Devious - Lisa Jackson [58]
It had been Christmas Eve, rain battering the windows, the East Texas wind blowing cold. With candles lit and the sound of a choir singing “O Holy Night” whispering through the ranch house, Camille had been set on seduction.
And Armageddon had ensued.
Damn it all to hell.
Now the news story changed, and Slade drained his beer. He left some cash on the bar and, with a nod to the tattooed barkeep, strode outside to the heat of late afternoon.
The image of Camille followed him outside, and though he tried to shake it, she hung close, as she had in life. A shimmering ghost. Death had only exacerbated the feeling that she was nearby, that she would never let him be.
Slade walked a few blocks toward the river, striding with purpose. He hardly noticed the people he passed, teenagers in groups, each plugged into an iPod or talking on a cell phone; a jogger, sweating and intent on getting in her predusk workout; two homeless men with beards, backpacks, and watch caps, asking for spare change. Local color was lost on him; his mind was anywhere but here.
The air was heavy, the sultry heat that pressed against his skin thicker than what he was used to in the hill country he called home.
At the top of a levee, he paused to watch ships and boats churn up the murky water of the wide, muddy Mississippi River. The sun hung low in the western sky, promising to dip below the horizon within the next few hours.
Shadows lengthened, but the warmth of the day remained, seeming to ooze from the ground as he walked back to his truck and climbed into the sunbaked interior.
Earlier, despite all his adverse thoughts, he’d given Val some space. She’d been furious with him for following her to the convent, but there was something else in her eyes as well, something that gave him a bit of encouragement.
And just what is it that you want?
A marriage without trust?
A separation?
Maybe a divorce would be the best thing—a clean slate. You both could start over.
Their romance and wedding had been like fire in a tinder-dry forest. Quick. All consuming. Destined to burn out.
They’d met when he’d gone into the local sheriff ’s office to report some cattle that had gone missing—stolen, he’d expected. When the dispatcher had told him politely that someone would come out to the ranch to look things over, he’d expected a silver-haired deputy with a bit of a paunch and years of experience. Instead, Valerie Renard had stepped out of the department-issued Jeep, all five feet five of her. Her uniform had fit snugly, showing off her athletic body and hinting at her curves. Reflective sunglasses had covered the upper half of her face, a hat shading her forehead, auburn hair pulled back. She’d worn little makeup, but he’d found himself fantasizing about her, as if she were one of those cop-impersonator strippers. He’d figured his brothers had pulled a practical joke on him.
But when she had not whipped out her cuffs to “arrest” him and had settled down to business about the missing cattle, he’d had to accept the fact that she was a cop doing her job. She’d been thorough, but the twenty head were never found, most likely victims of a rustling ring that had swung through the hill country.
Nonetheless, he’d been intrigued with the deputy who was quickly promoted to detective. And when he’d gotten up the nerve to ask her out, she’d surprised him with a quick “Sure, Cowboy, why not?”
There had been dozens of reasons why not, but they’d ignored them all. She’d slept with him on the third date, moved into the ranch house the next month, and said “I do” six weeks later. Their affair had burned hot, rash, and straight into trouble.
Which had come in the form of her baby sister: Camille Renard, a younger, wilder version of Valerie and a woman who had been determined, it seemed in retrospect, to break up their marriage.
In the end, even in death,