The Perfect Husband - Lisa Gardner [55]
His mouth opened and closed several times. He wanted to be angry but couldn’t pull off the emotion. When he’d agreed to let his sister stay, had he really thought she would do anything less? Proud, ambitious, driven Marion?
And he wanted to know the answer.
“You’ll tell me what you learn,” he commanded quietly, “and no one else. If she has done something, Marion, if she is in trouble, you won’t handle it—”
“Like hell. I am a federal agent—”
“No! You’re my sister. You’re here as my sister and that’s what I want you to be. Five more days, Marion, is that asking too much? Five days, please just be my sister. I don’t mind so much being your brother. I’ll try not to embarrass you.”
She was silent. Stunned. He could feel it. For once, cool Marion wasn’t so composed. “All right,” she said, and seemed as shocked as he was by her answer. “I’ll tell you what I find, J.T. And it’s up to you to deal with it. For five days.”
“Thank you. I mean, honestly, thank you.”
The sliding door opened. Angela appeared on the patio, looking self-conscious. Her hair had been rinsed and blown dry, though it still looked a little damp around the edges. She raked one hand through the short strands, then knotted her hands in front of her. “Well? What do you think?”
She looked beautiful. The fading sun sparked the rich brown color, giving it fire. Her face looked pale and lovely, her eyes endlessly deep. He thought she looked nothing like the woman she’d been just hours before.
And that scared him.
He said, “It suits you.”
“That’s what a disguise is supposed to do, right? Suit you.”
“You do learn fast.”
“I do,” she assured him. “So don’t worry about me and my little outbursts, J.T. I will get tough. And I’m going to learn how to shoot that gun!”
Marion shook her head. “You’ll be sorry, J.T.,” she murmured under her breath. “You’ll be sorry.”
DINNER ON THE patio was a silent affair. J.T. grilled swordfish. Angela and Marion consumed it without comment. As soon as the last bite was taken, Angela rose, cleared the table, and disappeared into the kitchen.
Marion lit a cigarette. J.T. stared at all the stars and wished his throat didn’t feel so dry. He could feel sweat bead his upper lip, his shoulders, his arms. He told himself it was the heat, but he was lying. He wanted a beer. He was staring at Marion’s and coveting it like a man lost in the desert.
Find the zone, he told himself. Use the zone.
But the phone rang and jarred him back out.
Marion looked at him for one moment, then got up to answer it. He sat there alone with the crickets, his gaze still locked on her beer.
Just one sip, maybe two.
You gave your word.
Ah, Christ, it’s just a beer. What’s so criminal about a man having a beer? Men shouldn’t listen to women anyway, it only gets them into trouble.
You will not be an alcoholic.
Having a beer after dinner is not alcoholism, it’s enjoying a beer. Just one. I drank all the time in the service, we all did. And could we perform? We always performed. It helps take off the edge. Christ, I want to take off the edge.
Find the zone.
Fuck you, J.T. You know you’re a liar, you know there’s no real zone. Only time you find it is when you’re in battle, and rifle shots crack the air and adrenaline buzzes in your ear. The only time you’re calm, you’re centered, you’re at peace, is when someone’s trying to kill you. And that’s just plain twisted.
His hand reached out on its own. His fingers curled around the base of the cold, wet bottle.
God, he was so thirsty. His fingers were trembling. He wanted, he wanted, he wanted.
The sliding glass door slammed back and he leapt guiltily, stuffing his hand beneath his thigh.
Marion stood on the patio with the lights golden around her. The picture shook him back to other times. Marion standing at the foot of his bed in her long white nightgown, her blond hair cascading down her back, her hands twisting in front of her. Marion begging him to save her, while the colonel pounded at his locked door and demanded his children