A Kept Woman. Sheri WhiteFeather
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of these classes seem important,” she said, hoping and praying she could pull this off. In her mind’s eye, she could see the boutique she intended to open. She’d dreamed up every detail, yet deep down she was afraid of failing, of discovering that she’d gotten in over her head. “Did you go to college?”
He nodded. “I have a degree in criminal justice.”
“Oh.” Did she think a WITSEC inspector would be uneducated? Someone she could relate to? “How old are you?”
“Forty.”
She studied his profile. He was the same age as David, but David covered the gray in his hair and worried about the crow’s-feet that had begun to form at the corners of his eyes.
Zack leaned into her, his shoulder brushing hers. “They must have a training program of some sort. A group of classes—” He flipped through the catalog. “And here it is. Check this out. Twelve three-hour sessions on Wednesday nights, with just about every course you’ll need.”
She read the program outline. It did look promising. “The first class starts next month.”
“That’s perfect, don’t you think? You’ll have some time to settle in before you start school.”
Touched by his enthusiasm, her heart made a girlish leap. She couldn’t remember the last time someone had supported her endeavors. He lifted his head to look at her, and she realized how close their faces were.
Close enough to kiss.
When she lowered her gaze to his mouth, he scooted back, and a blast of shame nailed her straight in the chest. He handed her the catalog, and she summoned the courage to ask the dreaded question. “Are you married, Zack?”
“What? No.” He flinched, then frowned at her, an expression that made him seem tougher than he already was. “I’m divorced.”
“Recently?”
“It’s been four years.”
“Was it a bitter separation?” she asked, a bit too curious for her own good.
“Bitter?” His frown deepened. “Are you kidding? It was friendly as hell. Especially after I threatened to shoot her lover’s balls off.”
Natalie nearly swallowed her tongue. “She cheated on you?”
His gaze locked on to hers. “It happens.”
The way it had happened between her and David? Was Zack comparing his situation to hers? Blaming her for being the other woman? Did he empathize with Ellen Halloway?
Natalie tore at a blade of grass. Surely Zack knew that David’s wife was responsible for putting a hit on her. Ellen had forgiven her husband, but she wasn’t about to forgive Natalie for turning him over to the police. Or for occupying his bed.
Should she explain? Try to make Zack understand?
She gazed at the lake, at a boat bobbing in the distance. “I didn’t know David was married. Not at first. When he talked about having family commitments, I thought he meant the West Coast Family. He never mentioned Ellen. Or his children.”
“What did you do when you found out?”
“I left him.”
He gave her a startled stare. “You did?”
“I called an old friend and started sleeping on her couch. Then I pounded the pavement for a job. I didn’t have any skills, but I knew I could work at a clothing store. I’ve always had a good sense of style.”
“So that’s when you worked in retail? I thought it was before you met Halloway.”
“No, it was after.”
“For all the good it did.” Zack reached for a cigarette, then cursed when his lighter wouldn’t ignite. “You went back to him. When things got tough, you quit your job and took the easy way out.”
“None of it was easy.” She fidgeted with the catalog on her lap. “But yes, I went back to David.”
“Even though he was still married?”
“He told me that he was going to leave Ellen someday. When his children were older, when he could avoid a messy divorce.”
“And you bought that? A smart lady like you? Sounds like you were making excuses to stay with him. To hold on to that lifestyle.”
“Does it?” She glanced away, hurt by his unwillingness to believe her. And afraid, so deathly afraid, that he could be right.
Three
After Zack and Natalie left NIC, he took her to a furniture store, and now he stood in the middle of a mock living room, wondering what had come over him. He’d just met Natalie yesterday, and today he’d told her about his divorce. He’d admitted, without the slightest reserve, that his wife had boffed another man.
“What do you think of this?” she asked.
He turned to see her admiring a contemporary leather sofa, plumped with faux-fur pillows.
She reached for the tag. “It comes in ivory and black. I prefer the ivory, don’t you?”
He moved forward, wishing he’d had the sense to keep his mouth shut, to keep his private life private.
“It’s twelve-hundred dollars.”
“I know. Can you believe it? At that price, I should get the love seat and the matching chair, too.”
He could only stare. “The love seat is nine-hundred bucks. And the chair and ottoman are another grand.”
She looked up. “So?”
“So get a grip.” Had she forgotten that WITSEC had put a conservative cap on her moving expenses? Or that a figure from the Bureau of Labor Statistics determined the amount of her monthly allowance? This wasn’t a high-dollar gig.
“Just imagine how it would look in my house.”
Zack shook his head. He’d had to discourage this kind of spending before. Career criminals didn’t have a clue. They didn’t know how to make their stipend last. And neither, apparently, did Natalie. “I already warned you about being on a budget.”
She ran her hand over the top of the sofa, caressing the upholstery with a lover’s touch. “This is Italian leather.” On a moaning-type sigh, she plopped her butt down, wiggling into the cushions. “You should feel how soft it is.”
He wasn’t about to get orgasmic over a piece of furniture. “How about this?” Attempting to redirect her focus, he walked over to a couch he’d spotted earlier. A simple, durable design with a three-hundred-dollar price tag. “It’s almost the same color.”
She followed him, making a disgusted face the entire way. “That’s taupe, not ivory. And I want leather.”
“By the time you throw in some tables, lamps, a TV, a DVD player, a stereo and the rest of your bedroom outfit, you won’t be able to afford a twelve-hundred dollar couch. Let alone a love seat and matching chair.”
She crossed her arms, but somehow she still managed to look pretty—long and lean and feminine.
“Don’t pout,” he told her.
“I’m not,” she argued.
Okay, so maybe she wasn’t, but her lips were full and thick, glossed like sugar-glazed cherries. And to make matters worse, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d indulged in dessert.
She glanced back at the ivory sofa she’d caressed, her voice wistful. “I want that.”
And he wanted to find out if she tasted as good as she looked, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. “I already told you. You can’t afford that.”
“I’ll use some of my