thought about it, they had
effectively eaten the same amount, per bodily-inch.
"How you holdin' up?" Mitch zipped his bag closed.
"Good." She was, she found, relieved. In the brightness
of morning, yesterday's events felt like they'd happened to a
different person–a movie she had watched. The strange
disconnected feeling, she decided, came from doing something.
As she had busied herself with a shower, dressing, eating,
cleaning up her mess, packing her suitcase, and fixing her hair,
she'd managed not once to think of the man she'd shot, or that
her mother actually wanted to see her, or that her father would
be left alone while she was in California.
She'd avoided thinking of all that until right now. She
gnashed her lip beneath her upper teeth in an effort to fight the
monsoon of emotion all that busyness had kept at bay.
"Are you sure you're all right?"
Oh, that's what happened .
Mitch had asked her to think about it. Who was he to ask
if she was all right? What did he think? He hadn't shot a man
for the first time, he hadn't had his family history kept a secret,
he hadn't ever been afraid for his life, like she had. Or had he?
God, she couldn't stay angry at anyone for long, not even
in her own head. Of course she didn't know if any of that was
true. Looking at him now, at how very strong and weathered
he was, she doubted yesterday had been a first anything for
him.
"I'll be all right, as soon as this is over." She sighed. Too
much had happened, really, for her to take it all in, especially
since there was so much she didn't yet know. A sudden tremor
of worry raised gooseflesh on her arms. "Whatever happened
to those two men? The ones from the diner? Did someone
question them?"
Mitch paused in the middle of putting on his jacket, arms
in the air. He slowly lowered them, then opened his big fat
mouth and lied to her. She knew he was going to lie because
his face hardened into a mask of deceit. "They didn't know
anything."
He picked up both his bag and her suitcase in one hand,
slid mirrored sunglasses on, and held his arm out toward the
door. "Ladies first."
She thought about arguing with him, forcing the truth out
of him. A small voice grew very loud in her head as she bent
to retrieve a pillow that had fallen to the floor. Could she
handle the truth right now? If he had lied, then the news
couldn't be good. With a growl, she flung the pillow back onto
the bed.
Damn it all to hell and back again .
"What really happened, Mitch?" she asked. He didn't
move and the sunglasses hid his eyes. "Tell me. I hate that I
know you're lying. I hate that I think I know what that lie
means. Don't make me wonder, it's worse than hearing the
truth."
He nodded, set the bags down, and took off his glasses.
His eyes were troubled when he looked up. "They didn't make
it. Both of them. We didn't get anything from them."
She drew in a deep breath and nodded, her gaze going to
the blue carpet. Okay, I can handle this . "So I'm guilty of
murder now."
Mitch reached her side almost before she'd finished
speaking. He touched her chin, carefully, kindly. "No, you
protected yourself. It's not murder. If you need a word, call it
manslaughter. But not murder. Don't do this to yourself,
Baby, they aren't worth it."
"Don't call me baby," she muttered absently. There was a
difference, she discovered, in looking at it from that angle.
Manslaughter still felt like a sin, but no longer a mortal one.
She wished she'd had some religion in her life, she wanted to
know for sure, but church wasn't a big Owen family ritual.
Weddings and…funerals only.
Jess looked into his eyes, and was startled mute by how
close he stood. Her skin felt charged and she wondered if she
touched him, would a shock bounce from her fingers to his
flesh?
His head lowered, a shift in his shoulders brought the
scent of leather, skin, and man into the chaos of her senses.
The back of his fingers brushed her jaw line, urging her
forward with a
effectively eaten the same amount, per bodily-inch.
"How you holdin' up?" Mitch zipped his bag closed.
"Good." She was, she found, relieved. In the brightness
of morning, yesterday's events felt like they'd happened to a
different person–a movie she had watched. The strange
disconnected feeling, she decided, came from doing something.
As she had busied herself with a shower, dressing, eating,
cleaning up her mess, packing her suitcase, and fixing her hair,
she'd managed not once to think of the man she'd shot, or that
her mother actually wanted to see her, or that her father would
be left alone while she was in California.
She'd avoided thinking of all that until right now. She
gnashed her lip beneath her upper teeth in an effort to fight the
monsoon of emotion all that busyness had kept at bay.
"Are you sure you're all right?"
Oh, that's what happened .
Mitch had asked her to think about it. Who was he to ask
if she was all right? What did he think? He hadn't shot a man
for the first time, he hadn't had his family history kept a secret,
he hadn't ever been afraid for his life, like she had. Or had he?
God, she couldn't stay angry at anyone for long, not even
in her own head. Of course she didn't know if any of that was
true. Looking at him now, at how very strong and weathered
he was, she doubted yesterday had been a first anything for
him.
"I'll be all right, as soon as this is over." She sighed. Too
much had happened, really, for her to take it all in, especially
since there was so much she didn't yet know. A sudden tremor
of worry raised gooseflesh on her arms. "Whatever happened
to those two men? The ones from the diner? Did someone
question them?"
Mitch paused in the middle of putting on his jacket, arms
in the air. He slowly lowered them, then opened his big fat
mouth and lied to her. She knew he was going to lie because
his face hardened into a mask of deceit. "They didn't know
anything."
He picked up both his bag and her suitcase in one hand,
slid mirrored sunglasses on, and held his arm out toward the
door. "Ladies first."
She thought about arguing with him, forcing the truth out
of him. A small voice grew very loud in her head as she bent
to retrieve a pillow that had fallen to the floor. Could she
handle the truth right now? If he had lied, then the news
couldn't be good. With a growl, she flung the pillow back onto
the bed.
Damn it all to hell and back again .
"What really happened, Mitch?" she asked. He didn't
move and the sunglasses hid his eyes. "Tell me. I hate that I
know you're lying. I hate that I think I know what that lie
means. Don't make me wonder, it's worse than hearing the
truth."
He nodded, set the bags down, and took off his glasses.
His eyes were troubled when he looked up. "They didn't make
it. Both of them. We didn't get anything from them."
She drew in a deep breath and nodded, her gaze going to
the blue carpet. Okay, I can handle this . "So I'm guilty of
murder now."
Mitch reached her side almost before she'd finished
speaking. He touched her chin, carefully, kindly. "No, you
protected yourself. It's not murder. If you need a word, call it
manslaughter. But not murder. Don't do this to yourself,
Baby, they aren't worth it."
"Don't call me baby," she muttered absently. There was a
difference, she discovered, in looking at it from that angle.
Manslaughter still felt like a sin, but no longer a mortal one.
She wished she'd had some religion in her life, she wanted to
know for sure, but church wasn't a big Owen family ritual.
Weddings and…funerals only.
Jess looked into his eyes, and was startled mute by how
close he stood. Her skin felt charged and she wondered if she
touched him, would a shock bounce from her fingers to his
flesh?
His head lowered, a shift in his shoulders brought the
scent of leather, skin, and man into the chaos of her senses.
The back of his fingers brushed her jaw line, urging her
forward with a
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