Once Upon a Marriage (8 page)

* * *

I
T
 
WASN
'
T
 
A
 
DATE
. Liam and Elliott rode up front, the doing of both men as far as Marie could tell. She wasn't all that sorry to be huddled with Gabi in the backseat.

“So you think that guy was after Liam?” she asked, shivering in spite of the balmy weather outside and climate control in the car.

“No.” Elliott's tone bore no hesitation. “If anything he was after his car.”

“To sabotage it?” Marie asked. She was thinking about bombs.

“The back tire was slashed,” Elliott said. He'd gone back and spoken with the police for a few seconds after he got Liam and Gabi and Marie settled in his car.

Always the professional.

Liam swore. “My tires are slashed?”

“Only one of them. Probably would have been all four if the guard hadn't heard something.”

“Thank God it was your car and not you.” Sitting directly behind Liam, Gabrielle leaned forward and ran her hand along the side of his neck, a tender move that belied her somewhat harsh tone.

It wasn't Liam who'd raised Gabi's ire. Marie knew that much for sure. Pity the guy who was behind these threats against Liam. An attorney who didn't take no for an answer, Gabi would see the sod prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law once he was caught.

“You think it's the same guy who spray-painted his car in the park?” Marie was looking at Elliott in the rearview mirror. Could see the serious expression on his face as he focused on the road. Dusk was quickly falling.

“Could be. The police haven't been able to link either the car or the letters to each other, let alone to an actual person,” he said.

“But then with budget cuts it's not like they can afford to put this at the top of their lists,” Gabi said. “Not when it's just car vandals and anonymous notes without a threat to life.”

“Striking a guard will up the offense,” Elliott said, to which Gabi nodded.

“So you think a detective will give this more time now?” Marie asked. She wasn't sure she liked that idea, either.

It made the whole thing seem so much more ominous.

“I think they'll be looking harder for a connection between the incidents and, yes, probably assigning more hours to the task.”

“So you think there's more than one person behind all of it?” she asked. Because chattering was what she always did when she was upset. Or in a good mood. Or bored. Or interested in something. Or...

“I hope to God not,” Liam said. “But you can't blame people for being angry. George robbed them of their life savings, some of them. And though they're going to get it back, some of them have already been foreclosed on. We can't give them back their credit.”

In the olden days, Marie would have touched him, squeezed his hand or patted his shoulder for saying such a thing. Before he was Gabi's property. Now she just smiled inside, loving that he was one of them.

“I'd like to believe there's only one guy working alone,” Elliott said as he stopped at a red light. Her gaze met his in the falling darkness as he glanced back in his rearview mirror. “Anonymous notes and car vandalism, he's showing a pattern of staying in the shadows.” He didn't sound worried. But he clearly wasn't happy about the evening's turn of events.

She nodded. The light changed and he moved on. Gabi squeezed her hand and she held on.

The streets and sidewalks were buzzing. Friday night on the town.

With someone out there wanting to hurt Liam. Possibly watching them.

Shivering again, Marie looked at the immense spread of Elliott's shoulders. And was glad she was with him.

 

CHAPTER EIGHT

E
LLIOTT
 
WASN
'
T
 
NEARLY
 
as much fun to be with when he was working. Or maybe it was just the night. Marie ordered her favorite—filet mignon. She drank part of a glass of wine. Loved the windowed table in the eighteenth-floor restaurant.

She was with the people she cared most about in the world.

And none of them seemed to be having the time of their lives.

She told Gabi and Liam about Gordon. About Edith and Grace. And Grace telling Edith not to “bother the kids.”

“Sounds to me like there's something a little more between Edith and Gordon,” Elliott said, cutting his steak, but looking around him as he did so.

“Edith and Gordon?” Marie and Gabi said in unison.

“He's ninety, she's seventy,” Liam told the other man.

“And?” Elliott's attention was on the conversation, and yet it felt as though he wasn't really with them. He hadn't made direct eye contact with her once that night. Not even when, at the hotel while they waited together for the elevator to take them to the restaurant and Liam had walked Gabi over to look at the menu, she'd told him that she was really glad that no one had been hurt at the school earlier that day.

The elevator door had opened and it wasn't until later that she'd realized he'd never responded.

“You think Edith has a thing for him and he doesn't return her feelings? That's why she's always so irritated with him but doesn't lock her door?” Marie asked now, trying not to be hurt by Elliott's distance.

He was working, she continued to remind herself.

And she, for one, was glad that he was.

“I think it sounds as though there's something else going on there.” Elliott's deep voice spread softly around them. “I can't say what that something is.”

“Ask Grace,” Liam said, handing Gabi the bread basket before she'd even asked for it. “She'll know.”

And so it went. They talked about the Arapahoe. About business at the shop. Even a little bit about Threefold's finances. The trio had had to have a name for the LLC that bought the Arapahoe and Marie's choice of Threefold had won the vote. The LLC currently held title to the building and all leases therein—including the one for Marie's coffee shop. They had two non-senior citizen renters, both of whom paid on time, and a list of repairs that were waiting their turn. New wiring was going to be starting the following month. Enough to get the entire building up to code. It was only during that business discussion that Elliott had seemed to fully participate in their evening at all. But Marie wasn't fooled. He'd asked seemingly pertinent questions—many of which were similar to ones he'd asked before—so she knew he hadn't really been engaging with them.

When everything with Liam's father had first gone down, Elliott asked to see the Threefold paperwork. Liam and Gabi had been racing the clock to prove to the FBI that Liam was not involved in his father's company's illegal dealings. Marie had gone over Threefold's files with Elliott.

Their waitress stopped to offer more wine. Everyone declined. And before they were through their main course, they'd exhausted historic Arapahoe conversation and moved on to the weather.

No one mentioned the stalker out to get Liam. Or Elliott's episode with danger that morning. No one mentioned anything that would bring tension to the table.

But it was there anyway.

* * *

E
LLIOTT
 
MEANT
 
TO
 
push the button for the second floor. Drop Marie first. And then ride up one floor to see Liam and Gabrielle safely inside their more luxurious apartment.

Habit had his finger on floor three as soon as he was in the elevator. His work for Barbara Bustamante Connelly didn't require him to visit Miss Bustamante's apartment often. Generally he was on the third floor with Liam.

He was overeager to get home. Made a tactical error. Not one that put anyone but him in any danger.

It was late. He'd seen the worry in Marie's eyes that evening. Remembered how concerned her friends had been over her worry about him earlier in the day. Thinking he should have called her. As if there was something between them.

It had felt good. For a second there. Having a woman worry about him.

Too good.

He shouldn't be alone with her.

But alone he was as soon as he did a well-being check of Liam and Gabi's home and reentered the ancient elevator with Marie. It took thirty seconds for the door to close, the elevator to bump its way down a floor and reopen her doors. Seemed like five minutes to Elliott.

“Did I do something to offend you?” she asked as he held out a hand for her key and unlocked her door—as he'd done with Liam moments before.

“Of course not,” he said, all business as he strode through the flowery-smelling apartment and tried not to notice all the colorful, homey, soft touch arrangements everywhere. From the painted glass in one room, to the colorfully flowered ceramic décor in another, he focused on safety concerns.

“You didn't have to check my place,” Marie said. “I'm not, nor have I ever been, in any danger. Liam's the target, not me. Besides, in case you didn't notice, I have one entrance and two dead bolts. Courtesy of my mother. You think my worrying is bad, you should meet her.”

She'd tossed her clutch on a light-colored leather sectional filled with pillows.

He shouldn't meet her mother. Ever. Didn't need to. He knew her too well via phone. And mail. Her paychecks came right on time. Every time.

He also didn't need the reminder that he was working.

His mind had been fully aware of that fact every single second that evening.

“Everything's fine here,” he said, hoping he could get her sweet scent out of his senses as quickly as he was going to make it out her door. He made a straight shot.

Had his hand on the doorknob.

“You're sure I didn't do something to make you mad?”

She looked like a siren standing there. And with that blond hair, she was an angel.

One who had been visibly upset to her friends when she'd thought him in danger earlier that day.

The feeling was sweeter than he'd imagined. Something he wanted. And wasn't going to have with her.

But those big brown eyes...they needed something from him.

Her mother was paying him to make certain that she didn't get hurt.

Only in that moment did Elliott realize that she'd hired him to do the impossible. He could protect Marie's physical body from harm, maybe even protect her finances from ruin, but no one could guarantee that another's heart would not be hurt.

“I'm certain I am not upset with you.” He did the best he could to dispel the shadows in her eyes. And turned to let himself out.

“Then why haven't you looked me in the eye all night?”

“A man attempted to harm my client tonight, if not directly then indirectly with his car. For all we know he might have intended to do more than just slash the tires. He'd have had access to the underside of the car. He could have cut any number of things, or planted any number of things, that could have put Liam at risk.” He spoke harshly. Not because of her. But because of what it was costing him to keep his back to her.

“I've seen you right after Liam was in trouble before.” She spoke directly behind him. He'd felt every move she made as she approached. Her breath was like a breeze against the back of his neck.

And couldn't possibly have touched him. He was almost a foot taller than she was.

She wasn't going to let him go.

Against every instinct he had, Elliott turned enough to meet that wide-open gaze and say, “I am not angry with you. If anything, I like you too much.” And then he was out of there.

Kicking himself all the way down the stairs that he'd taken at a run.

I like you too much?
Why on earth had he said that?

Marie Bustamante demanded honesty. Needed honesty.

He'd given it to her.

But he was deceiving her, too.

Because he had to.

* * *

“H
E
 
SAID
 
HE
likes me too much.” Marie took cookies from the cooling rack, making room for Grace to put the muffins. Two cookies per bag. Fold. Attach gold Arapahoe Coffee Shop seal. “What does that mean?”

“Could mean any number of things.” The old woman, tall and mostly straight backed even as she bent over her tins, frowned.

Marie waited. Needing to hear what all of those “any number of things” were. Needed to get her head back on right. To have shoulders as strong and able as Grace's.

Five-thirty on a Saturday morning after a restless and mostly sleepless Friday night, and Marie wasn't feeling strong or able about much of anything.

“Did you think to ask him?” Efficient as always, Grace emptied the last tin, carried it to the utility sink and washed it clean.

She'd thought to ask Grace. Not the man in question. Not her best friend. Or her mother. Definitely not her mother.

No, she'd gone straight for the grandmotherly type. Like she'd needed a giant hug.

And if that didn't tell Marie she was in trouble, she'd be just plain lying to herself.

* * *

E
LLIOTT
 
SHOWED
 
UP
 
at the coffee shop before eight o'clock Saturday morning. It was a further testament to Marie's flustered state that when he walked in the door she dropped the carton of cream she'd pulled out of the small refrigerator under her counter on her way to completing one of her more famous frothy coffee drinks.

Grace had gone upstairs, Nancy was busy taking orders and Eva was just getting her apron on, so Marie cleaned up the mess herself. She would have anyway. She was a stickler for cleaning up her own messes.

He'd be fourth in line. Nancy could wait on him. Eva would be on the counter by then, making the drinks. And she'd have the flush out of her face enough to smile and say hello.

Maybe even go out front and talk with him for a few. Like old times. A week ago. A month ago. When he'd been a person she was compelled to spend time with, enjoyed talking to, a person who was easy for her to talk to, not like now, when first and foremost he was...a man.

“Marie.” She was bent over, staring at the floor, corralling cream into the paper towel, when she heard Elliott's voice above her head. Glancing up, she saw his face, almost right on top of hers.

Only Elliott would have been able to lean over quite that far. For him it wasn't even a stretch.

Absurd thought. She smiled. “Yeah?”

“We need to talk. Liam and Gabrielle are waiting upstairs as soon as you're free to get away.”

They were in the middle of their Saturday morning rush. “Is it an emergency?”

“No.”

“Can you give me an hour or so?” She mopped cream, glancing up at him.

“Of course.”

“Thanks.” Marie didn't look at him again. Didn't need another rush of the wonderful feeling that swept over her when his eyes connected with hers. Didn't need any more complications, period. She threw away the paper towel. Cleaned the area with disinfectant to make certain there'd be no residual sour smell greeting them in the near future. And stood, with her back to the room, to survey the list of tickets waiting to be filled.

Making coffee was something she was good at. Something she enjoyed. It wasn't about measured grounds, water and pushing a button for her. Every cup started with freshly ground beans, in varying amounts, with fresh accents, added individually...

Coffee was art to her. And the fact that her coffee made her a decent living was testimony to the fact that she knew what she was doing. She had no idea how full the shop was. What tables were occupied. What seats were available. The shop's bell rang, indicating another customer had entered. Or exited. She had no idea if there were any tables that needed to be cleaned. She'd been avoiding more eye contact with Elliott.

He'd been number four in line. His dark roast with a shot of espresso had come through. Long enough ago that he should be upstairs.

She turned.

Surveyed the room.

He was at the small round table to the right of counter. With easy access to the door. And a view of both the room and the street outside.

And she was glad.