just what are you doing?”
“Looking for a place where we can get something hot to drink. It’s the least I can do, to make up for keeping you out past your bedtime.”
The words themselves might have been innocuous enough, but there was nothing affable or benign in his tone of voice. The man who’d beguiled her with his smile and tender memories not half an hour ago, who’d offered her a ride home to spare her walking along icy streets, had turned into a stranger as cold and threatening as the night outside.
“You had this planned all along, didn’t you?” she said, struggling to suppress the fear suddenly tapping along the fringes of her mind. She’d accepted a lift from her one-time lover, the local hero come home from doing battle and with the scars to prove it, not from some faceless stranger, for heaven’s sake! To suspect he posed any sort of threat was nothing short of absurd. “This is what you intended, from the minute you showed up in my classroom.”
“Yes,” he said.
“Well, you didn’t have to go to such extremes. I’d have been happy to stop for coffee at a place in town.”
“Too risky. Think of the gossip, if we’d been seen together. The widower and the wild woman flaunting their association in public! Better to find some out-of-the-way place where the kind of people we know wouldn’t dream of setting foot. A place so seedy, no respectable woman would want to be seen by anyone she knew.”
Seedy? What on earth would prompt him to use such a word?
Numbly she stared ahead, once again in the grip of that eerie unease. By then, the snow had begun to settle, turning the windows opaque except for the half-moons cleared by the windshield wipers. She could see nothing of the landscape flying past, nothing of where they’d been or where they were headed.
Then, off to the side, some hundred yards or so down the road, a band of orange light pierced the gloom; a neon sign at first flashing dimly through the swirling snow, but growing brighter as the car drew nearer, until there was no mistaking its message. Harlan’s Roadhouse it read. Beer— Eats—Billiards.
And her premonition crystalized into outright dismay. She’d seen that sign before. And Jake was well aware of the fact!
He slowed to turn into the rutted parking area, nosed the car to a spot close to the tavern entrance and turned off the engine. Immediately the muffled, relentless throb of country and western music filled the otherwise quiet night, its only competition the equally brutal pounding of Sally’s heart.
He climbed out of the car and, despite his earlier claim that he was too lame to play the gentleman, came around and opened the passenger door. When she made no move to join him, he reached across to unclip her seat belt and grasped her elbow. “This is as far as we go, Sally,” he said blandly. “Hop out and be quick about it.”
“I’d rather not.”
“I’d rather you did. And I’m not taking you back to town until you do.”
Odd how a man’s mood could shift so abruptly from mild to menacing; how smoldering rage could make its presence felt without a voice being raised. And stranger still that a person could find herself responding hypnotically to a command she knew would result in nothing but disaster.
Like a sleepwalker, she stepped out into the snow, yet felt nothing of its stinging cold. Was barely aware of putting one foot in front of another as she walked beside Jake, past the rusted pickup trucks and jalopies, to the entrance of the building.
“After you,” he said, pushing open the scarred wooden door and ushering her unceremoniously into the smoke-filled interior.
At once, the noise blasted out to meet her. The smell of beer and cheap perfume, mingled with sweat and tobacco, assailed her senses.
Stomach heaving, she turned to Jake. “Please don’t make me do this!”
“Why ever not?” he asked, surveying her coldly. “Place not to your liking?”
“No, it’s not,” she managed to say. “I’m insulted you’d even ask.”
“But it was good enough the night you came here with Penelope, the night she died, wasn’t it?” he said. “So why not now, with me?”
CHAPTER THREE
SHE didn’t reply, nor had he expected she would. He’d outmaneuvered her too thoroughly. Instead she hovered just inside the door, uncertain whether to flee or surrender. Since he hadn’t a hope in hell of catching her if she tried to make a run for it, he eliminated the possibility by marching her to a booth on the other side of the dance floor.
“Cosy, don’t you think?” he said, sliding next to her on the shabby vinyl banquette so that she was trapped between him and the wall. Too bad he had to put his mouth to her ear for her to hear him. He didn’t need the dizzying scent of her hair and skin making inroads on his determination to wring the truth out of her.
“What’ll it be, folks?” A giant of a man, with beefy arms covered in tattoos and a head as bald as an egg, came out from behind the bar and swiped a dirty cloth over the tabletop.
Without bothering to consult her, Jake said, “Beer. Whatever you’ve got on tap. And nachos.”
“I don’t drink beer and I don’t like nachos,” she said snootily, the minute the guy left to fill their order.
“No?” Jake dug in his hip pocket for his wallet. “What did you have the last time you were here—champagne and oysters on the half shell?”
“What makes you think I’ve been here before?”
“I read the police report, remember?”
She slumped against the wall, defeated. “Why are you doing this, Jake?” she asked, raising her voice over the din from the jukebox. “What do you hope to accomplish?”
“I want to know why my wife made a habit of frequenting places like this while I was away on combat duty, and if you won’t tell me, I’ll find someone here who will.”
“You’re wasting your time. Penelope and I were here only once, and when I realized the kind of place it was, I insisted we leave.”
He scanned the room at large. On the other side of the dance floor, a woman much the worse for wear had climbed on a table and was gyrating lewdly to the applause of the patrons lining the bar. Swinging his gaze to Sally again, Jake asked, “Was it your idea to stop here to begin with?”
“Certainly not!” she snapped. Then, realizing how much she’d revealed with her indignation, added, “We’d decided to drive out to a country inn for dinner that night, it started snowing on the way home, the roads were even worse than they are tonight, and we were looking for a place to wait out the storm. Why is that so hard for you to believe?”
“It’s not, Sally. But nor does it explain what made you change your minds and venture back on the road anyway, before the weather improved. One look out the door, and you must have known you were taking your lives in your hands by getting back behind the wheel of a car.”
“I already told you. We didn’t like the…clientele here.”
