Between Honor And Duty

“Who’s ahead?”

“Derek’s on the promotion list now for engineer in Merced. I’ll have to ace both the written exam and the oral to have any chance of making the grade before he does.”

“Somehow I think you’ll do just that.” She shoved away from the doorjamb. “Here I was trying to get Maddie to stop bothering you, and now I’m the one bugging you with questions.”

“You’d never bug me, Jan,” he said softly. “Not ever.”

A tremor of pleasure rippled through her. “I think I should…that is…” She stumbled over her words, her unruly thoughts tangling with her good sense. “I’m going to go wash Ray’s car and vacuum it. I’m putting an ad in the paper and hope to sell it this weekend. We still owe quite a bit on the loan. Owning a convertible is one expense I can do without.”

“Sounds like a smart move to me. You know how to price it?”

“I checked the Blue Book.”

“Good for you.” Nodding his approval, he eased back behind the washer, crouching down out of sight.

Deliberately, Janice turned away. She wasn’t going to make a big deal out of Logan’s kindness to her daughter, or fantasize about the intriguing timbre of his voice and how it raised gooseflesh along her spine. Or even how Logan, unlike her husband, seemed to think she had enough intelligence to make a reasonable decision.

She was a recent widow. Logan obviously felt a loyalty to her late husband. That was all she had a right to expect. She shouldn’t go looking for trouble.

Backing Ray’s Chrysler convertible out of the garage, she parked it in the driveway. The car had been an extravagance in her view, but Ray had been insistent. The symptom of a mid-life crisis, she supposed. She’d given in easily enough. He worked hard and deserved a little fun. Admittedly, it was a spiffy car—fire-engine red with a glossy finish. But for her and the children, the aging minivan would do fine.

She got the hand-held Dustbuster from Ray’s workbench. With the top down, it was easy to climb in and out of the car. She started with the driver’s side, trying not to picture Ray sitting there, smiling so broadly because he’d gotten a new toy. Teasingly, he’d called the convertible his “pickin’ up chicks” car. She hadn’t been particularly amused.

She tossed the floor mats onto the grass to wash later. The Dustbuster inhaled the collection of dirt and sand easily, and she worked her way across to the passenger side. She checked the glove box, setting aside the registration and the owner’s manual, vacuumed the carpeting on that side of the car, then climbed into the back seat.

The upholstery looked virtually pristine, no wear and tear evident at all. Thinking she ought to get a fairly good price, considering the car’s condition, she ran the vacuum beneath the front seat. When she brought the vacuum back into view, a piece of purple fabric dangled from its mouth.

She switched off the power and sat up on the seat staring at the swatch of nylon material. Her stomach knotted in apprehension. Slowly she pulled the fabric free.

Thong panties!

Could there be any innocent reason for another woman’s underwear to be in the back seat of Ray’s car?

Nausea rose in her throat. Could she have been so stupid, so naive as not to know Ray was having an affair?

She got down on her hands and knees, feeling around under both front seats. Her fingers closed over a small plastic tube. A lipstick.

Mango Madness! Never in her life had she worn that shade of lipstick. It would make her look like a hooker.

Trying to breathe against the pain that speared through her chest, she closed her eyes. To her dismay, she pictured a woman who had been at Ray’s funeral service. A stranger. Long blond hair. Dark glasses. Shockingly bright orange lips.

Outrage warred with the knowledge she had failed as a wife. As a woman.

Stomach heaving, she bolted from the car, collapsing on the grass near the flower bed she had so lovingly tended. She breathed deeply, desperately trying not to be sick.

Chapter Four

Wiping his hands on a rag he’d found, Logan stepped outside. He came to an abrupt halt when he spotted Janice kneeling beside a rosebush that was in full bloom, the hot summer sun casting her sable hair with highlights of red. Something told him she hadn’t taken a break from washing the car just to smell the flowers.

“Jan? You okay?”

It was a long time before she looked up at him, her ginger-brown eyes bleak, her face as pale as death.

Grief, he realized, feeling a punch in the gut. She’d been cleaning up Ray’s car and the memories must have overwhelmed her.

He hunkered down beside her. It was all he could do not to touch her, to soothe the frown from her forehead, to pull her into his arms to comfort her. But it wasn’t his place to do that. He’d been the one to let her husband die when the tragedy could have been avoided if he’d acted promptly. He might never get past that guilt.

“Tough remembering, huh?” he asked.

To his surprise, she opened her hand that had been closed into a fist. A skimpy bit of silky stuff appeared. A pair of women’s undies, such as they were. Vibrant purple. As sexy as anything he’d ever seen.

He swallowed hard as the image of Janice wearing those thong panties leaped into his head.

“You found them in the car,” he ventured, “and the memories—”

“They’re not mine.”

His mental picture shattered, the pieces separating like a child’s cardboard puzzle tossed into the air.

“I’d never wear thongs. I’d hate them.” Her whispered words rasped with pain. “I wear bikinis. White bikinis so I don’t get a pantyline and they don’t show through.”

A new image appeared. More innocent. Even more desirable. But he knew her thoughts were going in a different direction, the evidence of infidelity.

She opened her other hand to show him a lipstick tube. “This isn’t mine, either.”

“There could be a reasonable—”

“He was having an affair.”

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