His Partner's Wife (28 page)

What if John wasn't quite what he seemed to be, either? He'd
told her that Stuart had had a partner in crime. Perhaps John felt a financial
obligation to Debbie; perhaps he
had
one Natalie didn't know about. He could be desperate for
money. Who better for Stuart to take into his confidence.

No! Her fingers clenched on her covers. She would not
believe that. Not of John, protective father and friend, tender, passionate
lover, conscientious even toward his ex-wife.

No. Anyone but John McLean.

That insidious, internal voice, heard loudest at night,
whispered,
Yes, but you would never have
believed it of Stuart. And you
married
him.

She was able to defeat the voice more easily than she might
have expected. She knew the difference now between a man like Stuart and one
like John McLean. When she met Stuart, she had let herself be fooled by the
exterior: the uniform and the broad shoulders and smiling eyes and heroic
record. Face craggy rather than handsome, he'd been tall, athletic, unarguably
brave. His sense of humor was sometimes vulgar or shocking, but she knew from
friends that hospital workers were the same. Pathos could be defeated only with
humor. He had courted her, talked of his exploits when she pushed, tried to
make light of them.

One night, while he was cooking dinner for them, she had
discovered the album of newspaper clippings about him while she was browsing
the shelves. He found her looking through it.

She had been taken aback. That was a good way to put it. It
had seemed a little odd, almost childishly proud, that this big tough cop
combed through newspapers for his own name, even highlighting it sometimes.

But when she looked up, he smiled crookedly. Nodding at the
album, Stuart said, "That's to remind me in low moments that I can do some
good."

Of course her heart melted.

More fool she.

He abandoned the facade once they were married. He'd gotten
annoyed a few times that she wouldn't use her influence at the
Sentinel
to be
sure he was featured in write-ups. She'd seen him throw a temper tantrum after
he was dismissed in print as "a second Port Dare officer." Oh, he'd
pretend to be embarrassed afterward, give a boyish grin and say, "I just
like to know that somebody notices the job I do." Somewhere along the way,
she looked at him in the midst of a tirade and realized he was completely
self-centered.

Natalie was willing to bet that Det. John McLean didn't have
an album with clippings of his own exploits.

But even knowing Stuart was egotistical, almost childishly
selfish, having discovered that his interests were narrow and his observations
about others cruel, she would never have imagined him a killer.

He had taken such pride in being a police officer. Not just
an officer, but a detective and a hero. Knowing that he had crossed the line so
completely for money made her reexamine her memories, wonder if he had ever
taken pride in the job or what his badge stood for. Maybe instead the pride was
all for himself, for being somebody people looked at with respect and even
fear. Maybe liking to be looked at with fear had become more pleasurable. Or
maybe, as John had suggested, growing anger at the city and the department had
twisted his pride into vengeance.

Or maybe, ultimately, he
was
just
selfish. He'd had enough of being a low-paid cop and wanted big bucks, so he
felt he had the right to grab it any way he could. Which made him a psychopath.
A conscienceless shell of a man who had fooled her into thinking him decent,
sexy and even noble.

Curled under the covers in bed, Natalie flushed with
humiliation at her own gullibility. How earnestly she had worked at her
marriage, convinced she was somehow at fault when his interest waned, not
understanding yet that his interest never strayed far from himself.

What kind of idiot did John think she was? Either she'd had
some grain of intelligence and therefore knew her husband was a crook, or else
she was naive beyond deserving sympathy. He did genuinely seem to think she
hadn't known what Stuart was, which suggested that he didn't rate her
intelligence very high.

So why was he interested in her?

Was he really? Or had the one night been an impulse? With
kids, he couldn't possibly have much of a swinging social life. How often did
he even get the chance to date? There she was, ensconced in his guest bedroom,
ripe for the plucking.

Natalie threw off the covers to cool herself. The flush of
humiliation spread from her cheeks to her toes. She was imagining true love,
and he was scratching an itch.

Only it hadn't seemed that way.

She heard his voice, ringing with sincerity.
You're a woman of integrity. I'd trust you with my life.

And low and gritty.
Stuart
was crazy. The son of a bitch didn't deserve you.

And he'd claimed that she had been keeping him awake nights
and appearing in his dreams when he did sleep. He'd as good as admitted that he
had wanted her even when she was married.

None of that sounded as if making love to her was an
impulse. And it had felt … well, she wasn't that experienced, but his every
touch, the groans she'd awakened, the heavy beat of his heart and the shiver of
muscles, none of that had felt like a man scratching an itch.

It felt more like a man who might be falling in love along
with her.

Or was she, once again, fooling herself?

Natalie flopped onto her back, moaning.

How could a woman who had made such a monumental mistake
ever trust her judgment again?

What she needed to understand, she realized, was
why
she had
been so gullible. Why had she needed so badly to believe that Stuart was
everything he appeared to be? Why had she wanted to be married so desperately,
she had closed her eyes to everything that was wrong?

And how, she thought wretchedly, shutting out the sight of
the bright green numerals on her digital clock, was she ever going to get up
and go to work tomorrow on so little sleep?

The restaurant was
popular,
an airy, former warehouse that now had wood floors and lush ferns enjoying the
light from the glass that enclosed what had once been a shipping dock looking
out over the strait. Outside, seagulls soared, and a departing ferry left a
rough wake on the gray water.

John would rather have been at the local hamburger joint
with his kids. Hell, he'd rather be just about anywhere else, with anyone but
his mother.

Unpleasant tasks couldn't be put off forever.

The pleasantries out of the way, lunch ordered and the
waitress departed, John cleared his throat. "Mom, I want to talk to you
about something."

His mother raised her eyebrows. "Yes? Do you need me to
take the children an extra day?"

Oh, good. Make this harder. That was the trouble with his
mother. Damn it, she was always willing to help him out. She believed in
family, that the members
should
be able to depend on one another. She'd been there
unfailingly, in her own way, for him and his brothers. She still was.

He didn't want her ever to know how bitterly he resented the
stern way she'd raised her sons. Maybe it had been necessity; it had to have
been tough for her on her own—no life insurance, no marketable skills, having
to work two jobs to put food on the table. No surprise that she'd needed them
to grow up fast. Now he could see that maybe she hadn't had any energy left to
show affection. Probably it was petty of him to wish she had been able to be
softer sometimes, to let them know that she loved her boys even when they
didn't live up to her expectations. Sometimes he wondered if she even
remembered the woman she'd once been, the mother his childish eyes had seen.

The silence had stretched too long while he wallowed in
guilt.

Irritated with himself, he thought,
Enough already!
However
much he depended on his mother and respected how she'd coped after her
husband's murder, he couldn't let her squelch Evan's joy and spontaneity. John
didn't even fully understand why she was trying. Because Evan was a boy, and
therefore required to live to a higher standard than his sister? Why was that?
John's determination hardened. Was his son, too, supposed to dedicate his life
to justice and protecting the innocent because of a long-ago tragedy?

She'd molded all three of her boys—screwed them up, in
John's opinion, which he sometimes thought was harsh but believed nonetheless.
He wasn't going to let her do the same to Evan.

"No," he said. "It's Evan I want to talk to
you about."

She looked coolly back at him. "You really should be
firmer with him, you know. I wouldn't say this in his hearing, but he's really
become something of a brat lately."

John gritted his teeth. "In what way?"

"He interrupts constantly. You boys were taught not to
interrupt adults. And the way he and Maddie bicker—"

"Maddie is the older. Why is their fighting his
fault?"

"It isn't altogether, of course! Her manners lack
something, too." His mother's voice softened. "I understand why
you've been indulgent, considering the trauma of losing their mother the way
they have. It seems to me the time has come, however…"

Levelly he said, "But I'm their father, and I don't
think the time
has
come."

Her only visible reaction was a flaring of her nostrils. She
waited.

"They do bicker a lot, and it is tiresome."

"I'm glad you see at least that much," she said, a
snip in her voice.

He fought the anger that he knew had its roots in problems
other than this one. He didn't want a rift; he just wanted to get through to
her.

"What you don't seem to notice is how much they also
depend on each other and how close they are, how much they care about each
other." Not giving her a chance to respond, he continued, "Maddie,
for example, is worried because Grandma has been so mean to Evan lately."

She jerked as if he'd struck her. Her mouth worked several
times while she sought words and failed to find them.

He hadn't meant to be so blunt. Renewed guilt softened his
voice. "It's pretty obvious to everyone but you how hard you've been
coming down on Evan." He hesitated. "Mom, he's a little kid. A
kindergartner. Suddenly you're trying to hold him to some standard of maturity
that he's not even close to being at."

She found her voice. "Is it so unreasonable to expect
decent manners and some help when I ask for it?"

"He's five years old, Mom."

"Hugh wasn't much older than that when his father
died."

How many times had he heard that? "I know," he
said, with sparse patience. "Hugh had to grow up fast. You needed him to.
Evan doesn't have to."

The waitress brought salads. His mother inclined her head in
regal thanks and unfolded her napkin. She did not, however, pick up her fork
when the waitress left.

"I can assure you," his mother said stiffly,
"that my intention was not to—"

John interrupted. "Mom, you don't have to tell me your
intentions. You love the kids. You've showed that in a million ways. But it
seems to me that your attitude toward Evan has been changing lately. When Maddie
noticed, too, I figured we'd better talk about it."

Her chin stayed up, her gaze level. She was big on pride,
something she'd drummed into her own sons. "If you feel I'm not a good
influence…"

Oh, damn. "Don't be ridiculous," he said
brusquely. "The kids know you love them. I just want you to go a little
easier on Evan. Please. Let him be a little kid."

"Even when he's rude or quarrelsome?"

"He's a little kid. He plays with trucks! He's not ten
or twelve or twenty." John hesitated. "He's more or less lost his
mother, as you pointed out. He could use your affection. He needs that a lot
more than discipline."