touched his arm. “They liked Gary. They’ll like you.”
“I’m not Gary.”
Abigail was clearly touched by his insecurity. Her smile was gentle and understanding. “Just stick close to me, then.”
The party was on Drew and Judy’s big patio in the backyard. Marsh was friendly to others, but attentive to Abigail, bringing her drinks and surprising her with a filled plate from the buffet table as she sat talking with one of Judy’s neighbors. He stood behind her and reached for an occasional nibble.
“You know, they’ll let you have your own plate, Marsh.”
“Yours tastes better.” Marsh laughed. The neighbor smiled at their banter. They were a couple, weren’t they? It was apparent to others already.
Yes, he thought now. That’s where Abigail will be. Having coffee, getting sympathy from that bitch Judy, telling lies about me to explain why she isn’t home tending to her business.
He parked and got out of the car. It was time for Abigail to come home, where she belonged. His fists clenched at his sides and he shook them out, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet, loosening up, before he strode up the walkway to the little blue house. He couldn’t arrive at the door angry. Drew was probably there.
Halfway to the door, Marsh turned around, went back to the car and drove around the corner before turning in a neighbor’s driveway and driving slowly back, to park two houses down. He turned off the engine and the lights, and simply watched. Drew might be there, and he’d certainly understand Marsh’s desire to have Abigail back at home where she belonged, but maybe Marsh would have a chance to see for himself just how traitorous Abigail had become.
Because what if...just maybe...Drew was the man Abigail had run off with?
Marsh sat in the early twilight, strong fingers drumming on the steering wheel, watching Drew and Judy’s house. Thinking.
Planning.
* * *
“Abigail? Do you understand me?” Cade asked her a second time for agreement, looking into her cloudy gray eyes. Though she was meeting his gaze, she was far away in her thoughts, and they weren’t happy ones, judging from the faint vertical line between her silky brows, and the tightness of her lips. Strands of her hair had escaped her ponytail and were sticking to the sides of her face and her neck. Cade knew a sudden urge to lift them away and put them back where they belonged, or to loose her hair entirely, watch it catch the bright light.
At last she nodded. “I won’t try anything stupid. Promise.”
“Good.” He released her, moved behind her and used the short, thick blade of his pocketknife to cut the cable ties that served as impromptu handcuffs. The skin of her wrists was reddened where she had strained against the bonds, but unbroken, and not bruised. It was velvety soft where he touched it, slightly moist with sweat. He watched her shoulders slump in relief at the release of tension. She massaged her wrists and shoulders briefly before standing to examine the contents of the first aid kit.
“Sit down,” she told him, adding “please” when he raised an eyebrow at her. He sat with his back away from her, so she’d have to reach around him to get to the gun, jammed tight in the back of his waistband. He gestured to Mort to wait not far away. The dog retreated to a blob of dark shade under a nearby scrub oak, and turned to face them.
“He’s got the right idea.” Abigail nodded toward the dog, opening a package of gauze pads and wetting two. “It’s really hot out here. Shade would be nice. I’m going to wash the area of the cut. Speak up if what I’m doing hurts.”
Cade felt her slim fingers probing at the wound, assessing the shape and size of the goose egg. Then came the welcome cool of the wet cotton, soaking first, and then gently swabbing away blood from his hair and skin. He sat alert, though it was more for show than need. She seemed absorbed in her task, dabbing, remoistening the pads and setting them aside as they became red with his blood. She was close enough that he could smell her skin, acrid with leftover fear and adrenaline, perspiration, an undertone of soap. She moved his head from one position to the next like someone who was comfortable touching others. An image of Abigail mending the cuts and scrapes of a child snagged in the screen of his mind. The abruptness of the thought and his vague, negative reaction to it startled him.
I hope I’m not keeping her away from her kids. But then, if there are kids at home, maybe they’re the reason she left. Sometimes they get to be too much. I don’t think I ever want kids. He knew she was widowed, but how many people were in her family? The urge to know the answer was too strong, so he began to lead her to an answer.
“You seem like a pro at this first aid thing.”
She replied promptly, though her tone was a little distracted. “Just part of a day’s work. I get first aid and CPR training every year.”
“Kids, huh? How many?”
“No, none.”
He was pleased and relieved by her answer. “Nurse?”
“Adult day care. Hold still.... I’m going to probe around the edges of this lump. I can’t tell you how sorry I am you got injured.”
Adult day care. He thought about that for a while. It didn’t jibe, the idea of Abigail as a skilled health care professional and the fact she was a car thief. People who took on that kind of responsibility didn’t just walk away from their lives without cause. Nothing about her jibed, not yet.
“Lots of accidents like this in adult day care?”
Her mouth quirked in a rueful smile that made his fingers itch to touch the curling corner and the dimple just beside it. Under the mask of strain she was an attractive woman, if too thin. “If you mean do I take corners too fast when transporting my clients, and give them all head injuries...no. But things get knocked over and break, and then someone tries to help pick up the pieces and gets cut. Or someone will have a seizure. Sometimes the stress is too much for one of them and they think hitting their head on the wall again and again will help. Even obsessively gnawing hangnails until they bleed. Things like that.”
Abigail put her palms on his cheeks and tilted his head far to one side. She didn’t hesitate to touch his scarred face. You get points for having balls, Abigail. Most people shy away from that on first sight. Almost none would be willing to touch me. Her hands were gentle but firm, unintentionally caressing, and an image flitted through his mind of her bending to kiss him. Cade was thankful she couldn’t read his inappropriate thoughts. The idea of dragging her ass—and it could be a great ass if she weren’t so thin; he’d noticed the upside-down heart shape of it already—to the sheriff in Wildwood appealed less and less.
He was glad he didn’t know the deputies in Wildwood, not the way he knew them here locally in his home jurisdiction of Ocala, or Gainesville, where he’d done undercover work, before the incident that marked him for life. He could just picture himself escorting Abigail into his home station and explaining he’d been stupid enough to leave his truck running and the door standing open like an engraved invitation, and this sweet-faced woman with the capable hands had waltzed off with it.
It would be joke fodder for months. Years. He’d hear about it at every stolen vehicle report, every poker night, fishing trip, birthday parties for their kids, weddings, funerals, K-9 training sessions. The ragging would never end. Even the administrative staff and the dispatchers would get in on the fun.
