The Marriage Profile (6 page)

“I'm well aware of that fact.”

“Then maybe if you'd get past your anger at me, you'd see that you're not getting anywhere on your own. I can help you find her, Justin,” she said, trying to ease the tension so that working together wouldn't be more difficult than it had to be. “We can help each other find her.”

“I prefer working alone.”

His rebuff hit her like a slap. But Angela reminded herself she had a job to do—to find the missing little girl—and that meant she didn't have the luxury of running away and licking her wounds. “Suit yourself,” she told him, and picked up the handbag she'd placed next to the chair. She walked toward the door, paused and turned back to face him. “But whether you like it or not, I'm on this case now, too. I'd prefer working with you because I think our chances of finding her are better. But I'll work alone if I have to. It's up to you. Either way, I don't intend to leave until I find that little girl.”

“And how are you planning to do that? Hope that one of your dreams tells you where to find her?”

Angela stiffened. During their marriage, Justin had al
ways skirted the issue of her psychic abilities and chalked up her uncanny accuracy as woman's intuition. And because the memory of her family's rejection had been so painful, she'd allowed him to do so. Not anymore. “I intend to use any and all means available to me to find her—including my psychic abilities. I've already made arrangements to visit with Flynt and Josie Carson tomorrow, and I've requested copies of the Bureau's files on the case. I'll want to take a look at your files, too.”

Justin shot across the room, slapped his hand against the door she'd started to open and sent it slamming shut again. “Let's get something straight here, Mason. This is my case. Mine.”

“Then I suggest you have that chat with the Bureau because they don't see it that way. Now, get out of my way,” she said evenly, and reached for the doorknob. When he made no move to allow her to leave, Angela looked up at his hard face, noting the grim set of his mouth.

A muscle ticked in his jaw as he stared down at her. “I've been searching for that little girl for months and have hit one dead end after another. So have the feds. You think just because you've had some success tracking down a few missing people, you can waltz in here and tell me to turn over my files? That I'll let you take over my case?”

Angela sighed. She didn't bother telling him it wasn't his case—that officially it was a federal matter. She knew Justin well enough to know that once a case was his, it remained his. Not even the head of the FBI himself would be able to convince the stubborn man otherwise. While he might have made noises about cooperating with the FBI, Justin would have continued to work the case on his own. “It doesn't have to be this way, Justin. I've offered to
work with you. I'm still willing to work with you on this case.”

“Right. You expect me to put my faith in the woman who walked out on me? Better yet, I'm supposed to tell the Carsons to put their faith and hopes of finding Lena into some psychic mumbo jumbo?”

Angela flinched at the barb. Her father had made her an outcast in her own family, subjecting her to brutal lashings of both his tongue and his belt, claiming it was the devil that enabled her to see things others couldn't. It had taken her years to learn to control her own tongue, to not let others know about her visions. But no matter how hard she had tried, sooner or later she would slip and earn her father's wrath. She hadn't thought it possible for anyone else's rejection ever to hurt her so much.

She'd been wrong.

Justin's jibe about her psychic abilities had been just as sharp, just as painful, as Horace Mason's leather belt had been all those years ago. Feeling the hot sting of tears behind her eyes, she blinked hard, determined not to cry in front of him.

“Angel.” He said her name softly and started to touch her. “I—”

“Don't,” she said firmly. And because she felt so vulnerable, because she was afraid if he touched her the tears would start and not stop, she deliberately pulled open the door. “I want copies of the files, Justin. I'll leave my number with Mrs. Cox. Have her call me when you have them ready and I'll come by to pick them up.” Then before he could respond, she walked out the door without looking back.

 

Justin pulled his truck up to the curb across the street from Angela's condo and shut off the engine. After turning
off his headlights, he sat in the darkness and stared at the place Angela had moved into several days earlier. Located on the outskirts of Goldenrod, it was one of the newer developments that had gone up in Lone Star County during the past year. There were six units in all, moderately priced and small by Texas standards. The limestone facade still had that new look about it. He supposed the small trees with their less-than-lush branches had been the developer's attempt at landscaping. They didn't even come close to the massive century-old oaks found on the Wainwright ranch. But he had to admit the rows of azaleas that lined the front of each unit and the walkways were a nice touch. No doubt it had been those rose-colored blooms that had sold Angela on the place. She'd always had a weakness for flowers, Justin remembered.

Instantly an image of Angela came to mind. As though it were only yesterday, he could see her kneeling in the flower beds of the ranch-style house they'd bought during the last year of their marriage, her cheeks streaked with dirt and those blue eyes of hers bright with excitement as she described how beautiful the azaleas would be when they bloomed, all the different flowers that would be pushing up through the earth when spring came. At the time he would have sworn the two of them would have grown old together in that house. They'd already started trying to have a baby and he'd envisioned kids racing through those flower beds with a couple of dogs at their heels. But a hard winter freeze had destroyed the azaleas, and by the time spring arrived, she'd been gone. A sharp pang stabbed through him at the memory. Justin found himself wondering now if the couple he'd sold the house to had ever seen any of Angela's flowers bloom or if they'd filled in the garden with concrete and made other use for the space.

When a light came on in an upstairs room of Angela's
condo, Justin blinked. Shaking off the memories and the melancholy that accompanied them, he shifted his attention to the window. Although the drapes had been drawn shut, evidently the fabric wasn't lined because there was no mistaking the feminine form on the other side of those curtains—or the fact that the woman was undressing.

He had no business watching this.

Justin knew it, told himself not to watch her. Yet he did watch—mesmerized by the sight of Angela's silhouette on the other side of that flimsy curtain unbuttoning her blouse, stepping out of her slacks. When she arched her back and unhooked her bra, Justin's mouth went dry.

“Damn!”

Gripping the steering wheel with both hands, he rested his head against it, all too aware of the burgeoning ache against his zipper. Disgusted with himself, he lifted his head and drew in a ragged breath. He was a grown man of thirty-five and the county's sheriff, not some adolescent at a peep show. Besides the fact that the woman was his ex-wife, she was a cop, he reminded himself. And it was the cop he'd come here to see, not the woman.

Determined to get things over with, he scooped up the file folder from the passenger seat of the truck and shoved open the vehicle's door. Gravel from the side of the road crunched beneath his boots as he crossed the street and started toward the condo. Judging from the darkened windows of the adjacent units, either Angela's neighbors turned in before nine o'clock or the other condos remained unoccupied. Suspecting the latter, Justin frowned at the idea of Angela or any woman living out here all alone.

Not smart, Mason, he thought. Isolation would make anyone more vulnerable, but especially a woman. Even a woman like her who had been trained to take care of herself wouldn't be immune to the dangers of living alone.
More than likely her training would only place her at greater risk, because knowing Angela as he did, he didn't doubt she would be inclined to handle any threat to her safety on her own.

Reminding himself that Angela Mason was no longer his responsibility, Justin approached the front door of the condo. And that was when he heard the music. Immediately he recognized the female harmony and country rock tune as the Dixie Chicks' newest release. He couldn't help but smile. His and Angela's tastes in music had always run along the same lines, and to this day he'd yet to meet another woman who could follow his lead on the dance floor so perfectly. Pushing the doorbell, he recalled the many times during their marriage when they'd been in the midst of some chore and a song would come on the radio. All he had to do was take her hand, and regardless of where they were or what they'd been doing, he'd dance her around the floor. In the living room, in the bedroom, even in the kitchen. And as they moved to the music's rhythm, as thigh brushed against thigh, as chest pressed against chest, they would invariably end up making love. Suddenly realizing the direction of his thoughts, Justin sobered and punched the bell again.

“Coming,” Angela called out from somewhere inside the condo. The music stopped, more lights were flicked on, and moments later he heard the snick of the locks and she opened the door. “Justin?” She said his name in a breathless rush.

Justin stared at her. In one sweeping glance he took in everything about her. The tennis shoes. The threadbare gray sweatpants. The strip of flesh between her waistband and the frayed bottom of the ugly San Antonio Police Department sweatshirt. The arms left bare by the ripped-out shirtsleeves. The short tousle of dark curls along her neck
and forehead. The flushed cheeks. The wariness in those haunting blue eyes.

Even void of feminine frills and makeup, Angela was still the most beautiful woman he'd ever set eyes on. And just looking at her still had the power to make him ache with wanting. Furious with himself for his weakness where she was concerned, he said, “I'd have thought a woman trained in law enforcement would have the sense to at least find out who's on the other side of a door before she opens it.”

Angela's mouth thinned. She hiked up her chin, making him all too aware of that long, slender neck. “Not that it's any of your business, but I checked you out through the peephole before unlocking the door.”

Now that she'd called his attention to it, Justin noted the hole in the door that he had failed to see when he'd first approached the condo. That he had missed it only drove home the fact that being anywhere near the woman tied him up in knots. The realization did nothing to improve his mood or alter his belief that working with her was a lousy idea.

“So did you drive out here at this time of night just to insult me? Or are you here for some other reason?”

The snap in her voice helped to clear his sex-charged brain. “I talked to the feds.”

She crossed her arms, met his gaze evenly. “And?”

“They informed me that you'll be working independently of them, but keeping them apprised.”

“That's right.”

“Wrong. I've decided to take you up on your offer and have you work the kidnapping case with me on one condition.”

She arched one dark brow. “Which is?”

“Nothing you learn about this case gets back to Ricky Mercado or anyone in his family.”

Angela sighed. “I suppose that means you know that Ricky believes his sister, Haley, is still alive and that the baby belongs to her.”

“I'm aware that there's a rumor to that effect. But so far that's all it is—a rumor. I don't have any proof to substantiate it,” Justin informed her. “And until I do, I want the Mercados kept out of this. So do we have a deal?”

“All right. You have my word. I won't share any information with Ricky. Any other conditions?”

“No. That's it.”

“I guess I should be grateful that you didn't try to have me taken off the case,” she said, some of the stiffness going out of her. “When I left your office, I was sure you'd use your influence to have me removed.”

“I tried,” he admitted. “But I was voted down. The Carsons and Luke Callaghan were the ones who wanted you brought in.”

“Luke Callaghan?”

“He's the little girl's father.”

“But I thought… Then the mother…”

“Luke doesn't know who she is. It was a one-night stand. It's all in here,” he said, and shoved the file at her. “There's a copy of everything I have on the case so far.”

“Thanks,” she said, taking the file from him. “But I would have come by your office to pick it up. You really didn't have to drive out here to bring it to me,” she said, her expression softening, along with her voice.

He shrugged. “It was no big deal,” he said, far too
aware of her for his own peace of mine. “I figured it was probably more detailed than what you got from the feds, and I knew you'd be itching to get started on working up a profile of the kidnapper, so I decided to drop it off.”

“You're right. I am eager to get started. Thanks again for bringing it out.”

Justin nodded. “Well, it's getting late. I'll go and let you get back to…to whatever it was you were doing.”

She looked down at her clothes, then back up at him. “I was trying to make myself work out. And trust me, I was glad to have an excuse to stop,” she informed him, and almost smiled. “Would you like to come in? I mean, if you have the time. I'd really like to talk about the case.”

Justin hesitated. “I think you'll probably find the answers to any questions you have in there,” he informed her, indicating the file folder she held.

“But what I won't find are your perceptions and theories about the kidnapping.”

Justin remained silent, eyed her cautiously.