Divorced, Desperate and Dead (Divorced and Desperate Book 5) (6 page)

“Fine.” He sat back down on the other side of the bed.

She thought about the chocolate sauce again. It’s not as if she’d done that before. But she’d read about it in a book:
Recharging Your Sex Life.
Sheri had loaned it to her. It had been one of those she read only in her bedroom. A book that had convinced her that she and Jerry needed some help in the sex department.

The book had made sex sound so exciting. And she realized that sex with Jerry hadn’t actually been exhilarating. It had been good. Comforting. But not . . . exciting.

“Spill it,” she said.

“Spill what?” he asked, as if he wasn’t the one who came up with this crazy idea.

“Don’t play stupid.”

He set his feet up on the end of her bed and then crossed his arms, even readjusted his pillow behind him to get comfortable.

Cupcake jumped up on the bed and stepped up on his abdomen. Meowing, the cat reached up with her paw and rested it on the tip of Cary’s nose.

Chloe started to grab him.

“No, it’s okay.” He gently ran his hand down the cat’s back. “I had a black cat when I was growing up.”

She got the strangest feeling he was trying to change the subject. That made her more curious. Why would her dream guy be nervous about telling her something? He was a dream, right?

He stared at the ceiling for a second. “We’d been married about a year. We’d been talking about having a baby. She wanted to make sure she was taken care of if anything happen to me. We took out some life insurance policies and then set out to work on having a baby. A couple of months later, my sergeant called me into his office. A guy was arrested on some drug charge and he wanted to make a deal. A lesser charge for some info on someone wanting to make a hit on an officer.” He inhaled and glanced down at the foot of the bed. “Here I was thinking babies, and she was thinking funerals.”

It took her a second to realize exactly what he meant. “Crap. Your wife was trying to get you killed?”

“Yeah.” He still didn’t look at her.

“But you’re a police officer.”

“More importantly, I was her husband.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “But I guess my ego took a punch being a cop, too.”

“Are you making this up?” she asked.

He faced her then. “Why would I make something like that up?”

She tried to read him, but couldn’t. “I don’t know. Maybe because you see it as some kind of a competition.”

“What competition?” he asked.

“Who has the worst story.” She lifted an eyebrow and studied him accusingly.

He smiled. It was a nice smile, too.

“No,” he said. “I hadn’t looked at it like that, but if it was a competition, I’d win.”

When his smile faded, she saw it, the pain in his eyes. It reminded her of what she often saw when she looked in the mirror. That ‘done wrong’ look.

“You haven’t heard my story yet,” she said, not really wanting to win the competition, but for some reason she couldn’t explain, she wanted him to know he wasn’t alone. That he hadn’t been the only one done wrong.

“Oh, come on. No way in hell can you beat that story.”

Chapter Five

She sat up higher, it only hurt a little bit, and pulled a knee up to her chest and hugged it. “I wouldn’t be so sure.”

“Try me,” he said and almost had a playful look in his eyes.

“But you haven’t finished.”

“Finished what?” he asked.

“Why do I scare you?”

He looked at her. “Because you aren’t the type a man can love and leave. And I’m not the staying kind anymore.”

She hesitated for one second. “Neither was my fiancé,” she said.

“What?” He seemed to mull over what she said. “What did he do? Bail out on the wedding day?”

“Not quite,” she said.

“Come on, don’t be Mary Anne. I showed you mine. Show me yours.” His tone had a bit of tease to it.

“He killed himself a week before the wedding.”

Her dream guy’s playful look faded and he frowned. “Damn, that would sting.”

“Ya think?” she asked and huffed. Suddenly, the weight of the conversation felt too heavy. “So, Mary Anne left you with your pants around your ankles.”

“Yeah,” he said, but she saw the emotion in his eyes. Normally she hated the look of pity in people’s eyes. For the longest time, everyone who knew her had that same look. But for some strange reason, the reflection of sadness in his eyes didn’t bother her like everyone else’s. Maybe because his emotion was slightly different. Not so much pity as empathy.

He looked at her and she saw it, the questions. “Don’t, please.”

“Don’t what?”

“Ask.”

“Ask what?”

“Had he been depressed? Had he shown any signs? Why did he do it? Why didn’t I do something to stop him?”

“I didn’t ask,” he said.

“Everyone else did.” She looked down at the comforter. “And I didn’t have any answers. I didn’t even know he was taking medicine for depression.”

“That’s tough,” he said.

She looked up at him. “Is she in jail now?”

“Mary Anne?” he asked and kind of chuckled.

“No, your wife.”

“Ex-wife. And no, when they went to tape the conversation, she never outright said it. It was enough for me to know it was true, but not enough to make a solid case.”

“What did you do?” she asked.

“I confronted her. She denied it, of course. Then she packed her bags and left that same day.”

“That’s awful,” she said.

The room grew quiet and she saw him look at the gifts in her bedroom chair. “So he didn’t leave a note or anything? And you never found any answers?”

“No. And everyone wanted one. If I had a ten dollar bill for everyone who asked me . . .
Why? Why did he do it? What happened?
I’d be driving a really nice car.”

“What kind?”

“What?” she asked.

“What kind of car?”

“I don’t know. Something expensive.”

He smiled. She sensed it was his way of saying she didn’t have to talk about it anymore.

She paused and she should have taken him up on the offer, but she couldn’t. For the first time, she wanted to tell someone. It almost felt right. “I had nothing to offer them. And you have no idea how much I wished I had the answer. I’m left to wonder, and believe me, I’ve wondered a lot. I wondered if he suddenly realized he was gay. If he realized he loved someone else. Did the idea of being married to me make him—?”

“That couldn’t be it,” he said and continued to stare at her.

She swallowed. “You can’t say that. You don’t know me.”

“I haven’t known you long, but I know you well enough.” He paused and so did she. For some crazy reason, his words mattered.

He glanced back over to the other side of the room. “Is that why you aren’t writing anymore?”

“Maybe,” she said. But she knew it was.

“What are the books about?” he asked.

“A ten-year-old girl and her imaginary girlfriend.” She sighed and muttered, “Now I have an imaginary boyfriend.”

He grinned. “Bob’s imaginary?”

She cut him a cold look. “I wasn’t talking about Bob.”

“Oh, you’re talking about . . . I’m your boyfriend?”

“I said imaginary,” she said but smiled.

He grinned, his eyes twinkling in a sexy kiss-me smile. “How good is your imagination?”

“Don’t go there,” she said.

After several beats of silence, he said, “I’d call it a tie.”

“What?” she asked, having gotten lost in his gaze.

“The worst story award. We tied. We both got royally screwed.”

“Yeah, we did, didn’t we?” For some crazy reason, it seemed funny and she laughed.

“You should do that more often,” he said.

“Do what?” she asked.

“Laugh.”

She suddenly became aware of having a man in her bed. Imaginary or not, it felt awkward. No, not awkward. Just different. Nice different, a little voice inside her said. It felt . . . less lonely.

He reached over and brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. She almost flinched, thinking she’d get another vision of someone dead. It didn’t happen this time. All she got was touched.

How long had it been since someone had touched her?

Crazy how you could miss something as simple as a brush of fingers across your skin.

He leaned down and pressed his lips to hers. His tongue slipped slowly across her lips. His hand came to rest on the curve of her waist. It felt warm, and before she realized what she’d done, she had scooted closer, deepening the kiss.

He pulled back just a bit. “Now this is more like how a dream should go.” His gaze met hers. “Unless you want me to stop?”

“It’s just a dream, right?”

“I don’t know. I don’t have a clue in hell what any of this is. But . . .” He kissed her again.

She pulled back this time. “I can’t believe I’m kissing a stranger.”

“We’re not strangers,” he said. “We told each other our secrets. I don’t tell strangers my secrets.”

“Me either.”

He slid his finger over her lips and they still felt wet from his kiss. “You loved him, didn’t you? You loved Jerry.”

She nodded. “Obviously not enough.”

He frowned. “I don’t know why he did what he did, but my gut says it wasn’t about you. He was a lucky man to have you love him.”

She smiled. “Thanks. You didn’t deserve what your wife did, either. Or Mary Anne.” She gave him a funny smile.

His eyes brightened with humor. “This is nice.”

She nodded. “I agree.”

A bell rang. He glanced up at the ceiling and frowned. “I think that means I have to go back.”

“Ignore it,” she said, not wanting him to leave. He was the first person she’d really been able to talk to since Jerry died. She didn’t want to lose him. Didn’t want to lose the feeling of being . . . connected to someone. A male someone.

It didn’t even matter that it was a dream.

The ring continued, and all of a sudden Chloe’s eyes shot open and she jackknifed upright. The sound of her heart thumping filled her ears. Her gaze zipped to the other side of the bed. The empty spot in the bed.

Well, there was her answer. It was just a dream.

A feeling of loneliness swept through her.

Blinking, trying to focus, she still heard a ring. Then she realized it was her phone. She grabbed it and saw the time. Ten forty-five. She’d barely been asleep.

Focusing hard, she recognized Sheri’s number.

“Hey,” Chloe said into the phone and ran her finger over her mouth, remembering the kiss. Remembering how it felt to be touched.

She slipped her tongue across her bottom lip and she could almost still taste him.

“I’m sorry, were you already asleep?” Sheri asked.

“Yeah, but barely.” Chloe looked at the side of the bed where she’d dreamed Cary had been. The pillow had an indention in the middle as if someone had been resting on it.

“I just wanted to check in and make sure you’re okay,” Sheri said.

“I’m fine,” she said, and it wasn’t exactly a lie. As crazy as it seemed, she felt lighter.

“Okay. I’ll let you get back to your dreams if you promise me one thing.”

“What?”

“You’ll consider meeting Dan.”

“Dan?”

“Dan Henderson. He’s the hot detective I told you about. Blonde, blue eyes. He’s not Johnny Depp, but . . .”

“I’ll think about it,” she said, but her answer would be the same. She didn’t want a blonde, blue-eyed guy. She wanted Cary Stevens.

They hung up and she snagged the extra pillow and brought it to her face. When her nose met the soft cotton, she could swear she smelled a man’s spicy scent on the material.

“Just a dream,” she said and looked around the room.

Chapter Six

“Cary? Cary, open your eyes.”

The voice echoed in his head, but sounded distant. Chloe?

“He’s waking up. Call a nurse. Call a nurse.”

No, not Chloe. His sister, Kelly.

He started to open his eyes, but they felt glued shut. He took a deep breath, and the scent took him back. Back in time. Back when he was sitting beside his mother in the hospital.

What the hell was happening?

Cary forced his eyes open. He wasn’t in the hospital. He was back in Room Six. But he could swear. . . He remembered talking to Chloe, being in her bed. Had he physically been at Chloe’s place, or had she been right and it was just a dream? He looked around the room and they were one person short. It took him a second to realize it was Susie Talbot, the woman with the bad hip that had stopped hurting.

He looked at Beatrice Bacon, who he thought had the most snap in the room. She had her nose stuck in a book with a half-naked guy on the cover. The seat next to her was open, so he stood and moved to sit beside her. She lowered the book and stared at him over the spine.

“What?” she asked.

“Susie’s gone?”

“Yup. She got moved up to Room Eight.”

“What happens in Room Eight?”

“She’s passing over.”

“Sorry.” He inhaled. He thought of hearing his sister’s voice. Of talking to Chloe. Of kissing Chloe. More than ever he hoped the next bell was for him. He wanted to live.

“Don’t be. She’s ready.”

He finally got the nerve to ask. “Did I . . . go anywhere?”

She nodded. “You were given a pass. I hope you used it wisely.”

“Wisely? What was I supposed to do?”

“I can’t tell you that. He gave you brains and wants you to figure it out yourself.”

“He?” he asked.

She pointed to the ceiling.

“Really?”

“Really. That said, I imagine the pass had something to do with that girl you were connected with.”

“Connected? To what girl? Chloe? The girl who was here?”

“Yup. Wasn’t that where you went?”

He nodded. How the hell did she know where he’d gone? “But I’m not connected with her. I mean, I like her, and I’ll admit I’m attracted to her. But . . .” The word ‘connected’ sounded serious. He didn’t do serious.

“You two didn’t talk?” she asked.

“Uh, yeah. Some.”

“So what did you do?”

He just smiled and decided to let her assume.

“Oh, please,” she said sarcastically. “He doesn’t send people on booty calls.”