His Partner's Wife

Natalie shook her head. “I never do, you see. Going so against habit would have just made me think.”

He chewed and swallowed, washing the bite down with a slug of milk. “What did you do, then?”

“Rode.” The hand possessively clutching the robe at her bosom began to relax, as if she forgot she had to. “Then, believe it or not, I went shopping at the mall. A woman’s refuge.”

“Ah.” Debbie had shopped, too, whether the credit cards were maxed out or not.

“I wasn’t sure you could let me into my house. I bought some clothes for the next day or so.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” he said roughly. “I could have gotten what you needed.”

“No, that’s okay.” She bent her head and fingered the shawl collar of the robe, which he realized belatedly was his mother’s. “I hardly ever take the time to shop, and I can use some new jeans and…things.”

Panties? Bras? Another irritating, unsettling image of her lush body in dainty, lacy lingerie flitted through his mind. His brows drew together and he shoved another bite in, although the damn casserole seemed tasteless tonight.

She said quietly, “You looked angry earlier. And now you do again. Did something happen today?”

“What?” He realized he was glowering at her and wiped the expression from his face. “Sorry. No. Nothing happened. In fact, too little happened.”

She didn’t say anything. She never did probe. What he didn’t offer, she didn’t ask. Because she didn’t care enough? Because she didn’t think she had the right?

Had she been the same with Stuart? Or was Stuart the one who had taught her that what he didn’t choose to tell her was none of her damned business?

The speculation felt disloyal. Stuart Reed and he had been partners. Friends. Yeah, there had been moments when John hadn’t much liked him, but that was water under the bridge. Stuart was dead and buried. This was no time to question his character.

“I was thinking about my mother,” John said abruptly, as much because he wasn’t yet ready to admit he hadn’t made an arrest today, that Natalie couldn’t go home, that he didn’t have a damned clue.

“Like I said, she’s too hard on Evan especially. I’m just not sure what to do about it.”

“Have you talked to her?”

“I said something this morning.”

“Did you?” Her voice was soft, uncritical, but he got the point.

Okay. So what he’d really done was snap at his mother.

“Talking to her isn’t going to do any good.”

“I don’t understand.” Tiny crinkles formed in her brow. “I always thought you were close to her.”

John shoved his plate away on a sigh. “Yes and no. I stayed in town, I see her often. I appreciate what she did, somehow keeping us all together when she had no job skills and Dad hadn’t left any life insurance.” He didn’t usually talk like this. What he felt toward Stuart’s memory was nothing when compared to his fierce loyalty to family. But Natalie listened with those wide, compassionate eyes and no hint of judgment. He could use a sounding board.

“What did your mom do?”

“Worked two jobs. Apparently she’d learned to type in high school, and she managed to get a secretarial job even though she had no experience. Nights she cleaned office buildings.”

“But when did she sleep?”

The question took him by surprise. “I don’t know.” He grimaced. “No, that’s not true, of course. Whenever she got home in the middle of the night, maybe three o’clock to seven in the morning. A couple of hours after work in the afternoon.” Somehow he hadn’t thought about how sleep deprived his mother must have been all those years.

“What about you and your brothers? Did somebody take care of you when she was working?”

He shook his head. “I guess we were the original latchkey kids. We were all school age when Dad died. I watched Hugh and Connor after school until I started playing high school sports, and by then Con was old enough. Nighttimes she left us alone.” He frowned, trying to remember. “I’m not sure she had the janitorial job the first year after Dad was killed. I was probably in middle school by the time she started that. Old enough to be in charge.”

Still with puckered brow, Natalie studied his face. “Did you feel old enough?”

No. Hell, no.

The explosive quality of his realization startled him. Perhaps to disguise his quiet shock, John rubbed a hand over his chin, which felt bristly.

“You didn’t, did you?” She was too damned perceptive.

“I went through a stretch when I was scared to death at night. The cops never arrested the guy who shot my dad. Did I ever tell you that? Every night I’d imagine he was breaking into that crummy apartment we rented. The building creaked and whimpered all night long. I was old enough to know the locks were flimsy. If he’d been able to kill my dad, who seemed huge and strong to me, what could I do?” He shook his head. “I never told my mother how scared I was. What could she have done? She had to work. As it was, she went without anything for herself to make sure three boys growing by half-foot leaps had enough on the table, decent clothes and the chance to play sports like our friends.”

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