Chapter 4

The next few days passed swiftly for Kelly. She seemed to have put Dean and his machinations out of her mind, at least for now, because she was busy, truly busy, for the first time since she’d gone on the run.

It helped to give Hank a hand with the stove, to hover around while the electrician solved what turned out to be relatively minor problems.

Repairing the termite damage in the basement was messier and much more time-consuming, but she enjoyed the hands-on work of helping to jack up joists and reinforce the damaged ones. She especially enjoyed using the hammer to pound nails.

At one point her enjoyment must have become evident because Hank laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

“You look like you’re hammering Dean’s head.”

At once she blushed. “I wouldn’t do that. But it’s nice to work out some anger.”

“Especially harmlessly. Hammer away, lady. Need more nails?”

She laughed and took a few more nails from him, tucking them into the already-heavy pockets of the canvas work apron he’d given her.

“This feels so good,” she admitted when they decided to break for lunch.

“What does?”

“Doing something again. Accomplishing something. Spending all my time riding buses and hiding in motel rooms…well, that’s just not me. I like to be busy.”

“So do I, which is why I took on this house. I grew up next door, and the people who owned it were like grandparents to me. When I came back for their funerals, it just killed me to see how the place was falling apart. And then I moved back and I figured it would be a great way to keep myself busy between stints on the range.”

“There’s plenty to do here,” she agreed.

He locked up the house behind them, and she walked next door with him. Already she’d gotten used to the fact that he insisted on making her lunch if she was going to help him with the repairs.

She liked it. There was an easiness in Hank’s manner that appealed to her even more than his rugged good looks. He might limp, he might look as if pain never left him, but he was still easy to be with, as if he was comfortable with who he was. Which was more than she could say.

Oh, don’t go there again, she told herself. But her thoughts refused to listen to reason. Somehow, sitting across a table from Hank while they ate tuna sandwiches, having spent the morning working with him, made him feel like an intimate. Closer than her girlfriends during the years of her marriage. She had the worst urge to tell him about all the nagging self-doubts and criticisms she kept leveling at herself, even though she knew she was probably being too harsh.

But considering the mess her life had turned into, being harsh with herself didn’t seem all that extreme.

“I was an idiot,” she announced.

“What makes you say that?” His gray eyes were steady, not quite smiling, as he looked at her over his sandwich.

“Oh, I’ve had a lot of time to think about the last eight years. I made a lot of mistakes.”

“Mistakes,” he said, “are only bad if we don’t learn from them.”

“Right. I tell myself that all the time. I’ve got a lot to learn from.”

“We all do.”

It wasn’t a question, and she appreciated that. Since the first night, he’d been awfully careful about not questioning her about anything that wasn’t immediately in front of them. Maybe he was respecting her privacy, or maybe he didn’t want to know. Either way, she liked that he didn’t push her to places she didn’t want to go.

But now she felt like talking a bit. It had been a long time since she had felt she could confide in anyone. And Hank seemed safe, both from his manner and the fact that she wouldn’t be here long.

“You know,” she remarked, “it’s sad, but I didn’t even feel like I could trust my girlfriends with the things I was dealing with and trying to sort out.”

“Then they couldn’t have been good friends.”

“I guess not.” She put her sandwich down. “Or maybe sometimes it’s just easier to talk to a stranger.”

He lifted a brow, but didn’t say anything, merely taking another bite of his sandwich. She liked the way weather and sun had created fine little creases around his eyes, the way his face was sun-browned right up to the line where his hat often sat.

She looked at his hands. They were big and work-roughened, unlike the last hands that had touched her. She wondered what it would feel like to have those hands on her skin, rather than Dean’s soft ones.

“Dean was vain about his hands,” she said suddenly.

Hank glanced down at his. “Uh… Sorry, I’m not.”

“No need to be sorry. I was just noticing that your hands look like they do hard work. Dean protected his hands in every way possible. I suppose that was because he was a surgeon. They were his instruments, in a way. I just accepted it, although I have to admit I found it odd the first time I saw him lather them with moisturizer and wear gloves to bed.”

Hank’s eyes widened a shade, and something like a stifled laugh escaped him. “Really?”

“Really.” She half smiled. “I mean, I suppose it was necessary. He had to touch his patients, and most of them were wealthy women who wanted to look a lot younger. He couldn’t be scratching them with dry skin and calluses. And surgical soaps, as he often complained, were hard on the skin. Dried it out.”

Hank nodded. “Okay, I can see why he’d take care of his hands.”

“Me, too. But every week he had a manicure, too. He was the first man I ever knew who did that.”

“I guess a lot of men do that. Not that I know any, but I’ve heard of it.”

“Sure. There are probably lots of fields where taking good care of your hands makes a good impression.”

“You’re making me want to hide mine.”

She laughed and shook her head. “No, no! Don’t. I like your hands. I just noticed the contrast, that’s all. But I’ve been thinking about Dean a lot, obviously, and about how it all happened and the things I should have noticed and didn’t…” She trailed off, feeling the darkness edge in again. She didn’t want it, didn’t want to let it take hold. She was safe now. At least for now.

“Hindsight is 20/20 and all that,” Hank remarked. “I sometimes think the worst curse of being human is that we actually remember things, especially the things we did wrong.”

She saw his face tighten a shade, then relax as if he’d pushed something away. More than ever she wondered if he had a story, too. But she didn’t know how to ask.

“So, Dean’s care of his hands didn’t put you off?” he asked. “Do you think it should have?”

“No. Just one of those odd things that pops into your head sometimes. I was so naive.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really. I went to work in Dean’s office right after I finished my associate’s degree in medical billing. He hired me on the spot.”

Something in Hank’s gaze seemed to indicate that he understood why, and she flushed again. “I know. It was my looks. They were so important to him.”

“How so?”

“Oh, he was forever on me to look my best. No slouching around in old sweats or jeans. Nope. From the minute I got out of the shower in the morning, I had to be perfectly made up and perfectly dressed.”

He cocked a brow. “I don’t see any makeup on you now, and you look fine to me. Better than fine actually.”

“Thanks.” She felt her cheeks heat again. Darn, when was the last time she had blushed so often? “But it’s superficial. I learned that a long time ago.”

“How so?”

“I won the lottery when it comes to looks. I know that. But my mom always taught me that looks fade. It’s what’s on the inside that lasts.”

“Your mom was right.”

Kelly nodded. “Of course she was. We seem to be using a lot of platitudes.”

“They seem to fit.”

She gave another little laugh. “Yeah.”

“They’re probably platitudes because they’re true. Trite is usually true, too. At least that’s how it seems to me. So back to Dean and your looks.”

“Well, I feel stupid now that I didn’t understand why he was so interested in me from the moment I started working for him. I mean, lots of his patients are beautiful women so it never seemed to me that he would notice my looks.”

“Maybe it takes some of the shine off when you know you created that beauty.”

Kelly gasped, astonished by the thought, and then burst into a gale of laughter. “You might be right,” she managed breathlessly through the laughs. “You might be right.”

“Of course I’m right,” he said, spreading his arms as if to invite approval. “So you were beautiful, young and naive, and ever so much better to squire around on his arm than someone older whose surgical details he knew so intimately. I mean, imagine looking at a woman and remembering every detail of her face-lift.”

Kelly clapped a hand to her mouth. “Oh my… Oh!” The image was at once horrifying and terribly funny.

“Frankenstein’s bride,” Hank said, shrugging. “That’s how it would strike me, anyway.”

“I never thought of that!” She dabbed at the corners of her eyes, wiping at the tears of laughter. “You’re great, Hank. I swear that thought never crossed my mind.”

He smiled crookedly. “It was the first one that occurred to me. So okay, you were what, twenty?”

She nodded.

“And you were fresh meat. No surgical memories attached, and you had the kind of beauty that would make other men drool.”

Her laughter faded. “I know. It took me a while to realize why he was interested. It was just so flattered that he paid special attention to me, and even more flattered when he asked me out. I fell hook, line and sinker.”

“I imagine it would be easy to do.”

“That bothers me—that I was so easy. That I fell for it. I guess I was just blinded. I couldn’t imagine any reason for him to notice me other than that he really liked me. His office was full of beautiful women. What I didn’t realize was what a trophy I’d be.”

“How old is he?”

“That’s the thing,” she said. “Too old. That should have been another tip-off. What could a twenty-year-old girl have to say or do that would interest a man who was nearly fifty? Other than sex, I mean. I should have guessed.”

“I guess you weren’t used to swimming with barracudas.”

Startled, she started to smile again. “No, I guess I wasn’t. I expected people to be honest. It took a few years of living with him to realize that most people aren’t honest. At least not in those circles. They’re all about appearances. And for a while, I’m sorry to say, so was I.”

“We tend to adopt the values of the people around us.”

“I was raised with better values,” she protested. “Much better values. So I look back and think what an idiot I was. Blinded by flattery, and money, and moving in circles that I thought only movie stars moved in.”

“Try the youth excuse.”

“It’s not sitting very well just now.”

He shook his head and reached for his sandwich, taking another bite. “You wouldn’t be the first person who’d trusted the wrong people, and got her head turned for a while. I take it the honeymoon didn’t last long?”

“It did for a while. A few years, actually. At first I didn’t realize how controlling he was because everything was so new to me. I just did what I was told. But eventually it began to get to me. I couldn’t even decide what to wear without his approval. And after a few years I began to get my own sense of what I could do and what I shouldn’t do in those circles. I began to realize that I was capable of choosing my own outfit for a party or whatever.”

“And that’s when the trouble began.”

She nodded, compressing her lips. “It all seems so clear now. I just wonder how I could have been blind to it for so long.”

“Apparently, despite his best efforts, he didn’t turn you into a windup doll.”

“No.” She sighed and shook her head. “Not quite.” Looking down she realized that she had hardly touched her sandwich, and that her stomach was rumbling. She was being rude not to eat the meal he’d provided, and she would get awfully hungry as they worked that afternoon if she ate nothing.

She picked it up and forced herself to take a bite, even though it now tasted almost like sawdust. “I think,” she said when she swallowed, “I’ve just told you more about the last eight years than I’ve told anyone else.”

“It’s hard to talk to people who keep telling you how lucky you are.”

She looked at him. “Where did you get that from?”

“From something you said your first night here. Something about how you did all right for yourself.”

“Oh, that. Yeah, I heard a lot of that.”

“That makes it kind of hard to complain.”

“It does.” And somehow she sensed that he knew that intimately. But she was afraid to say anything, to ask anything. These moments were precious for her because she’d finally been able to talk to someone besides herself, and she didn’t want to shatter the moments of intimacy by barging into things he’d prefer to have left alone.

But the man was a mystery. That much was becoming clear to her.

Then another thought occurred to her. “I probably should apologize for dumping all that on you.” And she should probably be embarrassed for exposing herself so much to a stranger. What was it about him that made her run on about things she’d kept securely locked inside her own head?

It’s not as if he was a therapist or anything.

“I don’t mind listening,” he said as he finished his sandwich. “I was just sitting here thinking how easy it is for us to make the kind of mistakes you’re talking about. I’ve made my own share. The thing is, you shouldn’t beat yourself up for what you can look back and see now. You sure didn’t see it back then.”

“No, I didn’t. But I keep thinking I should have.”

He smiled slightly, but it crinkled the corners of his eyes. “Tell me what little girl didn’t grow up hoping Prince Charming would find her at the ball.”

His words struck her, making her catch her breath. “You think that’s what it was?”

“I think that story is probably at the back of every girl’s mind—consciously or not. And it’s understandable. Maybe Prince Charming won’t be rich, maybe he won’t ride a white horse or whatever, but I’m sure most little girls think their prince is going to come. So there you were, the handsome, wealthy doctor showered you with attention. No reason to think it was about your beauty, because, as you said, he was surrounded by beautiful women. Why would you stick out for him? Because you were young? Partly. Because you weren’t his work product? I’m sure. Then there’s this whole power thing a guy feels with a much younger beauty on his arm. But you were just twenty and your dreams seemed to be coming true. Why would you be looking under rocks for his midlife crisis?”

“Wow.” She breathed the word. Then she felt a huge rush of warmth toward him. “Thanks, Hank. You’re a nice guy. A really nice guy.”

“Why? Because I can see that a young, naive girl was hornswoggled by an older, much more experienced man with a bunch of personal issues? The thing to keep reminding yourself, Kelly, is why you married him. Was it for love, or was it for his money?”

“I loved him,” she said. “I really thought I loved him. At the time I’d have married him if he hadn’t had a dime.”

“Then I guess you don’t have one damn thing to apologize for.” He paused. “Didn’t he have you sign a prenup?”

“Prenuptial agreement? No, he never even suggested it.”

His face darkened. “Then it’s entirely possible he never intended to let you leave that marriage. At least not alive.”

Sometimes a thought just wouldn’t leave you alone. And from the instant that Hank had mentioned a prenuptial agreement—so common these days—and learned that Dean had never suggested it, his mind went to places so dark he was surprised they even existed inside him.

Given her description of Dean’s controlling behavior, the lack of a prenup stood out like a flashing warning sign on a lonely road. The man was old enough, and controlling enough, that he wouldn’t have overlooked such a thing unless he was sure Kelly would never be able to take him to the cleaners in court. Because Hank found it hard to believe that Dean had been anywhere near as in love as Kelly had been. She was right: Other than sex, why would a twenty-year-old appeal to a man of his age, experience and stature?

He had wanted a trophy wife, and he hadn’t felt any need to protect himself financially from divorce, alimony or settlements. That either meant he felt he’d sheltered enough of his assets, or it meant he’d been sure he could get rid of her if she became a problem.

Given what Kelly had said, it appeared Dean had been sure he could get rid of her.

He hobbled into his tiny den and sat at his computer to check his email. At last there was a response from his friend in the Denver PD. Yup, there’d been a report filed about a mugging involving Kelly Scanlon Devereaux—so she hadn’t given him her married name, only her maiden name. Smart. Maybe. Or maybe not.

The report listed it as a kidnapping and mugging at canal-side, detailing streets and intersections that meant nothing to Hank, and physical injuries: mild concussion from a blow to the head and some bruising. He skipped the photos taken of Kelly and tried to glean more information.

The description of the mugger was vague. The cops accurately reported that he’d snatched her from her parking garage, and that she’d claimed that her husband might have tried to have her killed.

Just the cold, hard facts. There’d been a bulletin put out to look for a man who met Kelly’s description, but no one had yet been found. Kelly would probably be astonished to know that the cops had even interviewed Dean, who apparently had expressed the proper amount of horror because it was noted that the investigating officers had no reason to suspect him. Basically, nothing Kelly hadn’t already told him.

His friend in Denver had appended his own thoughts. “Just so you know, accusations like this aren’t rare, but they almost never pan out. Most likely the cops told Devereaux that he’d better hope nothing happened to his wife because he’d be at the top of their suspect list. I’ve said that a few times myself. Just to be safe.”

Just as he would have expected. Devereaux had been warned that they were looking at him. Unfortunately, that might be a bad thing, depending on the kind of man Dean was. Most folks who intended no harm would stay miles away from the victim after a warning like that. Other people, however, might just want to get even and finish it. And Kelly’s going on the run would make it even easier, because who would put it together if she were now to die in an out-of-the-way town in Wyoming?

Nobody, that’s who. Nobody at all.

And now it might even be easier, because while it would have to look like an accident in Miami, here in Conard City it wouldn’t have to.

He leaned back in his chair, ignoring the grinding-glass sensation in his hip, and turned it all around in his mind. The blackness that filled him was not unlike the blackness that had filled him when he’d finally awakened after his last fire and learned what had happened.

Or maybe in some way it was even worse this time, because this time he had advance warning.

Tomorrow, he promised himself, he was going to find out just how many breadcrumbs Kelly might have left behind her. Because he was sure she had left some.

And then, dammit, he was going to hunt down Ben and find out what the hell he’d been doing renting the house in that condition.

But even as he sat there, Hank knew. Her beauty. Her aura of vulnerability. It would take a far better man than Ben to say no to that blond, blue-eyed beauty.

He cussed quietly, and closed his eyes, trying to tamp down the response his body insisted on giving him every time he thought of Kelly or glanced at her.

He’d probably go to sleep tonight and dream of her. Sexual dreams. Because he wanted her—no two ways about it. Straight, simple, basic. Lust.

She deserved better than that.

But he was going to dream about her anyway, because his body was making demands and sending powerful signals to his brain.

He guessed that meant in some way he was no better than Dean Devereaux. No better at all.

Disgusted, he poured himself a shot of bourbon and tried to think of something else. Anything else.

Because he already despised himself enough.