The 9th Judgment - James Patterson [21]
And then my apartment burned down.
And now Joe was living here, and I was wearing his ring. At this moment it felt almost as though he were riding along with my thoughts. He held me closer and cupped my breasts. He got hard against me, and then he ran his hand down to my belly and pressed me to him.
As his breathing sped up, so did mine, and then he was turning me as though I were a tiny thing—a feeling that I just love. I squirmed from his touch, heating up under this new kind of loving that felt so different from the roller-coaster craziness of the time before Joe and I finally committed to a shared life.
I faced him and wrapped my arms around his neck, and he pulled my legs up to his waist, and this incredible, breathtaking moment bloomed. I waited through the tension of those long seconds before he entered me. I looked into his deep-blue eyes—and gave myself over to him.
“I love you, Blondie,” he said.
I nodded because I couldn’t speak. Tears were in my eyes and my throat ached as we joined together. He held me and rocked me, and I was happy. I loved this man. Our lives were finally blending in a delicious and balanced way.
So what was nagging me from a cul-de-sac in my mind? Why did I feel that I was letting myself down?
Part Two
SHOWTIME
Chapter 27
SARAH WELLS FLIPPED the chicken-fried steak in the pan and removed the garlic bread from the oven, thinking that it was all heart-attack food—or was that just wishful thinking?
The TV was on in the next room. Sarah could see it through the wall opening and could hear Helen Ross, the pretty, blond talk-show host, over the crackling of grease in the pan. Ross was sympathizing with Marcus Dowling about the pain of losing his wife.
“Come on, Helen,” Sarah muttered. “Put him on the grill. Don’t be a jerk.”
“She was so happy,” Dowling was saying. “We’d had this lovely dinner with friends. We were going on holiday, and then—this. The unimaginable.”
“It is unimaginable,” Ross said. She reached out to touch Dowling’s hand. “Casey had such spirit, such charisma. We did a Red Cross fund-raiser together last year.”
“There is no way to describe the agony,” Dowling said. “I keep thinking, If only I hadn’t done the washing up—”
Trevor came into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and bent to take out a beer, his girth falling over the waistband of his underwear. He popped the top, took a swig of Bud, then walked behind his wife and grabbed her ass.
“Hey,” she said, moving out of his reach.
“What’s with you?”
“Here,” she said, handing him the tongs. “Take over, okay?”
“Where’re you going?”
“I’ve had a tough day, Trev.”
“You ought to see a doctor, you know.”
“Shut up.”
“Because you’re on the rag all the time.”
Sarah sank into the couch and turned up the volume. All she’d thought about since she stole the jewelry was Marcus Dowling, trying to understand what the hell had happened once she’d bailed out the window.
“You couldn’t have known,” Helen Ross was saying.
The pan slammed on the stove behind her, Trevor trying to get her attention. On the TV, Dowling was saying, “The police haven’t turned up anything, and meanwhile this killer is free.”
Sarah finally got it. She didn’t know why he did it, but it was he. Dowling had killed his wife! There was no one else it could be. How convenient that Sarah had broken into his house so that he could set her up to take the fall.
Trevor said, “Chow’s on, darlin’. Your Cheerios are just the way you like ’em.”
Sarah turned off the TV and went to the dinette. “I’m sorry I snapped at you,” she said, thinking it was better to apologize than to get him more wound up. Sometimes he could get physical. When she talked to Heidi about Trevor, they called him “Terror.” It was an apt nickname.
Trevor grunted, sawed on