Always Love a Villain on San Juan Island by Sandy Frances Duncan, George Szanto Page A

days ago he’d brought in his own meal and eaten with her. Then he’d included a bottle of wine to go with the boeuf bourguignon, candied carrots and steamed potatoes. He was careful to drink only one glass—a plastic cup, actually.
    They’d toasted: “To your release,” he said.
    â€œWhenever it happens.”
    â€œIt will. Soon. I told you.”
    â€œThank god.”
    He grinned. “You don’t like it here?”
    She glanced about the room. “What’s to like?”
    â€œIt’s warm. And safe.”
    â€œCold. And it depends on how you define ‘safe.’”
    â€œThere is that, I suppose.”
    â€œI can’t figure out why I have to be here three weeks. Why?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    She stared at him, apparently deciding whether he was lying or not. Then she forked an onion from the stew, placed it between her lips and sucked it in. She had lovely lips. Blond hair to her shoulders, which he could see had started out brown—she shouldn’t bleach it. But beautiful satiny skin. Delicate slender fingers. A gold ring on her right baby finger—something sexy about it there. Hypnotic eyes, sometimes greenish blue, other times bluish green. Tomorrow at suppertime, he’d bring some candles; bet her eyes would look fantastic reflecting the little flames.
    He couldn’t understand why, after the first day, she never seemed scared or worried. Or angry with him. With her whole situation. She probably figured it’d do her no good. Now she smiled, a quiet but delightful smile, as if they were in an elegant restaurant, as if she actually liked him. Could that be possible?
    â€œWhat’ll you do when you leave here?” he asked.
    â€œI’ll be starting grad school in a few weeks and—”
    That was when she panicked about not having her books. Strange it had taken her two weeks to worry about them. A kind of delayed fear reaction? He’d have figured she’d be terrified when she came out from the chloroform, but no. All cool and composed. Except for the broken chair incident. Calmer than him. Though he hid his concern. And in the last week had covered up his anger at Raoul as well.
    He glanced out the ferry window. To starboard, Orcas Island. Closing in on Friday Harbor. He took out his iPhone, found the number for Cousin Vinnie’s Pizza and ordered the vegetarian special—way more taste than the meat pizzas. Susanna had enjoyed the one they’d shared last week.
    When he’d found her books, he also picked up the new cookbooks. And then he bought a present for Susanna. He’d wait till tomorrow to give it to her—be too late getting back tonight.

FIVE
    ONE HAND ON the doorknob, briefcase in the other, Richard O’Hara said, “Goodbye, Jen.”
    His wife appeared. “Have a good time.” She arched her left eyebrow.
    â€œSure, sure.” Richard knew a good time did not lie ahead.
    â€œAnd if you have a few minutes, get your hair cut.”
    He let go of the doorknob and rubbed his near-bald pate. “What hair?”
    She came close, put her arm around his shoulder and fingered the fringe over his collar. “This hair. Or I’ll do it for you.”
    â€œNow that’s a threat.” He embraced her. “You have a good day.”
    â€œThanks. You’ll be home for dinner?”
    â€œI’m seeing Mick at two. Depends on how long it takes. I’ll phone you.”
    Jen, a physiotherapist, worked part-time at a medical clinic. Her main interests were their two children and four grand­children. “I’ll be home by three,” she said, giving him another kiss. “Bye, Dickie.”
    The only person allowed to call him Dickie . His son-in-law and daughter-in-law called him Dick. Beyond that everyone called him Richard. Or Gramps.
    â€œI’ve got to move.”
    The O’Haras lived in the elegant house built in the late sixties