In Another Man’s Bed Read online

Essie cut him a look over her shoulder. “Yeah, right.”

  The corners of Dalton’s mouth kicked up as he dumped the contents of his cup down the drain. He’d never been able to get by with a lie, even when he tried. The smile died on remembering three years prior when he’d desperately wished that wasn’t the case.

  “You forgot the extra shave kit,” Martha announced, opening the refrigerator for a can of the diet cola she’d started drinking to help her lose a few pounds.

  “I don’t suppose you’d believe that I planned to put that in there in the morning,” he said. This time the smile was full and teasing.

  Martha turned the can up and took a huge swallow. “Sure, just like I believed you the time Dad caught you sneaking in and you said you were sleepwalking.”

  Dalton grimaced as his two sisters laughed. “I was grounded two weeks.”

  Essie grinned, showing the gap in her front teeth. “Mama added on the extra week for lying.”

  They grew quiet for a moment. Elvira Dalton had been a five-five dynamo who didn’t take mess from anyone. She had taught her three children to be the same way. She’d died six months after their father had made the transition four years ago. “She was tough.”

  “But not as tough as Daddy.” Essie shook her dark head. “That man had eyes in the back of his head.”

  Martha chuckled. “Caught you kissing Freddie Haynes down by the creek.”

  Essie rubbed her butt. “Don’t remind me.”

  “We had some good times growing up in Charleston.” Dalton reached for a mug as soon as the coffee began to fill the carafe.

  “Which brings us to the question of what are we going to do about the home place down there?” Essie asked. “We all live here. My and Martha’s kids are in college. I hate to let the place run down, but I don’t want to sell it either.”

  Both women looked at him. In some things they deferred to their baby brother. “I don’t want to sell the place either. I’ll look it over when I’m down there.”

  “Maybe you can use it like a writer’s retreat?” Essie suggested.

  “Maybe,” Dalton said. He didn’t know what his plans were where Charleston was concerned. Perhaps he was crazy for even thinking of going back.

  “Does that coffee mean you’re going to write instead of sleep?” Martha said, her mouth pinched with disapproval.

  “Deadline,” he said. “Besides, I plan to leave around seven, so why go to sleep?”

  Both women frowned at him. “You shouldn’t drive without sleep.”

  “It’s only a couple of hours. I’ll be fine.”

  Their frowns didn’t clear. “You don’t usually do signings this close to deadlines.”

  The unspoken question of “why” hung in the air. “I don’t usually get stuck either,” he answered evasively.

  Essie nodded her graying head. “You’re probably working too hard. Maybe this trip is good . . . if you weren’t driving there without any sleep.”

  Dalton threw an arm around each sister and headed them toward the front door. They were too good at making him reveal things he didn’t want to reveal. “Don’t worry. I’ve pulled all-nighters before.”

  “Call the minute you check into the hotel.”

  “Don’t I always?” Dalton answered.

  “Safe travel.” Essie gave him a hug, then stepped back as Martha did the same.

  “Safe travel.”

  “Thanks.” Dalton stood in the doorway until they climbed into Essie’s big Lincoln Continental and pulled off. They’d helped him through some hard times. He had thought those were all behind him.

  Sighing, he returned to his office, determined to work. Instead, he paused at the corner of the cluttered desk and picked up The Post and Courier, the main newspaper of Charleston, his hometown. The story was three months old, but the headline still had the power to chill him: Wife Risks Life to Rescue Husband.

  The fingers of his other hand lightly touched the picture of the woman, her blue silk blouse and white pants torn, her beautiful face scratched, her hands bleeding from pulling her husband from the SUV, then dragging him to safety before others arrived to help her. Her courage and her love were undeniable. Once he’d thought . . .

  “Don’t go there, Ramsey.” The mug hit the desk. Digging up memories would likely bury him.

  She had her life and he was just beginning to have his. She had probably forgotten him. Just as he should have forgotten her.

  But did one ever forget their first love? He wasn’t sure. He just knew he’d never been able to completely forget Justine and, as life became hell on earth, he’d thought of her more and more, thought of when they’d first met.

  He’d been cocky and wild, riding home from work at his father’s service station on his motorcycle. She’d been walking home from band practice. He’d noticed her around campus. Every time he’d try to catch her attention, she’d smile and duck her head. If she’d been another girl he would have thought she was being coy.

  But it was a well-known fact that Justine was shy. After talking to her, he’d discovered she had the prettiest smile he’d ever seen. Against all odds, they’d clicked. They’d gone out a few times . . . until her mother had gotten into the picture.

  What might have happened if her mother hadn’t stepped in?

  Dalton shook his head and took his seat behind the computer screen. Questions like that wouldn’t help. Scooting his chair closer to the monitor, his hands hovered over the keys as he waited for Brock to say something, anything, to the woman he’d loved once and never forgotten, the woman who happened to be the wife of the man lying dead at their feet.

  Nothing came.

  Dalton had been exorcising his own demons when he’d come up with the plot. Now he couldn’t stop thinking of Justine and what she must be going through. Because, if there was one certainty in this world, it was that Justine loved her husband. Something he had never been certain of with his ex-wife.

  The thought only brought sadness now; three years ago the pain had sent him into a tailspin. He’d survived by going into seclusion and burying himself in his work. Oddly, being reclusive had helped with book sales. He’d made very few personal appearances, until now.

  He glanced at the newspaper photo again. He was going home and, just like Brock, no matter how hard he tried to deny it, no matter how it made him feel like slime, he wanted another man’s wife.

  Patrick Dunlap was dying.

  He knew it with every ragged, pain-filled breath he drew. Faintly he heard the piercing wail of the ambulance’s siren competing with that of a squad car, but he knew they wouldn’t reach him in time.

  He’d been a policeman for eighteen years, had reached the rank of second lieutenant, had pulled his gun less than ten times and fired three of those times, but he’d never thought about his death. He wasn’t callous or cocky, he had just chosen to live with optimism instead of fear . . . until now.

  Fear lay like a heavy blanket over him. He had so much to do, so many plans. The surprise birthday party for his sister-in-law at her favorite restaurant, the fishing trip to Alaska with his brothers, the fishing boat he’d been thinking of finally buying. He tried to concentrate, to pray, but the fear and the pain were too great. His thoughts kept slipping away, just as his life’s blood was slipping through his clenched fingers. He wanted to live, hadn’t realized how much until he faced death.

  Then he heard the running footsteps, the frantic voices. Too late. They were coming too late.

  “Dunlap, hang in there! Hang in there.”

  He was trying, but something was dragging him under. It was almost easier to stop fighting, anything to escape the pain, the stench of his own blood. His last thoughts were of his large family. His parents were gone, but the five sons they’d raised with love and a firm hand were as tight as it got. They’d take it hard. He’d miss them, but he was so tired.

  He was lifted. Excruciating pain stabbed him. All he wanted to do was escape. He felt himself being dragged down. He co
uldn’t fight any longer.

  I’m sorry, he thought. Tears formed in the corners of his eyes as they fluttered closed. Good-bye. . . .

  Patrick woke up in a cold sweat with the acrid smell of blood in his nostrils, his body tightly curled in a fetal position. His shaking hands frantically clutched his abdomen in a futile attempt to stop the sticky wetness of his own blood seeping through his fingers.

  His labored breath shuddered out as he jerked upright in bed and tried to separate reality from his dream. Reaching over, he snapped on the light on the bedside chest, his other hand lifting his damp T-shirt from his stomach.

  There was no blood, but his breathing grew more labored. The ten-inch jagged scar was a horrific reminder that there had been blood and pain. The fight to recover had been long and difficult, but he’d made it. His partner hadn’t.

  Standing, Patrick stripped off the white cotton T-shirt and tossed it on the foot of the king-sized four-poster as he went to the balcony and opened the French doors. Cool air bathed his perspiration-drenched body instead of the putrid stench of the filthy alley.

  His hands gripped the iron rail as he stared down at the marina on the Ashley River in Charleston. By the light of the full moon he could see the Proud Mary, his boat, riding at anchor on the pier. He wasn’t in a rat-infested alley, praying to live, and then praying that his family mourn him and then go on if he didn’t.

  He was alive. He was safe.

  Slowly his breathing returned to normal and he went back inside the condo. The clock radio’s red dial on the nightstand blinked 5:15 A.M. He could try to go back to sleep or pull on clothes and take the boat out to meet the sun.

  In the next instant, Patrick grabbed the discarded T-shirt on the way to the bathroom. One thing that dark alley six months ago in Myrtle Beach had taught him was to grab life, never wait for a tomorrow that might not come. He was going to live each day to the fullest.

  Less than fifteen minutes later, Patrick was on the pier, waving to a few friends with charter boats getting ready for the day. On occasion and when he felt like it, Patrick hired out his craft. The counsel of his thrifty mother more so than the pension from the police department had given him the financial freedom to do as he pleased and to buy the town house from his unpredictable and lovable niece, Brooke, after she had married last year.

  Untying the rope, Patrick smiled as he continued to think of Brooke. She was the only child of his oldest brother, and the other single brothers had enjoyed spoiling their niece. She’d grown up with expensive taste and had a job that could afford her the best. They all expected her to marry some high-powered, driven executive. True to form, she’d done the unexpected and married a great guy who owned a garage and had two adorable children and made him and his other three brothers very happy uncles and her parents instant adoring grandparents.

  On board, Patrick stood at the wheel of his craft, the running lights on as he aimed for the mouth of the marina, heading for the open sea. Life’s little unexpected turns were often the best. His hands went to the scar on his stomach beneath his shirt and windbreaker.

  Then there were times you just had to hold on and pray. Opening the throttle, he pointed the boat toward the pinkish sky.

  Patrick arrived back at the marina shortly after nine. The nightmare that had driven him from a peaceful sleep was a distant memory. Securing the boat, he started up the pier, waving to friends and acquaintances as he passed. Most of the residents in the condo were friendly and easygoing. Many of the berths of his charter and pleasure boat friends were empty.

  He waved to diners sitting on the deck eating breakfast from the restaurant inside the pavilion. Occasionally he dined there, but another thing his mother had taught him was to be self-sufficient.

  “Morning, Patrick. Want to join us for breakfast?”

  “Good morning, Pasha,” he greeted, never slowing his long strides. Pasha was a five-foot-eight beauty with long legs and a sleek body. She wore a bikini top that strained to cup her full breasts and a smile that said he could have more than breakfast if he wanted. “Maybe another time.”

  Disappointment etched fine lines across her brows. “Sure.”

  Another thing that night had taught him was not to play games. He wasn’t wasting his time or a woman’s. He had turned forty last month. There were a couple of gray hairs in his jet black hair. He was old enough to want something from a woman besides a hot body. He was patient enough to wait until he found what he was looking for.

  Hands stuffed in the pockets of his white shorts, Patrick followed the curving walkway that led to the four-story condo, glistening like a diamond in the morning sun. Situated on the Ashley River, the upscale Millennium let the residents have the best of living near the water and the convenience of quick access to the city.

  He entered the spacious lobby, and cool air greeted him. Summers in Charleston were hot and muggy, but so was Myrtle Beach. The open area was filled with lavender-colored leather furniture, ten-foot-tall palms, and seascape paintings by Carolina artists. He headed for the elevator, planning to take a shower and then drive to his niece’s house for breakfast. His mouth quirked. He pushed the elevator button.

  It was still difficult to think of Brooke ecstatically, happily balancing marriage, her two stepchildren, and a growing business. Fifteen months ago Brooke was more interested in the newest fashion must-have and rising in the corporate world in marketing. Marriage certainly changed people. He had yet to know the feeling.

  He had seen too many of his friends’ marriages fail. He wasn’t anxious to follow suit. His older brother’s happy marriage was the exception rather than the rule. There were five brothers and Sam, Brooke’s father, was the only one who had taken the plunge. But that was understandable because his wife was an exceptional woman. Patrick didn’t want to play games, but he wasn’t ready to get married, either.

  The heavy wooden doors with an ironwork grille dating back to the early nineteenth century opened. He saw several pieces of designer luggage. The corner of his mouth tilted upward. He easily recalled the amount of luggage and trips it had taken them to move Brooke, who had enough clothes for three women. His gaze went beyond the luggage. He saw a good-looking, well-dressed older couple.

  “Morning,” the man greeted. He wore a long-sleeved white shirt, open at the collar, and a beige lightweight sports coat. “I think you can squeeze on. We’ve already taken one load up.”

  “Daddy.” The sultry voice was filled with affection and good humor, but he had little difficulty imagining it whispering in his ear on moon-draped sheets.

  “Thanks.” Intrigued, Patrick stepped into the domed elevator just as the doors began to close. He saw the owner of the midnight-and-lace voice immediately. She was stunning in an off-the-shoulder white knit top, lime green linen pants, and a sterling silver chain belt loosely draped around her narrow waist. Her long black hair was in some kind of coil atop her head. He’d like nothing better than to take it down and run his fingers through the thick, lustrous strands.

  “Which floor?” the man asked.

  Patrick whipped his head around. From the knowing smile of the man this wasn’t the first time a man had been totally captivated by his daughter. “Four.”

  The older man punched in the number. “Do you live here?”

  “Yes.” Patrick smiled at the daughter. She gave an almost imperceptible nod. “Welcome. I’m Patrick Dunlap.”

  The older man extended his hand. “I’m—”

  “Daddy.”

  Patrick glanced around, but the woman’s attention was centered on her father. Neither said a word, but some type of communication must have passed between them, because the older man clasped his hand lightly and said, “Charles. Pleased to meet you.”

  “Nice weather we’re having,” the older attractive woman said, filling what could have been an awkward moment.

  “Yes, it is.” Patrick’s attention went back to the daughter again. Smart and beautiful. They didn’t know him, and introducin
g themselves to a total stranger wasn’t a good idea, but Patrick wanted to know her name, know more about her.

  The grilled elevator door slid open on the third floor. The daughter picked up the larger of the five suitcases. The father saw the direction of Patrick’s gaze and his mouth firmed.

  “Let me have that.”

  “Got it, Daddy. Hurry before the door closes.”

  Reluctantly, the older man picked up the overnight Gucci case and a train case and stepped off. His wife followed with two smaller pieces.

  “Can I help?” Patrick asked, holding the door.

  “No, thank you,” the daughter said, stepping past him. He caught a whiff of some exotic scent that made his body tingle and recall that he hadn’t been intimate since his accident. The door started to close and he punched the open button. She turned. And simply looked at him.

  Tipping his head, he pushed the close button. His time was coming. He’d been good at his job and had a knack for uncovering information. Before the week was over he was going to find out who the mysterious and beautiful woman on the third floor was, and if she was worth knowing better.

  Instincts told him she was. Life had just gotten more interesting.

  Four

  Justine woke up slowly and stared at the bedside clock. 7:19 A.M. Her bookstore didn’t open until ten, but Beverly liked to be at the hospital by 8:30, a full ninety minutes before the regular visiting hours.

  “Andrew was always an early riser and he expects me”

  Justine curled tighter as if she could hear her mother-in-law’s voice. She didn’t want to go, but she had little choice. Beverly expected her, needed her. Justine had finally figured out that as long as they kept vigil over Andrew, Beverly was able to convince herself that he’d improve.

  Justine knew that he wouldn’t. As much as he had hurt her, she didn’t want him to die. She just wanted out of the lie that was their marriage, wanted to be able to stop the charade.

  Throwing back the covers, she went into the bathroom. The soft blue guest room and bath was half the size of the master suite, but she hadn’t been inside the master bedroom since the day she’d come home a week after the accident.