Page 61 of Risk of a Lifetime
He avoided her look. “Go take your shower. Warm up while I fix us something to eat.”
Mumbling, she walked into the bedroom. “That creep needs some serious medication.”
He laughed. Listened for the click of the bathroom door, then the sound of running water in the shower. Again he checked the entire floor, plus the walls this time, doubtful the man would use the same technique twice, but it didn’t hurt to be sure. Taking the broom with him, he climbed into the attic again, walked the rafters, and pounded the roof for any sign of tampering. Nothing.
When JB climbed back down, the sound of running water still filled the air. Without much thought, he sat bread and bacon and eggs on the counter and started a pot of coffee. The smell of the fresh brew eased his mind. Still, the ten .38s troubled his thoughts.
Who’d used a .38 in his last few jobs? Had there been ten people taken down on a case? Or arrested? Crazies always focused on perceived wrongs. And this guy was crazy for sure. Psycho…to have crawled under their house. Listened. Let them get away. The jerk felt invincible.
Not for long.
He dropped the bacon into a skillet. Sizzling grease splattered his arms as he pushed the slices around with a fork. He stared at the spots, absorbed the pain, and kept thinking.
Maybe he’d arrested this guy’s relative. If Marcy was right that she was secondary, that he was the one the man wanted to torture with fear for her life, then this had to revolve around a woman being hurt during a case. What women had been in his last few jobs? A mother or sister? Wife? Girlfriend? Arrested? Death was a strong retaliation for an arrest, even prison. One thing he knew for sure, he’d never killed a woman on any of his cases. Never even shot one.
In fact, the only time there’d been a woman killed had been two jobs ago. The meth bust. The one where part of the lab blew sky-high. The one that cost one woman’s life in the explosion and another shot as she fired on the incoming agents and police. One cop and two agents took hard hits that day. One died, one disabled, and one scarred for life. But JB had nothing to do with the shooting or the explosion.
He’d been logistics that day. The liaison between the teams. The man who gave the order to go in once everyone had settled into place. Landon was supposed to have been in charge, but he’d failed to show up until later. Overslept or something. Of course even with that on his record, Landon had managed to keep his position with the FBI. No. This couldn’t be tied to that job. JB hadn’t even pulled his gun the entire day.
The bedroom door clicked open, drawing his attention away from the eggs he’d dumped in the pan with the bacon a few second ago. Standing center in the doorframe, the vision of Marcy shot straight to his core. His gaze traveled from her fresh, clean face, along with her smile, to her still-wet hair combed straight to her shoulders, to those long legs. Legs silky and smooth and sexy…visible from beneath an oversized, almost-white shirt. He longed to run his hands from her toes to her thighs to her—
His insides jerked and twisted like a knife. A man’s shirt. Why did she have on a man’s shirt? Cain’s? Maybe she found it in the bedroom. If not, that meant she brought it with her. And, in that case, who did the shirt belong to? He felt his hand grip the handle of the spatula. His jealous, male ego jumped into gear. Stupid, stupid reaction.
Who was he to say she couldn’t see other men? He’d been the one to stay gone for three years. Him and the other side of his damn ego. But, the idea that she’s been with another man, while knowing they were still married, stung. Stung to his core. His heart felt on fire, pounding faster than a ten-mile run would create. Until he signed those divorce papers, he hadn’t even looked at another woman. And, she’d…she…
Exasperated because he couldn’t stop the pain he felt. Jealous he’d let her give herself to someone else. Angry his ego had kept him from coming back sooner. He flung the spatula into the pan, and it bounced from the heat to the stove to the counter.
He had no right, he shouldn’t, but he had to know. “Who’s shirt have you got on?”
Chapter Twenty
Marcy caught the spatula as it slid from the counter headed to the floor, then watched as JB stormed out the front door to the porch. He raked his fingers through his hair before glancing back through the screen at her. She opened her mouth to speak, but he held up his hand not to.
“Never mind. Not my business.” Shaking his head, he stomped down the steps.
“Where are you going?”
“To the lake to cool off.”
Cool off? They didn’t need cool. If anything, they needed a fire in the fireplace. “What if the man chasing us shows up?”
“Shoot him.”
The sizzle of the pan pulled her back. She turned the burner off and slid a lid in place. She’d never seen JB like this. What did he mean, whose shirt was she wearing?
After pouring herself a cup of coffee, she walked to the front door and focused on him as he stood at the far end of the dock. Shoulders straight, legs braced apart, hands on his waist, kind of like he was getting ready for a battle.
He yanked his black insulated shirt up over his head after dropping his Kevlar vest to the dock, then tucked his shoulder holster and Glock in the bait box on the dock. His fingers worked the laces on his boots, shucked them and his socks. Next, he shed his pants and thermals. She smiled at the view of his backside. She loved to watch JB’s muscles and body. Her hands tightened around the warm mug.
Whose shirt did he think she was wearing?
His dive into the maybe-forty-degree water surprised her. Was he crazy? She dropped her cup and grabbed a wool throw cover before barging out the screen door. He was swimming across the small cove. Yes, he was crazy. Definitely crazy.
“JB, stop. Get out of the water. Get. Out. Of. The water.” She ran down the hill toward the dock, dragging the throw. Her feet tangled in the wool, and she fell forward. Rolling like a mummy being wrapped, she caught herself on a sapling and came to an abrupt stop. At least the material protected her legs from scrapes. Her feet were a different story. Who in their right mind would run outside without shoes on? And where was she headed? Water and her were not going to mix. Not today. Not ever again.
Stuck with her back to the dock, she fought to untangle her legs from the cover and hold onto the tree at the same time. A dripping splash of water, then footsteps on the dock assured her he’d made it out of the lake. “Help me.”
“Hold on,” he said.
