“We received reports of an explosion.”
“Damned right, you did!” Dean exclaimed. He pointed with the water towards the back of the firemen battling the now diminished blaze. “That there bonfire is costing me a fortune. Who knew that old whiskey was so flammable?”
“You set this fire, sir?”
He smiled as he lied. “I did. But not on purpose. Do me a favor?” He lowered his voice and shot Officer Beaumont a conspiratorial look. “Don’t tell my wife.”
“Too late, you idiot!” Natasha strode out of the house, hair wrapped in a towel, wearing his robe, which while knee-length on him, reached to her ankles. “What have you done now?”
“Nothing,” he said, ducking his head and tucking his hands behind his back, which led to more spraying water.
“Sir!” the female cop exclaimed.
“Oops.” He shrugged as he let go of the hose nozzle handle, shutting off the stream.
“You were smoking and drinking again?” Natasha exclaimed, jabbing a finger at him. “I thought we talked about this! You’re in rehab.”
“It was just one cigar.”
She tapped a foot and arched her brow.
“And maybe a glass or two of whiskey.”
“My mother was right. I never should have married you!” she exclaimed.
“But, baby, I love you.”
“If you loved me, you’d stay clean. But, no, you sneak out while I’m having a bath and this…”—she waved her hand—“this is what happens. I’ve had it.” She stalked into the house, leaving him with a smirking police officer.
“I don’t suppose you could go in there and claim it’s arson?” he asked hopefully.
The woman snorted. “Are you asking me to lie?”
“I’m going to guess that’s a no.” He did his best to sound dejected about it, but in reality, that had gone better than hoped.
The scene was set. The fabricated truth more believable than reality. The officer never thought to wonder how a bottle of exploding booze caused so much damage. Never thought to ask why his wife took such a late bath at night, or how he’d gotten his hands on the whiskey he wasn’t supposed to have.
It took longer than he liked to have them put out the fire and leave his property, but once they did…Dean was alone with his wife, in a robe, in the parlor, with no gun, but a candlestick.
Murder or seduction…it could go either way.
Chapter Five
Natasha pretended to smile and chide her husband while the fire was put out, and the officer wrote a report.
It took forever for them to leave.
Forever before she could turn around and glare at the man who happened to be her husband.
Someone who’d almost died. A good thing he hadn’t since he’d saved her life.
How had she gone from planning to possibly kill him, to preventing a sniper from shooting him? It would have been much simpler to let a stranger handle her problem. Now, she had to deal with him and his annoying, jovial attitude.
“I don’t know about you, but I could use a change of clothes and a drink. Actually, I think a hot shower is called for. Care to join me?” His grin had a bit of alley cat in it.
“No, I do not want to join you. I want answers.”
“To what? The answer to life? I think Douglas Adam answered that in The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.”
She couldn’t help but blink at the inane answer. When she didn’t reply, he continued. “It’s forty-two, by the way.”
“How is a number the answer to life?”
He shrugged. “You’d have to ask the computer that came up with it. But I’d have to assume it was accurate given it took him several million years to figure out.”
“A fictional computer from a fictional story?”
“You know what they say, all stories, even the most unbelievable, have a kernel of truth in them.”
“You know the tales you hear about how bad the Russian mob is?” she replied with an arched brow. “All true, and actually tamer than the reality.”
“Guess it’s a good thing I’m married to the mob, then.” He winked.
“We are not married,” she declared as if that would make all the difference.
“You say that, and yet we were the perfect image of a bickering couple for that cop. I have to say, the part where you told me I’d be sleeping on the couch was perfection.” He kissed the tips of his fingers, and a shiver ran through her.
She’d not forgotten how those lips felt on her skin.
“You’re cold. We should go back inside and take that hot shower I was talking about. After you.” He swept a bow.
“I don’t want a shower.”
“You say that now, but what if I promised to scrub your back?”
“Touch me, and I’ll drown you.”
“Testy tonight. They say our moods are closely connected to our sexual energy. Is Simon not doing it for you?” he asked as he headed into the house.
“My sex life is none of your business.”
“On the contrary, wife, I am very interested in it.” He stopped short just inside the room, and she had to wonder how the cop hadn’t noticed the broken door. Then again, Neville had done a good job of sweeping the broken bits out of plain sight and drawing the blinds.
“Would you feel better if I said I orgasm on a regularly?”
“Masturbation, while healthy, isn’t a substitute for a flesh on flesh climax. Would you like me to show you the difference?” His grin was wicked as he offered, and worse, she was tempted.
“Can you stop screwing around for just a minute?” she huffed. “Rather than worry about my sex life, we should be discussing why someone just tried to kill you.” Later, she’d examine why she even gave a damn.
He cast her a glance over his shoulder as he walked across the sunroom. “What makes you so sure they were after me?”
“No one knew I was coming here.”
“Maybe you were followed.”
“Now, you’re just being silly. Nobody would dare come after me.” She had a family that would make death seem like a mercy compared to the alternative. Her papa wasn’t the kind to forgive, especially anyone who hurt his daughter.
“I could say the same. Why come after me? Killing me would start a shitstorm of epic proportion.”
“Arrogant much?”
“Always. But that said, I probably do have a string of enemies. And I’ll bet you do, too.”
“I was taught to never leave someone alive if they might do me harm,” was her pert reply.
“Everyone has the potential to hurt, so how do you decide which of them lives?” he queried.
“Are you really discussing theology with me?”
“Why not? I thought I knew you once before. Apparently, I wasn’t asking the right questions,” he stated, letting the damp shirt reeking of booze slide from his broad shoulders.
“You want to know what kind of person I am?” Her tone lilted. “Fine. I am the kind who doesn’t show mercy if you hurt me.”
“That’s pretty standard for most people.”