and Dana knew with the intimate knowledge of two years of marriage what he was thinking. The same thing she was. They both remembered how many of her baths had ended with damp, tangled sheets and shared laughter. Dana felt the liquid heat that had always burned through her at his touch. She saw the spark of it in his eyes.
Embarrassed by her thoughts and the knowledge that he was reading them, she mangled a strip of tape as she applied it, then impatiently ripped it off. He jerked and grimaced. “Ouch. What are you trying to do, kill me?”
“I don’t have to. You’re doing a fine job of it by yourself,” she retorted. “Now, shut up.” Her mouth tight, she finished taping up his wounds. She cut the ruined sweatshirt off and slid his jacket out from under him, working doggedly, trying to ignore his labored breaths and the occasional quiet grunts when she hurt him.
“How did you get shot this time?” she asked in spite of herself. If she could take back the question, she would have. She didn’t want to know. She didn’t want to own the knowledge of this latest proof of Cody’s mortality.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” he said softly, his words slurring.
She breathed a sigh of relief, ignoring the tiny inner voice that speculated on how bad the answer must be if he didn’t want her to know. She didn’t need another life-size image for her mental scrapbook—Cody being shot, Cody falling, Cody lying still and pale on the ground.
She finally finished dressing his wounds, thankful when his torn flesh was covered. It scared her to realize how fragile he was, merely human under his skin, no matter how invulnerable he appeared. Biting her lower lip, she pushed the thoughts out of her head. It wasn’t her problem anymore if he got himself shot once a year or once a month.
“Dana?” he whispered.
“What, Cody?” she asked curtly as she gathered up the towels and washcloths and his jacket. She turned back toward the bed. “Well?”
“Thanks.”
The word cut through her like a knife. Her suddenly nerveless fingers almost lost their grip on his clothes. “Don’t thank me. Don’t try to play on my sympathy. Why did you come here? Why would you think I’d want to help you? Damn it, Cody, why?”
His eyes opened and he looked up at her, a small smile quirking his mouth. “I told you. I didn’t think you were here. My apartment wasn’t—safe. Besides, you’re the one person I know I can trust, no matter what.”
“No!” she shouted, throwing the clothes toward the bathroom. “Don’t say that, Cody. Don’t try to make me responsible. You’ve got the entire New Orleans Police Department to watch out for you. You didn’t have to come running to me. I am not going to patch you up and send you back out there. I can’t do it. I’m where I want to be. I’m finally over…everything, and I won’t let you turn my life all upside down again.”
A flicker of darkness clouded his eyes, but his voice was light, if a bit hollow, when he replied. “Don’t worry. I’ll be out of here tomorrow, okay?” He closed his eyes, his lashes resting like fuzzy caterpillars on his scratched cheek. He’d fallen asleep or passed out.
Dana reached out a trembling hand and pushed his silky hair back from his forehead. Without her conscious consent, her thumb traced the faint lines, less prominent now that he was asleep. She deliberately kept her eyes off his naked chest and abdomen, trying not to remember his delicious planes and curves. She tried not to drink in the sight of him, golden and familiar, in her bed. Deliberately, she focused on his shoulder, but that only made her ache with compassion and wince with empathic understanding of how badly he was going to hurt when he woke up.
She gritted her teeth. He didn’t deserve her compassion or her empathy. He was her ex-husband. And the operative part of that word was “ex.”
She’d filed for divorce because she hadn’t had the strength to patch up his wounds again. His or her own. He’d loved her, she’d never doubted that. Just not enough. He’d loved the danger more. She’d thought she could handle being a cop’s wife. But Cody could never be just a cop. He had to go for the dangerous cases. He craved the excitement. And it was going to get him killed. It had already left its scars on both of them.
He had physical, external scars. But her scars were just as deep, just as permanent. On that awful night four years ago, while she’d waited to hear whether her husband would live or die, she had miscarried the baby they’d both wanted so badly. It had been the last link that had bound her to him. So as soon as she was sure he would be okay, she’d filed for divorce, because she couldn’t bear losing anyone else.
“I just couldn’t do it,” she whispered, her fingers still lingering on the tightly drawn skin over his cheekbones. “I couldn’t face years of that. Not again. Sitting at home, afraid that this might be the night you didn’t make it.” Just like my father.
She touched his mouth, the little lines that laughter had put there. “But, oh God, it was hard. You’ll never know how hard it was to leave you. I miss your laughter.” She shook her head. She must really be upset, to be talking to herself like this. She didn’t miss the danger, she reminded herself sternly, looking down at her terry-cloth robe, where the blood was already drying. The danger more than canceled out the fun.
She was content now…she was safe. She was no longer in love with Cody…not at all. She certainly was not responsible for him anymore. She’d shed that responsibility along with her wedding ring four years ago.
Sighing, she lay down next to him, her eyes still tracing his beloved features, trying not to notice the paleness in his face, trying not to hear his ragged breathing, trying desperately and without success not to care what happened to him.
When he woke up, he’d have to leave.
FONTENOT SAT UP into the night, soldering, wiring, testing, until he was satisfied with his latest creation. Finally, he stood, stretching cramped muscles, and walked around it, surveying it critically.
His face creased in a slow smile. Perfect. Naturally. He held up the bottle of spring water, toasting himself, then took a sip. No alcohol, nothing but natural substances went into his body. Chemicals interfered with brain function, and nothing was going to interfere with his perfect plan. His perfect revenge.
Nothing and nobody.
He stared out the window, thinking about the booby trap he’d rigged at Maxwell’s apartment. His lip curled in disdain. Maxwell wasn’t as smart, or as quick, as he’d given him credit for being.
He’d heard the sharp retort of the gun, at the very second he’d predicted. Then a few minutes later Maxwell had come rushing out and headed for his car. But Fontenot had overestimated the detective. He’d timed the trigger mechanism perfectly, to a reaction time designed for a man in Maxwell’s physical condition. But the stupid man had been too slow, so the bullet, which should have harmlessly hit the wall behind him, had instead caught him in the shoulder.
He had to give Maxwell credit, though. Even with his shoulder bleeding, and his face pale with pain and fear, he’d still cranked up his car and headed for Metairie, for his ex-wife’s house, just like Fontenot had known he would.
Fontenot chuckled. Just wait, Maxwell. I’m not through with you yet. Before I’m done you’ll suffer for every minute I spent in prison. You’ll wish you were dead.
He finished his water and went back to his creation, considering the best way to set
