No Limits by Alison Kent

and the City marathon. And look at me. My mind takes one wrong turn and I’m back at the bridge living through the accident again. And Lisa, God, if they were so ready to get rid of me, what did they do to her? I can’t even think about it. I’m not sure I can handle knowing.”
    His hand was cupping her cheek, his thumb smoothing over her cheekbone. “You’ll handle it just fine, but you don’t have to think about it now. You need to take care of you.”
    “I need to make sure someone is looking for Lisa. Really looking.” She shook her hair from her face, dislodging his hand, telling herself she was strong enough to deal with this, with it al l . “I don’t believe for a minute that the judge cares about anything but what she might have said before she went missing. He was more interested in her note—”
    Simon stiffened. “What note?”
    “It arrived in the mail about a week ago. She told me it had been too long and I should come visit if I could tear myself away from the wild life. She made it a point to keep up with what the press found newsworthy about me when I wasn’t good enough to stay in touch.”
    She wasn’t going to tell him about Monday night in case he hadn’t yet heard. “But that was it. A don’t-be-a-stranger reminder. She said it was bad enough that her family kept her out of the loop, that I didn’t need to.”
    “What do you think she meant by that?” he asked, sitting back on the balls of his feet, his elbows on his knees. “Being out of the loop?”
    It had seemed so innocent. An offhand remark. Or she’d been too caught up with herself to read between the lines. “I didn’t take it as anything cryptic. Just maybe that southern hospitality ran out at the Mississippi River.”
    “How long have she and Terrill been married?”
    She counted quickly. “Eight years.”
    “Any complaints before now about feeling left out? Or like not part of the family?”
    “None at all.” That she could say with no reservation. “It’s only Lisa, Terrill, and his father. She always thought the judge was full of himself, but she adores Terrill. I don’t think she’s ever mentioned disagreeing with him about anything.”
    “What does she do?”
    “Besides playing Martha Stewart inside, landscaping outside, and lately working on the Landry genealogy?” Micky smiled, pictured her girlfriend in the various roles. “There aren’t a lot of career ops for a marketing major in the bayou. I tried to get her to come to New York for a few months and brainstorm a new Ferrer campaign with our ad people, but she didn’t want to leave Terrill.”
    “What about the genealogy? Has she mentioned anything about that?”
    “You mean has she dug up any deep dark Landry secrets? Any illegitimate heirs birthed to young slave girls on the plantation?” She shook her head. “Not a thing.”
    “So being left out of the family loop…”
    “Your guess is as good as mine.”
    Simon thought for a minute, got to his feet. “I’d like to see her research notes. Find out what she might have uncovered.”
    She snorted. “Oh, I’m sure you’ll have no trouble getting permission.”
    He didn’t miss a beat. “Who said I was going to ask?”
    Okay. This was interesting, this confidence, this entitlement, this cheek. “Who are you, Simon Baptiste?”
    Laughing, he headed for the door, gesturing for her to come inside, too. “Someone who’s been sitting behind a wheel too long, unloading double his weight in supplies, swinging a hammer in a shirt that doesn’t breathe, and needs a shower before he can even think of rustling grub for dinner.”
    He sounded like a cowboy. It made her smile. “Fair warning. The water pressure is pathetic, and the hot-water valve needs help,” she said.
    “That’s okay. A cold shower sounds like just the thing.”
    She cocked her head. “I hope you’re not saying that needing one’s my fault.”
    “You never know,” he said, his grin a devilishly delicious