The Marriage Profile (14 page)

Justin moved over to the podium that had been set up for tonight's fund-raiser. “Thank you all again for coming, for taking time away from your families and your businesses to be here tonight. I've promised Maddie that I'll keep this short so she won't have to use that hook of hers to yank me off. She tells me that a number of our local businesses and some very generous members of our community have donated some really great items for tonight's silent auction, and Maddie's eager to get the bidding going.”

“We're also eager to sample that food,” someone called out, which resulted in an outbreak of laughter around the room.

“And you should be,” Maddie added from her position beside him. “The Lone Star Country Club has generously donated all of tonight's food and liquor in the hopes that you will be equally generous when it comes to bidding on the wonderful items in our auction. Which is what I believe the sheriff wants to talk to you about.”

At Maddie's nod, Justin delivered his speech, short but effective, he hoped. Then, amid a round of applause, he retreated from the podium and turned over the microphone to Maddie. Since he'd already made arrangements with Maddie to enter a generous bid on his behalf for the stud
services of a champion stallion that was on the program, he felt comfortable taking his leave. All he wanted now was to get back to Angela.

“That was a nice speech you gave up there, son,” Archy Wainwright told him.

“Thanks,” Justin replied, his eyes darting toward the door.

“Your mother's here. She's bidding on some spa weekend.”

“That's good. What about you? Aren't you going to check out some of the auction items?” Justin asked, hoping to hurry his father along.

“Sure am. But I figure there's plenty of time. Hang on,” he told Justin, and called out to the waitress a few feet away. “Miss, I'd like to try one of those.”

The blond waitress with the sad brown eyes whom Justin recognized as Daisy hurried over to them. “Of course,” she said, and held out the tray and napkins.

“What are these?” Archy asked as he piled several onto a napkin.

“They're jalapeño poppers.”

“Thank you, ma'am,” he told her, and popped first one and then another of the batter-fried treats into his mouth.

“What about you, Sheriff?”

“Thanks, but I think I'll pass,” he said, and wondered why the woman looked so unhappy. But before he could give it another thought, his father was whooshing out a breath and fanning his mouth.

“Whew! Those things are good, but they're hot as Hades. I need something to put out the fire. Come on, son. I'll buy you a cold one.”

“They're free,” Justin pointed out as his father made a path to one of the bars and he followed.

“Just a technicality. Since the club is donating the food
and liquor and the Wainwrights and Carsons run the club, I figure I'm buying.” Once at the bar, he said, “Whiskey straight up for me. What about you, Justin?”

“I'll just have a club soda.”

“I thought you were off duty,” his father told him.

“I am, but I'm working on something and I'd just as soon keep a clear head.”

His father looked at him over the rim of his glass. “That project you working on, does it involve Angela?”

Justin narrowed his eyes. “What makes you ask that?”

“I couldn't help noticing that she's back in Mission Creek. Truth is, I think the whole town noticed your little exchange with her the other night at the hospital. Judging by your reaction, I thought you might have some unresolved feelings where she's concerned.”

“And if I do?” Justin demanded, remembering that his parents hadn't been thrilled when he'd announced that he and Angela had eloped.

“Then I suggest you resolve them.”

“It's not that simple,” Justin told him.

“It's not that hard, either.” His father set down his glass and met Justin's gaze. “Listen, I know we didn't make things any easier on you when you told us you wanted to marry the girl.”

“I don't want to get into this,” Justin argued, not wanting to rehash with his father how Angela Mason wasn't good enough for him, that he needed to marry a woman who was better suited to be a Wainwright.

“We're going to get into it because you're going to let me say what I should have said a long time ago,” his father told him. “I had no business telling you who to marry. And you were right to tell me to go to hell and marry the girl like you did.”

“I appreciate you saying that. But Angela and I have
been divorced for five years,” he reminded him. “So I think it's a little late for your blessing.”

“It's not too late if you still love her and she's the woman you want to spend your life with,” his father told him, surprising Justin again. “Take a lesson from your old man, son. Don't let pride keep you from what you really want, the way I let it keep me from going after your mother when she left me. You'll find pride a poor substitute for having the woman you love in your bed beside you at night and across the breakfast table from you in the morning.”

“You sound like Hawk,” Justin told him.

“You mean the boy sounds like me. After all, I'm his father. Not the other way around.”

“Yeah, you're right,” Justin said, and couldn't help but think about how much his father had changed. For that matter, so had he. “And speaking of Hawk, have you seen him yet? He and Jenny arrived a little while ago.”

“That your way of telling your old man to butt out?”

“No, sir. I appreciate what you said,” Justin told him honestly.

Archy nodded, apparently satisfied with his answer. “I'll go find Hawk and leave you in peace. Just make sure you say hello to your mother before you leave. And if you haven't seen her already, look for your sister Susan.”

“Susan and Michael are here?”

His father nodded. “Michael arranged to get a few days off from the hospital, so he and your sister drove up from Houston for the weekend. I'm sure they'd appreciate seeing you before they head back.”

“I'd like to see them, too,” Justin said, and held out his hand to his father. “Thank you, sir.”

“Anytime, son,” he said, taking Justin's hand. And much to Justin's surprise, his father slapped him on the
other arm and gave him a bear hug before he headed off into the crowd.

“Another club soda, Sheriff?” the pert redhead that he recognized as Erica asked him from behind the bar.

“No thanks,” he said, and took another swallow of his drink as he scoured the crowd to see if he could spot his mother or sister and her husband.

“Looks like a good turnout tonight, and people are still coming in.”

“Hopefully it means we'll raise a lot of money.” Intent on finding his mother and sister, then splitting for Angela's, he polished off his drink and placed the glass on the counter.

“Did you see the dreamy diamond-and-sapphire necklace that's in the auction?” she asked him.

“No, I'm afraid I didn't.”

“It's gorgeous. And Frank, my boyfriend, he says he's going to buy it for me. Sort of an early birthday present.”

Justin paused, narrowed his eyes. “And the Frank you're referring to is Frank Del Brio, right?”

“Yes,” she said proudly. “He and I…well, we're close. And someday we're going to get married.”

Justin didn't bother commenting on the woman's choice in men, nor the fact that he suspected Frank wasn't likely to pop the question anytime soon.

“Frank really wanted to support this fund-raiser. Do you know that he bought twenty tickets and gave them to his employees?”

“That was real big of him,” Justin said, and wondered how he had missed seeing Del Brio. Even in a crowd like this the man stuck out, especially with his thugs flanking him. But he no sooner asked himself the question when the answer came. He had probably missed Del Brio for the same reason he had been distracted all day. His thoughts
were on Angela. Intent on doing his duty so he could leave for Angela's, he said, “Thanks for the drink, Erica. And good luck on getting that necklace.”

“Sheriff, before you go, can I ask you a question? It's sort of personal.”

He paused and said, “That depends on how personal the question is.”

“Well, it's kind of personal, but not too personal, since you and her aren't married anymore.”

“You're talking about Angela Mason?” Justin asked, trying to follow the thread of the woman's conversation and wondering why she would bring up Angela.

Erica nodded. “I heard she's here in Mission Creek to help find that little girl who was kidnapped. And since you used to be married to her, I figured you would know if it was true what they say about her. You know that stuff about her being psychic.”

Justin frowned. Aware of the woman's relationship with Del Brio, his lawman's antenna went up. “What makes you ask?”

“Just curious,” she said, all sweetness and light. “I mean, when I saw her come in, it made me wonder—”

“Angela's here?” Justin whipped his attention toward the club's entrance.

“Yes, I thought you saw her. She and Ricky Mercado are over there at the table where they're handing out the programs.”

Then Justin did see her. She was standing at the check-in table in a dark blue dress that flowed over her curves and was anchored by tiny straps at her shoulders. And standing right behind her, with his hand at her back, was Ricky Mercado. Justin felt as though he'd been kicked in the gut. Everything inside him went white hot with pain. Then the rage took over, and not until he could feel the blood running cold in his veins did he start toward Angela.

S
till unable to shake the uneasiness she'd felt from the moment she'd entered the country club's grounds, Angela turned to Ricky and asked, “Would you excuse me for a few minutes while I see if I can find Justin?”

“Sure. Why don't I go get us something to drink at the bar. Wine okay?”

“I'd rather have a soda,” Angela told him. She was grateful Ricky hadn't pressed her for the reason she needed to see Justin. Scanning the room, she spotted him almost immediately. And when she noted he was coming toward her, she smiled and waved.

But as he drew closer, Angela noted the rigid set of his jaw. Her smile slipped a notch and her heart began to beat nervously. When he stopped in front of her, Angela sensed his barely checked anger. As she searched his face, her stomach dropped at the coldness in his eyes. Somehow managing to keep her voice calm, she said, “Hi. I'm glad I found you. I got your messages and tried to call you at the office and the ranch, but I must have missed you. And I didn't have your cell phone number.”

“I guess we were both a little too distracted last night and this morning to get around to exchanging cell numbers,” Justin said in a voice that was devoid of any warmth.

“Yes, I guess we were,” Angela said. Swallowing, she met his gaze. “Listen, Justin, about my being here with
Ricky. I'd told him yesterday morning that I would come with him tonight and—”

“Save your explanations, Angela. I'm not interested in them. All I'm interested in is finding that little girl. I've got some new leads that I'll go over with you in the morning at my office.”

“Justin, wait. Please,” she added when he continued to turn away.

“What?”

“What about us?” she asked.

“There is no ‘us' except in a professional sense and that's only until we find Lena.”

His words set off a roaring in her head, made her want to run away, to escape the pain. But they'd lost each other once because she'd run away. She didn't want to lose this second chance for them—not without at least trying. “What about last night? Are you saying it didn't mean anything to you?”

“Last night I made a mistake. We both did. But you can rest assured that it's a mistake I won't be repeating.”

Chilled to the bone by his words, Angela clutched the program in her fist so tightly she could feel her nails digging into her palms. “Justin, please—”

“If you want to go over the new info, be at my office at eight in the morning.”

He didn't bother saying goodbye; he simply turned and walked away from her. And as he did so, Angela realized, he took with him a piece of her heart and the last hope she had that the two of them might actually have a chance together.

“I see you found Wainwright,” Ricky said, coming up behind her.

Wrapped in pain and grief, she couldn't bring herself to respond.

“Angie? Hey, Angie, you all right?” Ricky asked.

She could hear Ricky's voice, but could barely see him for the tears blurring her vision. Afraid to speak for fear she'd start blubbering, she nodded her head.

He set down the glass of soda on a passing tray, then slipped his arm around her shoulders and held the other glass to her lips. “Drink it,” he ordered. And when she started to decline, he tightened his grip on her and repeated, “Drink it.”

Angela took a sip, gasped and then coughed as the foul-tasting stuff burned a path from her throat to her stomach. “What is that?” she asked when she could finally catch her breath.

“Scotch,” he informed her. “Better now?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“I take it your talk with Wainwright didn't go too well.”

“No, it didn't.” She should have laughed at the enormous understatement. Instead she felt the tears prickling at her eyes again.

“From the murderous looks he's shooting in my direction, my guess is I'm the reason. He's ticked off that you're with me, isn't he?”

“It's not your fault,” she told him. “Justin and I…” How did she even begin to explain the complicated situation between her and Justin? “It's not your fault,” she repeated.

“I'm sorry, Angie. Would it help if I went and talked to him, explained to the big jerk that you and I are just friends?”

She shook her head. “I'm afraid the problems between Justin and me go a lot deeper than his not approving of our friendship.” It came down to Justin trusting and believing in her. “But thanks for offering.”

Laughter flowed around them, voices swelled, glasses clinked in the gay party atmosphere. But Angela filtered it all through a haze of numbing pain.

“Come on, you're not up for this. I'll take you home.”

“No. I'll be all right,” she told Ricky. As much as she wanted to go home and nurse her aching heart, it wouldn't be fair to him. He'd told her that Del Brio had all but insisted that Ricky attend. “You go ahead and mingle. I'm going to go outside and get some air.”

“I'll go with you.”

“I'd really rather be alone.”

“You sure you're all right?” Ricky asked.

“I'll be fine.”

 

Justin stood out on the terrace where he'd gone to escape, unable to bear the sight of Angela with Ricky. At least everyone was too caught up in the auction fever to wander outdoors, he told himself, trying to be grateful that he had the space all to himself.

Kind of hard to feel grateful when he was feeling so stupid, he admitted, and mentally kicked himself again for being such a fool when it came to Angela. The sound of an owl in a nearby tree calling over and over for a mate that didn't answer sent another surge of hurt and loneliness pummeling through him. “I hear you, buddy,” he muttered, and told himself again he was lucky no one was there to see him talking to himself. If they did, they'd probably have him committed.

He deserved to be committed for being a sucker, for thinking that he and Angela might have a shot at making things work between them. How did that old adage go? Something about make a fool of me once and it's shame on you. But make a fool of me twice, and the shame's on me. She'd made a fool of him twice now, Justin conceded.
Angry with himself for allowing it to happen and hating the fact that his fury did little to diminish the gut-wrenching ache inside him, he squeezed his eyes shut a moment.

Determined to get a grip on his emotions, he opened his eyes and drew in a breath. He caught the scents of the night—the hint of rain in the air, the smell of the freshly mowed lawn, the sweet perfume of the flowers. Somewhat calmer, Justin stared out across the manicured grounds, noted the gardens lush with blooms of red and yellow and white. But the sight of those flowers made him think of Angela again and how much she'd liked coming to the country club and strolling through these gardens. Of how she had planted that garden in front of their home.

Get a grip, Wainwright. You have to stop thinking about the woman. Get her out of your head.

He jammed a fist through his hair. Irritated with himself, he turned away and looked back toward the clubhouse. The French windows and doors that lined the terrace provided him with a glimpse of the party inside—a party he didn't want to join, he admitted. Deciding to go make his goodbyes and leave, he headed back toward the clubhouse, not even bothering to put his suit jacket back on. He was just about to go inside when one of the French doors at the other end of the terrace opened and out walked Angela.

What little peace he'd been able to capture outdoors dissolved in an instant. Justin tensed, and though he hated to admit it, his heart ached at just the sight of her. Even though he told himself he should go inside, that Ricky would probably be joining her at any moment, he remained where he was.

As she began walking toward the center of the terrace, Justin thought she had spotted him and braced himself not to be moved by anything else she might say. But instead
of continuing toward him, she veered to the right and stopped to stand before the railing that overlooked the gardens, where he had stood only moments earlier. A summer wind whistled across the terrace, making a mournful sound and ruffling the skirt of the dress she wore. If she noticed, she gave no indication; she simply leaned on the rail and stared out across the grounds.

Moonlight combined with the soft lighting on the terrace to cast a shimmering glow on her hair. The same hair that he had curled his fingers into last night when they'd made love. Her bare arms and shoulders looked even softer, creamier in the diminished light, he thought. He couldn't see her face, but there was a weariness in her stance, a slight slump to her shoulders that tugged at something inside him.

Realizing what he was doing, Justin silently cursed himself. He needed to get out of here, as far away from Angela as he could. He reached for the handle on the door, intent on leaving, when something, some instinct or lawman's sixth sense, kicked in, and he became aware that the night had gone silent. No owl hooted in search of a mate any longer. No squirrels chattered. No frogs from the distant ponds barked. He swung his gaze back in Angela's direction, panned the terrace.

And that was when he saw it. A movement in the darkness near one of the windows a few yards away and the shadow of an arm pointing a gun. “Angela, look out!” he shouted, and charged toward the arm pointing the gun.

He heard the muffled pop. Heard Angela's scream. Felt the burst of fire in his shoulder, followed by the sound of his own grunt as he hit the ground. The gunman had used a damned silencer, he thought as the world suddenly began to move in slow motion.

“Justin! Oh, my God, Justin!”

He could have sworn he heard Angela screaming at him, could have sworn he saw tears streaming down her face, felt her soft fingers holding his head in her hands and yelling for someone to help her. And just before the world went black, he could have sworn he heard Angela's voice pleading, “Justin? Justin, can you hear me? Please, Justin, open your eyes.”

 

“Please, Justin, open your eyes,” Angela pleaded, and he fought his way up through the shroud of darkness toward her voice.

Opening his eyes, he saw Angela's pale face. Then everything came back to him in a rush. The gunman aiming at her. The sound of the muffled shot. “Are you all right?” he demanded, and attempted to sit up, only to groan as white-hot pain seared his shoulder.

“Take it easy,” Michael O'Day told him, and held him in place on the stone terrace with what Justin considered a surprisingly strong hand for a man who spent his days in a hospital operating room. The heart surgeon flashed him what Susan had termed the O'Day heartbreaker smile that had caused his ballerina sister to fall in love with the guy. “There's an ambulance on its way to take you to the hospital. Try to be still while I listen to your heart.”

“I don't need an ambulance. And I'm not going to any hospital,” Justin argued.

“You do, and you are if you want to get that bullet out of your shoulder,” Michael told him as he removed the stethoscope tips from his ears.

Bullet?

Only then did Justin look at his shoulder and see the blood that had soaked his shirt and now covered the shawl that Angela had been carrying.

“Let me through. Let me through to my son,” Kate
Wainwright cried out as she pushed her way through the circle of cops and people around him. “Oh, my God, Justin,” she said as she knelt down beside him.

“I'm okay, Mother.”

“Sheriff, we need to get a statement,” his deputy, Hank, cut in. “Did you see who shot you?”

“No, I didn't,” Justin began.

“Can't you see he's hurt?” Kate Wainwright demanded and the deputy mumbled an apology.

Ignoring Justin, she turned to Michael. “Is he going to be all right?”

“He should be his good old surly self in no time at all—once we get him to agree to go to the hospital and have that bullet removed.”

“Of course he's going to the hospital,” Kate informed them. “Archy, go see what's keeping the ambulance.”

“Thanks a lot, O'Day.”

“You're welcome, Sheriff,” he told Justin as the ambulance siren blared and the EMTs came rushing through with a stretcher.

“I can walk,” Justin argued.

“You'll do no such thing,” Kate informed him.

Justin glared at the grinning O'Day as he allowed himself to be loaded onto the stretcher.

“You want to ride in the ambulance with him, Kate?” Michael asked.

“Please, Mrs. Wainwright,” Angela cut in. “Would it be okay if I went in the ambulance with him?”

His mother's eyes widened at the request. She hesitated a moment, looked over at him with that same worried look clouding her eyes that he'd seen often when he was growing up. He recognized that look now for what it was—the concern of a mother for her child. But when she shifted
her gaze back to Angela, her expression softened and she said, “Of course, you go ahead. Archy and I will meet you at the hospital.”

 

For the last twelve of her thirty-two years she'd either been a cop or worked in law enforcement as a profiler. In that time she had seen her share of blood. While she would never become immune to the horrors of violence and its aftermath, she would never have been able to survive her chosen profession without developing a tolerance for bloodshed. Yet at the sight of Justin being shot, watching him go down and blood pooling around him, she'd nearly fallen apart. Had it not been for Justin's sister Susan calming her down and assuring her that Dr. O'Day would be able to take care of Justin, she had no doubt that she would have become hysterical. She still wasn't sure if her statement to Justin's deputy had even made sense. She knew she'd been of little help since she hadn't seen anything but Justin going down. And the blood. She shivered at the memory.

Sitting in the waiting room of the hospital now with her former in-laws and several of Justin's siblings and friends, she couldn't even begin to imagine what they thought of her plea to accompany Justin in the ambulance. And they probably were wondering why on earth she was even there, she admitted.