Come away with me for a short while. If you don't like it, I'll send you home. Anytime you like, you can come back."

Confused, I ran a hand through my hair and tucked it behind one ear. Go away with Willie. Live on the run, awash in ill-gotten wealth. On many levels, it was appealing.

THIRTY-TWO

WHEN I WOKE, I was alone. Seamus was back at his usual spot at the foot of the bed, curled into a ball.

I had cried myself to sleep in Willie's arms after turning him down. He didn't ask why, and I didn't offer an explanation. But it wasn't for the reasons he probably thought. The truth is, my heart wasn't mine to give. It wasn't even mine to loan, not even for a short while.

After showering, dressing, and grabbing some breakfast, I picked up some flowers at the grocery store and drove to Forest Lawn in Covina Hills. The cemetery was near Glendora, and it took about an hour to get there in weekday traffic. I would arrive when it opened, pay my respects, and drive back to Newport Beach. I had let Tina know the day before that I would be in around ten.

I didn't dawdle at the grave. I didn't need to. I knew today would be the last time I'd be back. Setting the flowers on top of the headstone, I said my final goodbye.

Turning to go, I spotted him. His van was parked a few yards behind my car. He had driven all the way here early this morning. I hadn't even noticed anyone drive up. But there he was.

I studied him, taking note of the firm chest and strong arms. The way his hair curled around the tops of his ears and collar. The set of his sensual mouth. I noticed the strength of character in his eyes; how they looked at me with confidence and love grounded in maturity.

He sat in his wheelchair at the edge of the curb, watching me. He made no gesture of salutation. No overture of encouragement. Wainwright stood sentry next to him. Seeing me, the dog whined with excitement. He gave a quiet order and the animal stilled.

For a long time we simply watched each other, my Greg and I.

Read on for a sneak peek at

Mother Mayhem

by

Sue Ann Jaffarian

IN STORES FEBRUARY 2008

EXCERPT

"WHY AM I NOT surprised?"

The question, phrased more like a long-suffering supplication to a supreme being, was accompanied by a copy of this morning's Orange County Register being tossed onto my small, cluttered desk like an under-thrown Frisbee.

When it slid to a stop, just short of smacking my almost-full coffee mug, I saw that the paper was open to the front page of the local news section and folded in such a way as to show off a photo of me-yes, moi, Odelia Patience Grey. The caption above the photo blazed: Food Fight Erupts at Local Market.

A resigned sigh escaped my lips. I had hoped that no one would recognize me. After all, in the caption under the grainy photo, I was merely referred to as an unidentified woman.

The question had come from Mike Steele, my boss. He stood in front of me, waiting for an answer to what I felt was not a question deserving of a response. In my opinion, it had sounded purely rhetorical in nature. I continued to stare down at the fuzzy photo in the paper, my lips tighter than a pair of size 6 shoes on size 9 feet.

Michael Steele is a partner at Wallace, Boer, Brown and Yates, the law firm in Orange County, California, at which I am employed as a paralegal. I've been with the firm for about eighteen years, and I would be looking forward to the next eighteen years, if it were not for the man standing in front of me.

I didn't need to raise my face to know that Steele would be immaculately groomed from his GQ-handsome, close-shaven face, right down to his fingertips, which would be professionally buffed and shining like dew in the morning sun. And I didn't need to glance in his direction to know that he was wearing an expensive and beautifully tailored suit. It was also unnecessary to look up to know that he was peeved at me. The sarcasm in his voice hung in the air, waiting to be admired, round and bright, like ornaments on a Christmas tree.

A few years ago, when my old boss, Wendell Wallace, retired, I somehow fell within Steele's grasp. Steele had requested that I be assigned to him, and the firm agreed. They had even sweetened the pot for me with a nice raise and a private office.

They assigned me to him with an apology, claiming they trusted me to keep Steele and his law practice in line. In other words, I became his professional keeper so the firm's founding partners could sleep at night. The firm also gives me a special bonus at the end of each year for this added responsibility. It is money that I earn many times over and which can only be classified as combat pay.

Now, don't get me wrong-Mike Steele is an incredible lawyer. He's brilliant, focused, and ethical, which in this day and age is an accomplishment all on its own. He brings in a ton of new business and is the firm's top attorney in generating billable hours. He's Midas with a law degree.

It's just that sometimes he needs to be beaten about the head with the people-skills bat.

Without raising my face to look at Steele, I gave in and broke my silence. I pushed the newspaper back in his direction. "Not exactly my best side, is it?"

In the photo, my two-hundred-plus-pound bulk was being squeezed from either side by two angry women. I looked like a pesky pimple ready to pop. The young woman on my right was cute, twenty-something and, like me, plus size. The other woman, who turned out to be her aunt, was trim and looked a lot like her niece, just older. Both women towered over my five foot one inch frame.

Steele cleared his throat. Peeking up through the hair that slightly hid my face, I saw him cross his arms in front of his chest. He wanted an explanation and would wait all day for one, if necessary. I didn't owe him any details, and I could be just as stubborn. However, today I decided to go for bonus points with shock value.

Lifting my chin in his direction, I shook my head and tossed my almost-shoulder-length medium brown hair away from my face.

"Jesus, Grey!" In a flash, Steele's arms uncrossed and he was leaning toward me, with both hands flat on my desk. He angled his head to get a better view. "What the hell happened to you?"

"I was slugged by a leg of lamb," I explained, trying to be nonchalant about it-pretending that assaults by butchered meat happened every day.

At that moment, Kelsey Cavendish, the firm's librarian, strolled into my small office. With three people, it now reached capacity under the local fire code.

"Hey, Odelia, any plans for lun-." She stopped mid-sentence, then exclaimed in a folksy accent, "Damn, that's one helluva shiner!"

Kelsey immediately pointed an accusatory finger at Steele. "Did he give you that?"

"What?" Steele half shouted, turning an indignant, flushed face her way.

"Well, Greg certainly didn't give it to her," Kelsey shot back.

"Actually," I said, interrupting, "I believe my assailant came from New Zealand."

"Cavendish," Steele snarled in Kelsey's direction, "you don't really believe that I'd strike Grey, do you?" He glanced at me. "No matter how tempting."

Kelsey coolly looked him up and down. She was one of the few people at Woobie who didn't shrink in his presence. My guess is that if I ever left the firm, she'd be next in line for the keeper position.

"Nah, Steele, I don't."

A woman in her mid-thirties, Kelsey Cavendish was tall, slim, and angular, with a plain, friendly face. She was Olive Oyl in the flesh, but with a bigger clothing budget. She gave Steele a wide grin, slipped past him, and plopped herself down in the small chair across from my desk.

"Though I'll bet you lunch at Morton's, Odelia's thought about clobbering you a few times."

I couldn't help myself. Like a rude belch, a short, loud guffaw escaped my lips. Kelsey was right, I had thought about clobbering him, and on more than just a few occasions. In fact, I know dozens of people who would like to gather in the parking lot and beat the living crap out of him, starting with his last twenty secretaries.

Michael Steele went through secretaries like I buzzed through Thin Mint Girl Scout cookies. Our office manager, Tina Swanson, had given up on keeping the secretarial bay outside his office filled and now the placement job fell to yours truly. Lucky me. Currently, we were trying out a very talented temp named Rachel Keyo. She had just completed her third week with us and so far, so good. At least she didn't show signs of bolting-yet. And even though Rachel was a drop-dead gorgeous woman with long, sculpted legs and the face of a Nubian princess, Steele didn't show signs of seducing her-yet. Of course, Rachel was also in a very advanced state of pregnancy. This latter situation seemed to have a good, yet strange, effect on Steele. Instead of his usual behavior toward secretaries, which could swing between charming, sexual scamp and overbearing, demanding ass, Steele treated Rachel with uncharacteristic tenderness, even reverence. Kelsey, who never misses a trick, referred to it as his Madonna fixation. Personally, I don't care what it's called, as long as he keeps treating Rachel with respect and the work keeps flowing out the door.