Banish Misfortune (24 page)

"Oh, barf."

Jessica laughed. "I enjoy writing the sex a lot more than the killing. There are only so many ways you can describe someone getting his head blown off."

"I don't know, you've been pretty inventive so far. Anyway, I think there's room for more sex in the new one. I liked what you gave me to read so far. What a luscious man. Those long, long legs, that silky black hair and dark, fathomless eyes. You could just drown in them. I wouldn't kick him out of bed for eating crackers."

Jessica was looking at her friend with an expression of absolute horror on her face. "Is that the way I described him?"

"Sure. He sounded heavenly. Now if he were to show up I might not run as hard as I have been from Cameron."

"Oh, yes, you would," Jessica said grimly. "Damn."

"What's wrong?"

"Matt Decker is less than six feet tall, has short brown hair and gunmetal gray eyes."

"Then who did you describe?" A sudden grin lit Marianne's face. "Sounds like it could have been Matthew's father. No wonder you want him to have more sex with his Scandinavian cutie."

"I'll tell you what, Marianne. I won't hassle you about Andrew and you can drop this subject immediately."

"I don't know." Marianne giggled. "I like seeing you so flustered. What's the real Matt Decker like?"

"You know I'm capable of revenge. After Andrew leaves today I'll tell him you want to see him."

Marianne jumped up like a shot. "Andrew's coming today. Why didn't you warn me?"

"I agree with you, I need more laughs in my life," Jessica said lazily. "And I think I hear him coming now."

Marianne looked like a trapped rabbit, her tall, robust body vibrating in sudden panic. And then her shoulders relaxed beneath the thin cotton shirt. "Not unless he suddenly parted with some of his hard-earned cash. That's no aging Valiant tooling up the road. I'd guess it was a Peugot or a BMW."

"Mercedes," Jessie hazarded, before a sudden panic filled her that more than equaled Marianne's earlier tension. Before she could move, the car purred into view, and she leaned back against the house in sudden relief. It was a Mercedes, but the dark-haired man driving bore no resemblance at all to Springer MacDowell, or to the most recent incarnation of the Slaughterer.

"Oh, God." Marianne's voice was numb with pain as she watched the car. It pulled to a stop in front of the house, and a man climbed out. One of the handsomest men Jessica had ever seen, she thought distantly. A little too handsome, with clothes just a bit too perfect. He was smiling, a dazzling smile showing far too many teeth, eyes flashing, sure of his welcome.

"Marianne," he breathed, his voice just a little too high-pitched, and he enveloped Marianne's unyielding figure in his arms.

Jessica watched with unabashed fascination as her friend withstood the embrace of the handsome man, waited until he finally released her. "Marianne, you look magnificent," he said, smiling down at her with every ounce of his not-inconsiderable charm. "I remember that old shirt of mine."

Marianne looked as if she might explode, though whether from anger or something else Jessica couldn't quite fathom. She did, however, decide it was time for her to make her move.

Rising from the porch, she moved forward with her usual unconscious grace. The flashing eyes shifted to her, warming with a casual come-on that she hadn't seen since she'd lived in New York. She set a smile on her face with great effort, coming to stand beside the silent Marianne.

"I'm Jessica Hansen," she greeted him, holding out her slim, strong hand. He caught it, his thumb caressing her palm slightly, and it was all she could do not to snatch her hand away.

"Tom Trainor," he replied, widening that smile of his. "Marianne must have told you about me."

"No," Jessica said. "She didn't." She felt rather than saw Marianne smile at that, and felt relieved. If Marianne was glad to have this lightweight back, she was not the woman she thought her.

"What do you want, Tom?" Her voice banished any lingering doubts. It was more than obvious that Tom Trainor was the last person Marianne wanted to see.

"Why, to see you and the kids, of course." He cast a last, lingering glance at Jessica's reserved countenance, and she could see why Marianne disliked him.

"That's all?" Marianne's voice was cold and suspicious. "Would you like to talk about child support payments that you've missed? Not to mention alimony."

"Yes, let's not mention alimony," he said with a feeble attempt at a joke. "Look, Marianne, we don't need to air our dirty linen in front of an audience. Why don't we go back to the house and discuss this amicably?"

"Discuss what?"

He hesitated, and the too-handsome face was shifty. "Custody," he said finally, when Marianne made no effort to move.

"Custody!" The word was a shriek. "Who the hell do you think you are, coming here—"

"Now, Marianne, don't get all emotional. We have to deal with this logically. Surely you can't believe your children are having the best possible upbringing in this cultural backwater? If they lived with Barbara and me in Connecticut, they could go to the best schools, have a thousand opportunities—"

"You brought us to this cultural backwater, Thomas," she said icily. "And we're doing just fine, thank you. We don't need Connecticut, we don't need Barbara, and we don't need you."

"I hate to mention this, darling, but I'm a lawyer. I don't think, if this comes to court, that you're going to have much luck. There's no need to make this unpleasant. Be reasonable, Marianne, the children need a father."

"Why are you doing this?" she whispered, her fine brown eyes stricken.

"We want children. The house in Connecticut is too big for the both of us, and we want to start a family."

"Then let Barbara get pregnant."

"She can't." The brief words struck horror into

Marianne's heart. There was no escape. When Tom wanted something, he could be devious, dishonest and impossibly stubborn. And sooner or later, by hook or most probably by crook, he would get his own way, and she would be helpless to stop him.

"You can't have them, Tom."

He took a deep breath, a glint of meanness making his eyes look small and ugly. "We'll talk about it."

"You can go to hell."

"Swearing won't help matters. We need to discuss this like rational human beings—"

"I don't feel like a rational human being!" Marianne cried. "You're trying to steal my babies."

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Marianne." The charm was slipping fast. "At least come back to the house and talk to me."

Marianne shook her head furiously, and Jessica put a restraining hand on her arm. The muscles were knotted in tension beneath the cool cotton shirt. "Why don't you at least talk with him, Marianne? Hear him out, and then tell him to go to hell. I'll watch the kids for you while you do."

"Thank you, Jessica." Tom tried to summon forth his charm once more. "I appreciate your assistance."

"Go to hell," she said calmly.

"I'll keep the kids with me, Jessie," Marianne said quietly, her anger momentarily abated. "They should at least see their father." She moved down the steps. "Come on, Tom. The sooner we get this over with the better. We'll pick up the kids at Mrs. LaPlante's."

"They're not here with you?" he echoed in horror.

"No, they're not," she snapped. "This is Sunday. I just spent the last eight hours in Burlington, working the early shift at the hospital. Mrs. LaPlante takes care of them during that time."

"You see? What kind of life is that for them?" he said plaintively.

"Barbara plans to quit her practice?" Marianne snapped.

"Of course not. But we can provide live-in help, with much better continuity than some local Vermont farm wife-"

"Let's go, Tom, before I strangle you," she snapped. "The kids and I will be back for supper, Jessie. Thanks for asking us."

"Does that invitation include me?" Tom said wistfully, trying out his smile one last time.

"No," said Jessica.

He muttered a curse as he climbed back in the Mercedes. Marianne exchanged a meaningful nod with Jessica before she climbed in beside him, and they roared off down the bumpy road, Tom taking his frustration out in his driving.

Jessica had complete faith in Marianne. Despite the stricken look on her face when he'd first appeared, she'd be more than a match for any man. Especially one like Tom Trainor.

The sudden whimpering snapped her attention back to the porch, and she went to her waking child with a relieved smile. Now she could happily spend the afternoon counting fingers and toes, and try to keep her mind off Marianne's predicament. "I'm coming, angel," she murmured, climbing up the porch steps.

"You
mean to tell me
you let her go off with that creature?" Andrew Cameron demanded, his wiry body rigid with anger.

It was just after seven, and there was no sign of Marianne. The two of them were sitting on the front porch of the MacDowell house, the crystal-clear lake shimmering in the early-evening sun. Andrew's presence was a well-planned surprise, but there was no Marianne to be surprised. She hadn't shown up, she hadn't called, and it was only after an hour of nervous chitchat that Jessica finally broke down and confided in Cameron.

"Of course I did. What could I do, tell her no, she couldn't go off with her ex-husband? The man was threatening to take her children away—she had to at least reason with him."

"That bastard. What possible right does he think he has to take the children? She's the best mother I know—present company excluded, of course," he added quickly. "He'll get nowhere with that kind of threat."

"I don't know. He's a lawyer, you know. He'd have more clout if it went to court. And Marianne was looking scared."

"Marianne?" Andrew echoed. "My Marianne, my lioness, looking scared? I don't believe it. A two-ton tank wouldn't scare her."

"Well, Tom's threat did, or I miss my guess." She leaned over to coo at the placidly smiling Matthew.
"I
'm worried, Andrew."

"So am I, Jessie," he said grimly, setting his gin and tonic down with a snap. "I'm going down there."

"Do you think you should?"

"Do you think I shouldn't? Do you want to wait for hours more, wondering what's happened?" he countered sternly.

"No. But what if they've decided to reconcile, and they're—" The look on Andrew's face cut that particular guess short. "No, they wouldn't do that. Marianne looked too angry and too scared."

"Unless she thought she could save the children by going to bed with him," he said morosely. "I'll kill the bastard."

Marianne and Tom were nowhere near bed, and nowhere near agreement, either. They were sitting at the kitchen table, a table he'd sniffed at disdainfully, just as he'd sneered at the house he'd bought for them two short years ago. After his initial fuss he was ignoring the children, and both Eric and Shannon sat in a comer by the old black-and-white television set, trying to summon forth interest in a rerun game show, every now and then casting worried glances at their arguing parents.

"You can't have them, Tom," she said fiercely. "How many times do I have to tell you that? You just want them for a new toy and I know your attention span. You'll tire of them in a few months, and they'll see no one but your high-priced nanny."

"You always were selfish," Tom shot back. "Never seeing anyone's side but your own. These children need a man around, they need a secure home, not this rural squalor you've subjected them to."

"I've subjected them to?" Her voice rose in a shriek, and Eric's worried eyes, so heartbreakingly like

Tom's, looked over at them, abandoning all pretense of watching "Family Feud." "You were the one who brought us here and left us."

"Well, I don't want to leave them anymore," he said sulkily. "Surely you can't be self-centered enough to deny your children the advantages we can offer them? You say you love them; a good mother is supposed to sacrifice her own needs for the sake of her children. You're doing a pretty poor job of it, let me tell you."

Marianne's shriek of pure rage was magnificent, but Shannon began to cry. She stood there, torn between hitting her ex-husband on the head' with the cast-iron skillet that still had the remnants of yesterday's breakfast in it, or rushing to comfort her weeping daughter. Eric's eyes were filling with tears, and Tom glared at her.

"You've made them cry," he said nastily. "Aren't you going to do something about it?" He was sitting in his chair, no longer the handsome, successful lawyer, looking old and mean and petty.

"Aren't you?" she countered, as Shannon's wails grew louder. "You're the one who wanted to take them away from me. How are you going to deal with their tears?"

"You're the one who's made them cry," he countered smugly, and Marianne reached for the frying pan.

Her hand stopped in midair as a new voice entered the fray, and she watched with amazement and wondering gratitude as Andrew Cameron stepped through her kitchen door, with all the assurance of a man who lived there, his small, wiry body arrogantly sure of his welcome. "What's going on here, woman?" he greeted her, his Scottish accent theatrically deeper as he glared at them impartially. Shannon immediately stopped crying, launching herself at Andrew with asqueal of delight, and Eric followed, clinging to him like a lifesaver in a world where adults had suddenly gone crazy.

Andrew fixed his dark green eyes on Tom's astounded face. "Carrying on behind my back, lassie?" he growled. "Who is this fancy creature, and what's he doing in my house?"