The Perfect Husband - Lisa Gardner [52]
He’d liked it. He’d thought he’d finally found something he could do, a place he belonged. But even marines had to take orders, and the first time he’d had to deal with a hypocritical, shit-for-brains, wife-beating senior officer, he’d lost it. He’d tried to hold his temper. He had. But then he was thinking of Merry Berry and all those nights he’d listened to his father’s jump boots clip down the hall to her room. And he was thinking of all the times he tried to tell someone of what really went on in their house at night and all the times he was beaten by the colonel for “spreading ugly, foul rumors.”
You got a problem with me, boy? You fight like a man, you take me on, hit me if you think you can. But don’t go spreading lies, boy. That’s the way a wuss fights, a weak, pussy-whipped mama’s boy.
One night his CO had pulled back his hand to smack his wife, and J.T. had stepped over the edge. He’d beaten the man to within an inch of his life and would’ve beaten him more. Would’ve like to pulverize his head, smash the man into the ground until nothing remained. Four guys had to pull him off. And the wife called him a brute and ran back to her mushy-faced husband, throwing her arms around his neck and burying her black eye against his shoulder.
That had been the end of the Marine Corps for J. T. Dillon.
At last he saw what he’d been waiting to see—Marion peering down over the edge of the pool.
He pushed himself off the bottom and rocketed toward the top. He emerged in a flurry of water, shaking his head like a Labrador and spraying his sister liberally.
“Now, that’s a dive!” he exalted, and shook his head again.
“Oh, for God’s sake.” Marion took a step back and stared at him in disgust. Then she looked down at her water-spotted silk tank top. “Look what you’ve done, J.T.! Christ, it’s like you’re six years old or something.”
“Loosen up, Marion. Wanna swim, or are agents too tough for that?”
He got what he wanted in under thirty seconds. Marion was as predictable as a wind-up doll. She might as well walk around with a sign reading
EGO—PUSH HERE FOR BEST RESULTS.
“I can fucking swim.” She jabbed the air with her bony index finger. “Suicides.”
“Suicides? I don’t know, Marion. Pretty serious for a woman.” He continued treading water and smiling at his little sister.
“Oh, you’re going to pay for that, J.T. First one who cries uncle loses.”
She grabbed the bottom of her tank top and to his amusement, stripped it off. He had her mad and he had her wired. He would feel bad about it, but she was an adult; she should know better than to take up the gauntlet without thinking it through. Suicides involved swimming the length of the pool, jumping out to do five push-ups, diving back in, and repeating the process. They required serious upper body strength, giving the man the clear advantage. Not that Marion would ever admit to something like that.
Not perfect, ambitious Marion.
Her linen shorts puddled onto the deck. He discovered that even his sister’s underwear was businesslike—practical pink Lycra bra and panties that were less revealing than a bathing suit. Had Roger gotten tired of efficient underclothing? Even J.T. wasn’t self-destructive enough to ask his sister that question.
He swam to the end of the pool, hefted himself out, and stood.
“Ready?”
Marion had that gleam in her eye and that tilt of her chin that said she was more than ready. She was going to wipe the deck with his ass. His sister had been keeping in shape too. No fat on that body and no glimmer of weakness