Under His Protection. Amy J. Fetzer
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green-eyed and willowy slim. And she was married.
Well, a widow.
Nash glanced inside the hotel room. Emergency medical technicians were lifting the sheet-wrapped victim into a body bag, then onto a stretcher. Pulling the door closed behind him, he motioned the officer to let her pass.
Immediately Nash ushered her away from the suite and into a room they’d commandeered for questioning potential witnesses. Once inside, he positioned a patrolman outside, then closed the door.
Lisa frowned at the way Nash was acting. She hadn’t seen him in ages except for passing glimpses from a car now and then. Indigo was small compared to New York, but being on the fringes of Charleston, it was plenty large enough to get lost in. Lost enough not to have come face-to-face like this.
For a few moments they just stared at each other. “Hello, Lisa,” Nash finally said.
Lisa felt her stomach lurch as his deep voice rolled over her. God, he looked good. “Hey, Nash. How’s life treating you?”
Lousy, he thought, but said, “Decent. It’s been a while.”
This came with a hint of apology. Lisa shrugged, although her heart was hopping like a frog in a pond. “About four years, huh?”
The stiffness between them was almost palpable as Nash’s gaze moved over her from head to foot. She looked bright and fresh, scrubbed healthy, her red tank top exposing tanned arms, the short denim skirt showing off her long legs. Great gams, his father would’ve called them. “You said you’d never come back to Indigo.”
Why was he bringing this up now? she wondered. “Things change. I was born here. This is my home. Besides, you pushed me to say that,” she said, remembering their last fight. “I was angry.”
“I didn’t push you anywhere. Hell, you’re the one who wanted to end—”
He stopped abruptly, and she could see him shut down, close off. Typical, she thought.
He ran his hand over his mouth and sighed. “Well, that was real mature,” he said sheepishly.
Yes, it was, she agreed silently, for both of them.
Coolly, he gestured to two chairs set opposite each other at a delicate Queen Anne table, and as she sat, he poured her a cup of coffee in china cups the hotel manager had set out. He added cream to hers, just the right amount, and that he remembered sent her to a strange place in her heart. She tried to leave it.
“What exactly is going on here, Nash?”
He met her gaze, his expression offering nothing. That wasn’t unusual for Nash Couviyon. Except for his younger brother Temple, keeping feelings all locked inside was a family trait. She studied him, his dark hair shorter than she remembered, though the rest of him had changed little. He sat, the fabric of his suit jacket pulling against his broad shoulders as he braced his arms on the tabletop. It was hard not to notice the size of him, that the delicate cup was like a glass ornament in his fist, easily crushed. Planed like a sculptor’s creation in stone, he looked deadly, unbreakable. Unshakable. The sharp line of his jaw slid unrelenting to his cheekbones, slightly hollow beneath blue eyes. Wicked blue eyes, she’d always thought. Eyes that melted her insides, yet there was no sign of softness in them now. They were glass hard. Pinning her.
She sent the stare right back at him, bracing herself against feeling anything for him. Even as she thought that, she knew it was impossible. This was Nash.
“My employee, Kate, called my cell phone,” she said, “and told me the police asked me to come over, though I have no idea what for. Care to explain?”
Nash hated this part and prayed she hadn’t been anywhere near her husband in the past twelve hours. “Your husband is dead.”
Her expression went slack. “That’s impossible.”
“I’m sorry, but he’s in the next room, with the coroner.”
“But he was fine last night.”
Oh, God. “You were with him?”
She didn’t clue in to the narrow look he shot her. “I was married to him, Nash. If he was in town, don’t you think we’d at least see each other?”
“But you haven’t been living in the same city?”
“That’s because we were divorcing. As of this morning, our divorce is final.”
Nash frowned. This was not the conversation he’d thought he’d be having with her right now.
“Who do you think killed him?” she asked.
“Why would you say that?”
“I noticed the badge, Nash.” Her gaze darted where it hung on his jacket pocket. “You’re a detective now, not the chief coroner.” She arched a brow. “And Peter was a stockbroker—he made enemies daily.”
“I work on all suspicious deaths. You one of those enemies?”
“No, of course not. Peter adored me.” Too much, she thought. That adoration had twisted into something ugly. “However, we’ve been legally separated for two and a half years.”
A year after her marriage they separated? He didn’t want to feel smug about that. “Legal separation before filing isn’t that long. Why not divorce sooner? Why now?”
His shock didn’t do a thing for her except make her feel sick. It was tough to admit that her marriage had failed so early. “I couldn’t afford to divorce him till recently, and he wouldn’t do it. In fact, last night, he…oh, jeez.”
For the first time it hit her, really hit her. And Nash watched as her features fell, her lower lip quivered. She looked down at the china cup, but when she brought it to her mouth, her trembling proved that her grip on her emotions was tenuous. She set the cup down.
Tears welled up in her eyes and fell. She cried without sound.
Nash ached to hold her, but he was on duty, and not one of her favorite people, so he kept his distance. She was a suspect, a prime one. She wouldn’t want his help, anyway, but it was killing him to watch her fight her tears. Lisa had always been a tough cookie, and to see her come apart was heartbreaking. Teardrops hit her hands and the table in tiny plops.
He felt them like gunshots.
He left his chair and grabbed a tissue, shoving it into her line of sight. She muttered thanks and took it. It was several more minutes before she regained her composure. Nash felt useless.
“I need to ask you a few more questions.”
She nodded and met his gaze, sniffling once.
Nash set a tape recorder on the table and pushed record. He recited her name, marital status, age, the time… Lisa didn’t hear the rest. She was too stunned to listen. Was he questioning her as a suspect or character witness?
“For the record, when did you last see Peter Winfield?”
She blinked at the recorder, then met his gaze. “Last night at around eight-thirty, nine o’clock. He’d called me and asked me to come over.”
“What happened?”
“He wanted one more chance to make me stay with him.”
“Make you?”
Always a cop, she thought, reading something into every little thing. “Well, make isn’t really correct. Convince would be a better word.” Threaten would be even better.
“Why did you divorce?”
She looked down at her coffee, watching the cream separate into a star shape. “Irreconcilable differences.”
“I don’t buy that for a second.”
Her gaze jerked to his. “It’s personal.” Nash wasn’t getting details. No one was.
“But