Passion to Die For. Marilyn Pappano
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stopped halfway up the steps, on eye level with her, and allowed himself a moment to just look at her. Light blond hair falling past her chin, sleek and elegant like her. Skin the color of warm, dark honey. Brown eyes, a surprise on first sight, damned sexy every other time. She was shorter than his five feet eleven inches, slender, with great breasts and hips, but always lamenting that she enjoyed her own food too much.
He’d never agreed. Not from the very first time he’d seen her and thought damn. Damn, she was beautiful. Damn, she was hot. Damn, he was lost. Five years he’d been lost, and he’d hoped to stay that way forever.
His hands clenched inside his pockets. “You okay?”
“Of course.”
Of course. During all the rough patches they’d gone through, she’d never cried, pouted or moped. She’d never pleaded with him or shown a moment’s weakness. She’d always been stronger, less affected, than he. He admired her strength, but would it have killed her to need him even half as much as he’d needed her?
“What are you doing out here?”
“Enjoying the lovely evening. What are you doing?”
“I was at Sophy’s.”
If that news bothered her, she didn’t let it show. Was she the least bit jealous? He wished. Did she miss him? Maybe. Would she ever marry him? Doubtful. If she hadn’t loved him enough after five years, why should a sixth or eighth or tenth year make a difference?
“How is Sophy?” she asked.
“You could have come to the table and seen for yourself this evening.” He’d waited through the appetizers and the salads for her to do just that. By the time the main course had arrived, he’d accepted that she wasn’t going to.
“I was busy.”
“You’re always busy. Running things. Talking to customers.” Was it a good thing that she’d avoided his table? Had she not wanted to acknowledge him with Sophy?
He took another step up. “I saw you talking to that woman on the porch.” Stupid comment. Of course he’d seen them and she knew it; he’d passed within a few feet of them. “I didn’t recognize her.”
The thin light from the streetlamps showed her shrug, stiff and awkward. “She doesn’t live here.”
“An old friend?”
“No.”
“A relative?”
She was stiffer, more awkward. “Just someone who wanted something.”
He thought back to the woman. If asked, he would have said he hadn’t really paid much attention to her; he’d been too busy not paying attention to Ellie. But he’d seen enough. The woman had looked to be in her sixties, average height and weight. Gray hair, sallow complexion, a heavy smoker and on edge. Even when standing still, she hadn’t been still. Shifting her weight, her gaze darting about, her attention honed.
What had she wanted from Ellie? A handout? A favor? And why Ellie?
Because they shared a connection somewhere in their past? In the five years Ellie had lived in Copper Lake, she’d had little to say about her twenty-five years elsewhere. She was an only child, her parents were dead, and her only relatives were distant, figuratively and literally. He knew she’d had some unhappy times, but she’d never been open to discussing them.
A woman should be willing to discuss her hurts and disappointments with the man she’d been seeing for the better part of five years.
The wind gusted, scattering sodden dead leaves across the square, and it sent a chill through him. His jeans and leather jacket weren’t enough to stand up to the cold, but Ellie didn’t seem to notice the temperature. Granted, she wore a long wool coat, but there was an air of detachment about her. Anamaria would probably say her aura was the translucent shade of blue ice.
“Why don’t you go home?” he suggested, wanting very much to do the same.
“Are you going to continue harassing me if I don’t, Detective?”
“Come on, Ellie.” He wasn’t comfortable leaving her, or any other woman, alone in the gazebo with midnight approaching. Copper Lake’s crime rate was nothing compared to the big cities, but bad things still happened to innocent people.
She opened her mouth as if to argue, then closed it again and stood, arms still folded across her middle. There was another papery crackle. From something hidden beneath her coat?
She passed without touching him, and when he fell into step beside her, she scowled. “I can make it to my car alone.”
“It’s on my way.”
Those were the last words either of them said until they reached the small parking lot that opened off the alley behind the deli. Her lime-green VW Beetle was the only car in the lot, parked under the lone streetlight, its lights flashing when she clicked the remote. She would have gotten in and driven away without a word, but he laid his hand on her arm, stopping her.
“Ellie, if you need to talk—”
Even through the bulk of the coat, he felt her muscles clench. She looked at him, then at his hand, and he withdrew it. The night chill had nothing on her gaze. “Thank you for the escort.”
Her polite words were as bogus as his response. “You’re welcome.” Pushing his hand into his pocket, Tommy stepped back and watched as she slid behind the wheel, started the engine, then drove away. He stood motionless long after her taillights disappeared down the alley, until another blast of wind hit him, this time dampened with more rain moving in.
Damn, she was cold. Damn, she was distant.
And damned if he didn’t still love her.
Ellie’s house was located at the end of Cypress Creek Road, just before it made a sharp right turn and became Magnolia Drive. It wasn’t a trendy part of town; her neighbors were mostly as old as her house, on the downhill side of sixty. The house was small, but the floors were hardwood, it had an attached garage and the price had been reasonable. Besides, most of her waking hours were spent at the restaurant. The house was used mostly for sleeping and doing laundry.
And, off and on until last spring, for having great sex with Tommy.
She would have been touched by his stopping at the gazebo and walking her to her car if she didn’t know him so well. He would have stopped for anyone, ex-lover, acquaintance or total stranger. He was a protector from the inside out. Ensuring other people’s safety wasn’t just his job; it was who he was.
She’d desperately needed someone like that fifteen years ago. She hadn’t had him then, and she couldn’t have him now. Didn’t deserve him now.
She let herself into the house from the garage, leaving her coat in the utility room and walking through the dimly lit kitchen into the living room. None of the furniture was anything special, and the dishes and linens had been chosen by an accommodating clerk at the housewares shop at the mall. Ellie could walk away from it all and never miss a thing.
Except, possibly, the four-inch heels she admired before kicking them off her feet.
Once she was settled comfortably on the couch, she reached for the large envelope Martha had given her, sure what was inside before she opened it. Police reports, complaints, convictions, photographs. It hurt to see herself at fifteen—still young and naive—and then at sixteen and seventeen. Like Martha, she had aged far more than the months could account for. By the age of eighteen, there’d been a hollowness about her, in her face and her eyes and her soul. She’d wanted to end it all—the pain, the shame. She’d had only one reason to live, and even that had been short-term.
Ellie went to the fireplace, put a sheet of paper on the grate and struck a match to it. As the edges curled with flame, she added another page, then another, report after photo after complaint. When the last piece was