The Best Is Yet to Come. Diana Palmer
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“What did you do to him?”
His eyebrows arched. “What?”
“You must have done something to irritate him,” she persisted.
He glanced at her. “All I did was throw a plate of fish at him,” he muttered. “Well, I hate most fish, anyway,” he said defensively. “But this wasn’t even cooked.”
“Sushi.” She nodded.
He glared at her. “No, not sushi,” he muttered. “I had my heart set on salmon croquettes like your mother makes. He brought me balls of raw salmon with, ugh, onions cut up on them.”
“Did you tell him how to make salmon croquettes?” she asked, trying not to laugh.
“Hell, I don’t know how to cook! If I knew how to cook, would I cart that vicious renegade around with me?”
“Kim Sun can’t read minds,” she said. “If you’ll send him down to us, mother can show him how to make the things you like.”
He shifted his eyes back to the road. “You can cook. You might come up to the house and show him yourself.”
She didn’t answer. She stared at her hands in her lap. The temptation was overwhelming, but he wouldn’t know that.
“We’d have a chaperone,” he said softly.
She flushed, refusing to meet his eyes. “Ryder...!”
“So shy of me,” he said on a heavy sigh. “I’ve stayed away too long. I guess I knew it wouldn’t be long enough, at that, but a man can stand just so much,” he added enigmatically. “I thought you’d be healed by now.”
She swallowed. “Healed?”
“You can’t climb into the grave with him,” he said through his teeth.
“I’m not trying to do that,” she said. She glanced at his strong profile and felt her heart jump. “I...missed you,” she said huskily.
He seemed to shiver. His pale eyes cut sideways, narrow, dangerous. “I’d have come home anytime you told me that,” he said roughly. “In the middle of the night, if you needed me.”
She felt warm all over at the tenderness in his tone, and wanted to cry because it was just friendship. He cared about her, of course he did, but not in the way she wanted him to. She straightened her full skirt. “You had enough to do, without worrying about me,” she said. “All I need is time, you know.”
He pulled into a drive-in and cut off the engine. “Want coffee?” he asked.
“Yes. Black, please.”
“I remember how you like it,” he said. He got out of the truck and came back less than five minutes later with coffee and doughnuts. He handed hers to her and made room for the cups in the holder he’d installed on the dash.
She sipped coffee and ate the doughnut. “Delicious,” she said with a smile. “I haven’t had breakfast.”
“Neither have I. Food bothers me if I eat too early.” He let his eyes slide over her figure. “You’re too thin, little one. You need to eat more.”
“I haven’t had much appetite lately.”
He turned toward her, crossing his long legs as he dipped his doughnut into his coffee and nibbled it. “Talk about it. Maybe it will help.”
She searched his pale eyes, finding nothing there to frighten her. “He was drunk,” she blurted out. “He went to work drinking and pushed the wrong buttons.”
His chiseled lips parted. “I see.”
“Didn’t you know? Don’t pretend you haven’t asked how it happened. The insurance company refused my claim, but the company stood for it, so that we could afford the funeral.” Her big black eyes searched his. “You did it, didn’t you? You made them pay it.”
“Employees pay into the credit union,” he said tersely. “Ben had accumulated a good bit, to which you were entitled. That’s what paid the funeral expense.”
“You knew he was drunk on the job,” she repeated, her eyes huge and hurt.
He sighed. “Yes, Ivy, I knew,” he replied, meeting her gaze. “I knew about the drinking.” His face tautened. “It’s why I stayed away as much as I did. Because Jean told me about the bruises, once, and if I’d seen them, I’d have killed him right in front of you.”
She started as the words penetrated her brain. She couldn’t even respond, because he looked and sounded violent.
He saw her reaction and cursed his tongue. He couldn’t afford to let anything slip; not now. “I’d have done the same if Eve had been in a similar position,” he added. “You girls mean a lot to me. I’m sure you know that.”
“Yes. Of course.” She couldn’t afford to look disappointed. She managed a smile. “You always were protective.”
“I needed to be, just occasionally.” His eyes pierced into hers. “If I’d been around when Ben made his move on you, you’d never have married him. I couldn’t have been more shocked than I was the day I came back and found you married to him.”
“I’d gone to school with him, you know. We were good friends.”
“Friends don’t necessarily make good mates,” he returned. He finished his coffee. “Ben was known for his drinking even before I hired him. He’d sworn off it and seemed to be on the wagon, so I told the personnel department to give him a chance.”
She’d wondered suddenly why he’d done that. She knew that Ben’s father had worked for the company, but it was curious that he should have hired a man who’d been known for his tendency toward alcohol. Perhaps it had been out of the goodness of his heart, but there was something in his face when he said it...
He looked at her suddenly and she averted her eyes. “Ben appreciated your giving him the job,” she said.
“Hell! He hated my guts and you know it,” he returned, glaring at her. “The longer you were married, the more he hated me.”
She held her breath, hoping he wasn’t going to start asking why. Surely he didn’t suspect the reason?
“He hated mother, too,” she said, trying to smooth it over, “although he never let her see it. He hated anyone I... cared about.”
His face hardened. “And he hit you?”
She averted her gaze to the floorboard. “Not often,” she said huskily.
“My God—” His voice broke. He sat up straight and began to bag up the refuse.
Ivy felt his pain even through the cold wall he was already putting up. Impulsively she touched his hard arm, feeling him stiffen at the light touch. His pale eyes met hers and she saw his breathing quicken.
“Please,” she said softly. “I hurt him. I can’t tell you all of it, but he was a gentle kind of man until he married me. He wanted something I couldn’t give him.”
His eyes held hers. “In bed?” he asked roughly.
She flushed and drew back, embarrassed. “I can’t talk about that,” she said huskily.
“Shades of my prim and proper spinster aunt,” he murmured, watching her. “Three years of marriage and you can’t talk about sex.”
The color deepened. “It’s a deeply personal subject.”
“And you can’t talk to me about it?” he persisted. “There was a time when you could ask me anything without feeling embarrassed.”
“Not about...that,” she amended tautly.
His eyes fell to her firm, high breasts and lingered there with appreciation