Malice. Lisa Jackson
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turned in to the drive, her tires splashing through a puddle from an early morning shower. She parked in the garage and walked inside where a Bryan Adams song from the eighties was blasting. Her husband, sweating in a T-shirt and shorts, was working out on a small weight machine tucked into the den. He glanced over as she walked to the doorway and leaned against the doorjamb. “Hey, Rocky,” she said, and he actually laughed.
A rarity these days.
“That’s me.” He finished a set of leg lifts, his face straining, the muscles bulging in his thighs. For the past three weeks, ever since his boss had suggested he might want to retire, Bentz had redoubled his efforts, throwing himself into regaining his strength with a vengeance. For the most part he’d ditched his crutch and was using a cane, though sometimes he walked unaided, just as he had when he was supposed to be using a crutch. He’d ignored his doctor’s warnings and pushed himself harder than he was supposed to. Big steps, but not big enough to satisfy him.
Olivia couldn’t help but worry about him, aware that exercise had become one of the few de-stressors in his life. His sleep was restless, his only connection to the department, Montoya, was busy with the job and his own family commitment. Even his daughter Kristi was wrapped up in her own life as she planned her wedding. “What do you say I take you out to dinner?” she asked.
“It’s Monday.”
“That’s why we’re celebrating.”
He snorted but smiled as he climbed off the machine and swabbed his face with the towel. “Life must be pretty boring if Monday is cause for a celebration.”
“I thought you might need to get out.”
He arched an inquisitive, thick brow. Yeah, he was in his forties, and yeah, he’d had more than one life-threatening scare in the years that she’d known him, but he was still a hunk. Big-time. Still turned her inside out when he made love to her, which, unfortunately had been spotty since the accident. She thought about trying to seduce him right here and now, but knew he’d suspect she had an ulterior motive of getting pregnant. Which wouldn’t be too far from the truth.
“How about Chez Michelle?” he suggested.
“Oooh, upscale. I was thinking more like a hole-in-the-wall kind of place where they serve curly fries and spicy Cajun shrimp in buckets.”
His dark eyes flickered with the memory of their first “date.” With a chuckle, he said, “That’s what I like about you, Livvie, you’re a true romantic. You’re on.” He snapped his towel at her as he passed and made his way to the bathroom.
Two hours later they were seated at a table in a brick courtyard where doves cooed and pecked at crumbs while the sun began to set. Shadows crept through the pots of herbs that bloomed and scented the air.
The restaurant itself was narrow and dark, its walls strung with fishing nets, the tables butting up to huge tubs of shaved ice packed with bottles of beer. Luckily, this place had been spared the wrath of the hurricane.
Olivia sipped from a glass of iced tea and ate heartily from the spicy Cajun shrimp and crisp French fries. Conversation buzzed around them and rattling flatware echoed through the courtyard. It was her favorite place, one they patronized often. Bentz had walked into the courtyard without the use of his cane and his movements were surer now, steadier. But there was still something bothering him, something that he was keeping from her.
And she was sick of waiting for him to open up. It wasn’t happening.
“So,” she said, pushing her plate aside and wiping her fingers on the lemon wedge and napkin provided. “What’s going on with you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t do this, Rick.” She met his gaze. “You and I both know that things are strained. I suppose it’s partly due to the accident. Heaven knows you’ve been through a lot, but there’s more to it.”
“Using your ESP on me?” he asked, taking a slug from his zero-alcohol beer.
“I wish I could.” She tried to keep the irritation out of her voice, but she knew him well enough to sense when he was being evasive on purpose. “You’ve been shutting me out.”
One of his bushy eyebrows quirked. “You think?”
“I know.”
“See…it’s those extra powers of perception you’ve got.”
“You and I both know that whatever ‘powers’ I had quit working years ago.” She didn’t want to think about that time, when she’d first met Bentz and she could see the horror of a series of grisly murders through the killer’s eyes. At first he’d openly scoffed at her visions, but eventually he’d learned differently. And he never let her forget it. “Don’t try to change the subject. It’s not gonna work.” She shoved her plate to one side and set her elbows on the table. “It’s more than you suffering from your injuries after the accident. Something’s eating at you. Something big.”
“You’re right. I can’t stand not working.”
“Really?” She didn’t buy it. His attachment to work didn’t explain the distance she felt between them. Besides, he was too quick with his answer. “Anything else?”
He shook his head. Stonewalling her.
“You’d tell me if there was?”
“Of course.” He offered her that lazy grin she found so charming, reached across the table, and squeezed her hand. “Be patient with me, okay?”
“Haven’t I been?”
His gaze slid away.
“Is it that I want a baby?” She’d always been a straight shooter, saw no reason not to acknowledge the problem they’d avoided discussing. For the first few weeks after his accident Bentz had been impotent. Hell, he’d barely been able to walk, much less make love. But that problem had corrected itself.
“I think I told you about that. I’m pushing fifty, out of a job at the moment, still using a damned cane some of the time, and I’ve got a grown kid who’s about to get married. I don’t…it’s not that I don’t want a child with you, it’s just that I’m not sure the timing’s right or that I want to start over.”
“But I do. And I’m in my late thirties. My biological clock isn’t ticking, Bentz. It’s tolling like thunder in my ears. I don’t think I have time to wait, to mull things over. If I want a child, and I do, then we have to try.”
His jaw slid to the side and he took a swallow from his bottle, then looked away, as if the roofline of the restaurant were suddenly fascinating. She felt the gulf between them widen and when she saw the waiter seating a young couple and their three-year-old toddler, her heart twisted painfully.
“What the hell’s happening to us?”
A muscle worked in his jaw and her heart clutched. He was struggling with something, weighing if he could trust her with the truth. Her stomach dropped. “What is it?” she asked, her voice a whisper, a new fear chasing after her, burrowing deep into her heart. She believed he loved her, she did. But…
And then he closed her out again. “I’ve just got a lot to deal with.”
Translation: Stop bothering me and for God’s sake, don’t pressure me into a decision about having a baby.
“I’m a psychologist. I can feel you blocking me out.”
“And I’m a cop. A detective. Or I was. I’ve just got to figure out a few things.” He looked at her again, the expression in his eyes unreadable. But this time when he touched her, he held fast. “Trust me.”
“I do. But I think you’re depressed and no one can blame you. Maybe we need a change of scenery, a new start.”
“And a baby? Look, I don’t think that will solve the problem.” He met her gaze evenly. “You can’t