The Perfect Husband - Lisa Gardner [16]
“Generally people measure it out,” Angela commented, returning to the kitchen.
“I like to live dangerously.”
“I want my gun back.”
“The water-logged .22? You’d be better off with a slingshot.”
“I want my gun.”
It irritated him. Too many people thought guns fixed things. They didn’t. He ought to know. There wasn’t anything he couldn’t do with a rifle and yet everyone he’d ever loved had been destroyed. Guns didn’t fix anything.
“First let’s get through breakfast.” He dumped the oatmeal into two bowls. It had the same consistency as mud. He sprinkled the bowls with raisins for more iron and poured two glasses of milk. Angela looked at the oatmeal as if it were an unrecognizable life-form.
“Eat,” he said. “Tough guys never turn away from a nutritious meal. Hell, if we were outside, I would’ve topped it with bugs. They’re almost pure protein, you know.”
“I didn’t know,” she confessed, and finally, gingerly, scooped up the first spoonful and thrust it into her mouth. Her eyes were closed. She looked like a little kid and he found himself thinking of Teddy again with a sharp, bittersweet pang.
“Yugh,” she said.
“Told you I wasn’t a cook.” He took in three spoonfuls at once. “Don’t chew. It goes down easier.”
She looked horrified. She pushed the bowl away. Just as fast, he pushed it back in front of her. “Eat,” he ordered. “I wasn’t kidding before—soldiers eat what they’re given. And you need your iron, Rambo, so stop dreaming about room service.”
For a moment it appeared that she would defy him. But then she picked up her spoon and eyed her oat-meal as if it were a summit to be scaled.
“I can do this.” She dug in.
“It’s oatmeal, Angela, not Armageddon.”
She ate the whole bowl and cleared the dishes without saying a word. Then she began washing them with the smooth movements of someone who’d done chores all her life.
J.T. wasn’t used to having someone else around who wasn’t Freddie or Rosalita. He felt uncomfortable and, worse, self-conscious. Virginia etiquette crept up and tapped him on the shoulder. He should put on a shirt. He should put on shoes. He should pull out a chair for the nice young lady, offer her lemonade, comment on her beauty, and talk about the weather.
“Why move to Arizona?” Angela asked. She stacked the rinsed dishes noisily beside the sink. Her bruised wrist didn’t seem to bother her.
“No helmet laws.”
“Oh.” She’d run out of things to say. He’d run out of them a long time ago himself. He began ticking off the seconds in his mind. He’d hit only six when she shut off the water and pinned him with a determined look.
“I’m not going to leave,” she announced. “I need your help. Sooner or later you’ll realize that.”
“I’m not going to realize any such thing. You’re lying to me through your teeth.”
Her lips thinned. “You don’t want the truth. I know men like you. You don’t want to become involved. You think you’re happy living in a self-pitying vacuum.”
“Self-pity, that’s what’s wrong with me? First, it’s drinking, now self-pity. Do you watch a lot of Oprah?”
“You think you’ll be better off if you never care again.”
“Can you prove otherwise?”
“I don’t need you to care, Mr. Dillon. I don’t need you to give a . . . a rat’s ass about me. I want you to train me anyway.”
“You want me to be a lapdog,” he corrected her. “You want me to listen to your lies, do as you ask, and never question a thing. I know how it works. I’ve seen Oprah too.”
He kicked back his chair and crossed the alcove. He passed the barrier of the counter. He kept advancing, his eyes dark slits. He saw her mouth open, but no word of protest emerged. She took a step back, but was brought up short by the kitchen sink. She was trapped.
He flattened her against the counter. Her breath came out more rapidly, but she didn’t back down. She brought her chin up defiantly and met his gaze. He leaned into her, flattening her breasts against his bare torso, pressing his body against hers so she’d know exactly what he was capable of. He lowered his head until