“Coffee?”
“Yeah, I could use a cup.”
She opened the cupboard next to the sink and brought down two mugs. “Why don’t you go put a few more logs on the fire, and I’ll be right there?”
“Okay.”
He left the kitchen, and moments later she heard a muted “thump,” then the snap and crackle of fire licking at fresh wood. Pouring the fresh-brewed coffee into their mugs, she added cream and sugar to hers, and left his black, the way he preferred it. She carried the two cups into the living room and set them on the coffee table.
She’d forgotten about his gun, but Josh obviously hadn’t. He’d removed the pistol from his holster, and had placed it on the end table. The dark steel gleamed dully in the warm firelight, serving as a jarring reminder of the danger that surrounded Josh on a daily basis. He didn’t work undercover like Anthony had, but that didn’t make his job as a homicide detective any less perilous.
Before she could question if having the pistol so readily accessible was necessary, he began closing her drapes, shutting out the darkness, the tempestuous weather, shrouding them in a different kind of foreboding.
Unease slithered down her spine. “Josh, what are you doing?”
“Closing the drapes.” The smooth muscles across his back flexed as he gave the cord one last tug. The curtains fell into place, swaying gently.
“I prefer them open.”
He moved away from the covered slider and toward her. “I don’t like that I can’t see out at night, and anyone who happens to walk by can see in.”
“Anthony used to say the same thing. I believe I called him paranoid.” The implication that Josh suffered the same affliction was clear.
She’d meant to lighten the moment, but her attempt fell flat.
Josh stopped a foot away, bringing with him a heat more intense than the fire in the hearth. His gaze locked with hers, shrewd and uncompromising. “Anthony must have had a lot to be paranoid about.”
2
Apprehension crawled along Paige’s skin. Josh’s comment wasn’t an off-the-cuff jest, or a typical response to her own remark about paranoia. There wasn’t an ounce of humor in his too-serious expression or the grim set of his jaw.
It had been a statement of fact.
Paige lowered herself to the couch, recalling Anthony’s behavior the last time he’d been home before his death, remembering how on edge he’d been. Every little sound that echoed in their house had made him so suspicious he hadn’t been able to sleep at night. He’d closed the curtains in every room, latched the locks on all the doors and windows and prowled restlessly through the house. On their last morning together, she’d found him sleeping on the couch, sitting upright, his body finally claimed by exhaustion. His gun was clutched in his hand, resting in his lap, index finger curled around the trigger. When she’d gently touched his shoulder to wake him, he’d bolted off the couch and leveled his pistol straight at her heart. His eyes were wild, his savage expression that of the stranger he’d become.
She’d waited for the gun in her husband’s hand to explode, wondering in that flash of an instant what kind of terror drove him to such extremes. Her body began to tremble, and the hot, aching tears she’d stored for months rushed forward.
Finally, he’d lowered the gun, looking around as if his surroundings were coming into focus. He hadn’t apologized or comforted her for scaring the life out of her. Instead, his gaze had narrowed into a menacing glare and he’d roared, “Goddammit, Paige, don’t
What little was left of her feelings for him shattered in that moment. “It’s over, Anthony,” she’d told him, and meant it. “I can’t keep living like this. I want the divorce I asked for months ago.”
“No.” It was the same answer he’d given her the first time she’d asked for a divorce. He didn’t want her because he loved and cherished her. No, Anthony always had a compulsion to be in control, and that meant domineering her life, as well.
Without another word on the subject, he’d packed his duffel bag and was gone within the hour. By the end of the day she’d contacted a lawyer and begun divorce proceedings. A few days later, a dissolution of the marriage had no longer been necessary. Anthony had made her a widow.
Josh sat beside her on the couch, nearest to the gun on the end table, and took a drink of his black coffee. Then his gaze met hers. “Did Anthony tell you anything at all about the case he was working on?”
Looking away from those dark eyes that seemed to penetrate too deeply, she reached for her own coffee and took a sip of the sweetened brew. Instead of setting the cup back down, she kept her fingers wrapped around the warm ceramic mug. “He never discussed his cases with me, and I learned never to ask.”
Whenever she’d expressed an interest in his work, he would snap at her and use the excuse that his cases weren’t up for discussion. It wasn’t that she wanted to know details, she only sought to understand the appeal of Anthony’s driving need to work on dangerous, undercover cases.
When Josh made no comment, she risked a glance at him, disturbed by the enmity touching his expression and the tense set of his shoulders. Carefully, she set her mug on the coffee table in front of her. “Josh, what’s going on?”
He blew out a rough breath, set his coffee cup next to hers, and dragged his fingers though his still damp hair. He muttered a raw expletive, then said, “Anthony’s death wasn’t an accident.”
She frowned. It took a few seconds for his meaning to sink in. When it did, her stomach churned. The alternative was too horrible to contemplate, yet she found herself choking out in a voice barely above a whisper, “You mean he was…murdered?”
Josh’s gaze held a wealth of sympathy and compassion, but he didn’t soften his reply. “Yes.”
“Dear Lord,” she breathed in horror. The finality of that one word rocked her world, made her mentally grope for answers to put this recent revelation into perspective. “But you told me nobody knew Anthony was an undercover officer.”
“They didn’t, Paige, I swear.” He leaned forward, bracing his forearms on his hard thighs, his gaze holding hers. “According to the men still undercover on the case, the bad guys still don’t know Anthony was a cop.”
“I don’t understand.” Paige struggled to decipher what Josh was telling her, but her muddled mind refused to accept the truth. “If they didn’t know Anthony was a plant, why would they kill him?”
He gave her question a moment’s consideration. “I think you’d have a better understanding of the situation if I started from the beginning.”
“Please do.” She was beyond caring that she sounded haughty and demanding; she desperately wanted this awful turn of events to make some kind of sense.
Josh stood and went to the fireplace, a restless energy surrounding him. He tossed more logs on the grate and a burst of sparks filtered up the chimney. Taking the poker, he repositioned the wood, giving the chore more attention than it warranted.
“Josh, make me understand,” she pleaded.
Rubbing at the rigid muscles at the base of his neck, he glanced over his shoulder at her. The deep frown creasing his brows gave her the distinct impression he wanted to be anywhere but here, briefing her on the facts surrounding Anthony’s death.
“Anthony went undercover on this particular case to infiltrate a jewel-smuggling ring that has been trafficking rare and exotic gems into the Keys,” he explained, his voice low and threaded with an odd reluctance. “Anthony’s main objective was to get as close to the mob boss as possible. Our hope was that he’d be trusted enough to become a runner, someone they would involve in the actual smuggling. We needed that so we could bust the bad guys in the actual act of importing the jewels, which would give us enough evidence to prosecute.”
Paige pushed her thick fall of hair away from her face with a slightly shaking hand. What Josh described was
