wanted a place that could truly be called her own.
But she certainly didn’t have time to do anything about it at the moment, she decided, glancing at her watch. Tomorrow would have to be soon enough to begin sorting out what she didn’t care to keep. And she could call a realtor, too. She took the stairs two at a time to the second floor.
Entering her bedroom, she peeled out of herclothes and took a quick shower. She blew her hair dry, reapplied her makeup, and rattled through padded satin hangers in search of something appropriate to wear. Her wardrobe, at least, was something she had already begun to rectify. When she and Wesley had first divorced, she’d packed most of her designer originals and moved them to a closet in another room. The clothes were all very beautiful, but she was only twenty-six years old, for heaven’s sake, not forty-five. She was tired of wearing only the sophisticated apparel that Wesley had deemed appropriate.
She slipped on a sapphire jersey top with a neckline that dipped low in a drapy cowl in back, tugged up a pair of floral cotton sheeting pants, adjusted the belt on the “paper bag” waistband, and picked up a sweater in case it grew cooler once the sun set. Sliding her feet into a sleek pair of sandals, she paused briefly in front of the mirror to give herself a quick once-over and then left the room. She hummed beneath her breath as she loped down the stairs.
Entering the kitchen, she stopped dead in the doorway, her voice trailing away in midhum. Wesley lounged indolently on a kitchen chair, his fingertips nonchalantly trailing back and forth along the cooler’s handle as he smiled at her with deceptive tenderness.
Apprehension dried her mouth. Ever since that night when he’d used his keys to let himself and the Addisons in, she had managed to keep him out of her house. Unfortunately, she had not been equally successful in preventing the growing number of ensuing confrontations, each one of which had been more disturbing than the one preceding it. At least they had all taken place in public. It might be embarrassingto have strangers witness those humiliating encounters, but she knew it was safer.
Then apprehension faded and outrage took its place. How dare he keep intruding on her privacy this way! They were divorced. She shoved away from the door frame, stepped into the kitchen and demanded, “What are you doing in my house?”
She regretted the aggressiveness of her tone before the last word had left her mouth. Wesley continued to smile at her, but there was an ugly expression in his eyes. Cautiously, she tried to edge around him to the phone.
He angled his legs to block her way. “You’ve been cheating on me, Aunie,” he said, and the very gentleness of his voice made the short hairs on the nape of her neck stand on end. His smile and his voice were so civilized, but his eyes were not civilized at all. They looked as psychotic as those in a picture she’d seen of Charles Manson. She took a cautious step backwards. Attempting to reach the phone in the kitchen had been a mistake. What she should have done, what she was going to do now, was try to reach her bedroom, with its nice sturdy lock. Then she would worry about calling the police.
“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, Wesley,” she said softly and took another step backwards.
“I have photographs, Aunie,” he said in that same silky, terrifyingly normal voice. His smile never wavered. “Photographs of my wife kissing another man.”
She didn’t bother to tell him she was no longer his wife. His eyes stated clearly that he was beyond listening to reason. Instead, she tried to stall for time. “I don’t understand. Whoevah would take such a photograph?”
“Why, the detective I’ve had following you, of course.”
She should have kept edging backward, but renewed outrage stilled her limbs. Her hands hit her hips and her chin angled stubbornly skyward. “You hired a detective?”
“Of
But she certainly didn’t have time to do anything about it at the moment, she decided, glancing at her watch. Tomorrow would have to be soon enough to begin sorting out what she didn’t care to keep. And she could call a realtor, too. She took the stairs two at a time to the second floor.
Entering her bedroom, she peeled out of herclothes and took a quick shower. She blew her hair dry, reapplied her makeup, and rattled through padded satin hangers in search of something appropriate to wear. Her wardrobe, at least, was something she had already begun to rectify. When she and Wesley had first divorced, she’d packed most of her designer originals and moved them to a closet in another room. The clothes were all very beautiful, but she was only twenty-six years old, for heaven’s sake, not forty-five. She was tired of wearing only the sophisticated apparel that Wesley had deemed appropriate.
She slipped on a sapphire jersey top with a neckline that dipped low in a drapy cowl in back, tugged up a pair of floral cotton sheeting pants, adjusted the belt on the “paper bag” waistband, and picked up a sweater in case it grew cooler once the sun set. Sliding her feet into a sleek pair of sandals, she paused briefly in front of the mirror to give herself a quick once-over and then left the room. She hummed beneath her breath as she loped down the stairs.
Entering the kitchen, she stopped dead in the doorway, her voice trailing away in midhum. Wesley lounged indolently on a kitchen chair, his fingertips nonchalantly trailing back and forth along the cooler’s handle as he smiled at her with deceptive tenderness.
Apprehension dried her mouth. Ever since that night when he’d used his keys to let himself and the Addisons in, she had managed to keep him out of her house. Unfortunately, she had not been equally successful in preventing the growing number of ensuing confrontations, each one of which had been more disturbing than the one preceding it. At least they had all taken place in public. It might be embarrassingto have strangers witness those humiliating encounters, but she knew it was safer.
Then apprehension faded and outrage took its place. How dare he keep intruding on her privacy this way! They were divorced. She shoved away from the door frame, stepped into the kitchen and demanded, “What are you doing in my house?”
She regretted the aggressiveness of her tone before the last word had left her mouth. Wesley continued to smile at her, but there was an ugly expression in his eyes. Cautiously, she tried to edge around him to the phone.
He angled his legs to block her way. “You’ve been cheating on me, Aunie,” he said, and the very gentleness of his voice made the short hairs on the nape of her neck stand on end. His smile and his voice were so civilized, but his eyes were not civilized at all. They looked as psychotic as those in a picture she’d seen of Charles Manson. She took a cautious step backwards. Attempting to reach the phone in the kitchen had been a mistake. What she should have done, what she was going to do now, was try to reach her bedroom, with its nice sturdy lock. Then she would worry about calling the police.
“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, Wesley,” she said softly and took another step backwards.
“I have photographs, Aunie,” he said in that same silky, terrifyingly normal voice. His smile never wavered. “Photographs of my wife kissing another man.”
She didn’t bother to tell him she was no longer his wife. His eyes stated clearly that he was beyond listening to reason. Instead, she tried to stall for time. “I don’t understand. Whoevah would take such a photograph?”
“Why, the detective I’ve had following you, of course.”
She should have kept edging backward, but renewed outrage stilled her limbs. Her hands hit her hips and her chin angled stubbornly skyward. “You hired a detective?”
“Of
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