again. And she felt safe and protected and so at home.
Vince tangled his hands in his wife’s dark hair. He kissed the graceful curve of her neck where it met her shoulder. He loved everything about her. He loved making love with her. He loved her softness, her delicate places, the heat of her, the smell of her. He loved the way she tasted, the silk glove tightness of her around him, the way she took him inside of her until he filled her.
She was his perfect lover, so open, so giving, unreserved. She made him feel strong and male and animal. Afterward he cradled her in his arms and kissed her hair and told her how much he loved her, and how he would keep her safe. And he felt so blessed and protective and completely at home.
He was one lucky son of a bitch.
He smiled down at Anne, thinking she looked like an angel in the soft light from the lamp on the nightstand. She smiled back, reached up and touched his cheek, her thumb brushing over the flat shiny scar that marked the entrance of the bullet fragment in his head.
He hoped this might have been the perfect moment for her to conceive, but he didn’t say it aloud. He knew she was worried about it. She worried that the post-traumatic stress would keep her body in self-protection mode and not allow her to conceive. One worry preyed on another—a vicious circle.
Vince had no doubt at all that they would have a family. He could close his eyes and see Anne round with their child. He could see her smiling down as a dark-haired baby nursed at her breast.
He brushed her hair back and kissed her softly. She kissed him back. Desire began to slowly stir again.
Until his pager went off.
Vince groaned. Anne made a little sound of frustration.
He looked in the window of the pager.
Mendez’s phone number plus 911.
He grabbed the phone off the nightstand and dialed.
Mendez answered on the first ring and said, “Haley Fordham is conscious.”
“I’m on my way,” Vince said.
“Bring Anne.”
20
“I heard that,” Anne said as Vince got out of bed with no announcement other than that he had to go to the hospital because their witness was awake.
Vince scowled and went into the bathroom. Anne threw the covers back, got out of bed, and followed him.
“Do you think if you just ignore me, I’ll lie down and go to sleep?” she asked.
“I don’t want you going,” he said as he turned the shower faucet on.
“Tony thinks I could be helpful—”
“I don’t care what Tony thinks.”
Anne’s temper boiled up as he basically dismissed her by getting in the shower. She pulled the door open and climbed in after him.
“Don’t you dismiss me, Vince Leone,” she snapped, blinking hard as water pellets bounced off her husband and into her face.
“Anne,” he growled, “I won’t have it.”
“And since when are you the boss of me?” she demanded to know.
“Since I’m your husband,” he said, soaping his chest and arms.
“Ha!” She held up her left hand to show him the diamond he had put on her finger not so many months ago. “This is a ring, not a collar and leash. I’m going.”
“I’m not taking you.”
“I’ll drive myself.”
“Not if I get to your car keys before you do.”
“I have a spare set hidden.”
“I don’t. I’ll take my keys and your car.”
Anne narrowed her eyes in frustration. “Why are you being such an ass?”
“I’m protecting you, damn it,” he said. “Could you cooperate, please?”
“Protecting me from what? A four-year-old child who must be scared to death?”
“She’s a witness to a murder.”
“And a victim herself,” Anne pointed out, hastily running a soapy washcloth over herself. “She’s been traumatized. She’s lost her mother. Has anyone found a relative?”
“No,” he said, turning his back to her to rinse the front of him off.
“She has no one.”
“She’ll have someone from Child Services.”
“Seriously?” she said, ducking in front of him to rinse herself off. “You think Child Services should foster out a witness to a murder?”
“Well, I sure as hell don’t think you should do it.”
“I’m only going to see if I can help the little girl through this.”
“Uh-huh,” he said, unimpressed. “Like you were just going to see if you couldn’t help Dennis Farman a little, and now you’re his fucking guardian ad litem?”
“Don’t you curse at me!” Anne said, leaning up toward him, as if she could hope to make herself big enough to intimidate him.
He leaned down over her, water dripping off his nose and mustache. “I’m going to lock you in a closet in a minute.”
Now truly angry, Anne got out of the shower, grabbed a towel and did a half-assed job of drying herself off. The hell if he was going to tell her what she could and couldn’t do. And how dare he throw Dennis Farman up in her face? She was only trying to do something good.
She could see him scowling at her via the wall-to-wall mirror over the long vanity.
“Anne,” he said, climbing out of the shower and reaching for her arm.
Anne twisted out of his reach and went to her closet to find some clothes to pull on. Underwear, a pair of acid-washed jeans, and a big, slouchy black sweater that wanted to fall off one shoulder. Good enough. She pulled on an old pair of once-white Keds and headed for the door.
“Anne,” Vince said again, stepping in front of her, still naked, water droplets glistening in his chest hair.
She looked to the left of his head and past his shoulder, waiting impatiently for him to say what he had to say, then get out of her way.
“Sweetheart,” he said, softening his tone. “You’ve been through so much in the past year. You’re still struggling with it. I don’t want you getting involved in something that’s going to add to your stress level—and mine,” he admitted.
He had a good point. He was only trying to protect her, which was very sweet and chivalrous. Still, now her pride was involved, and her feminist tendencies were offended. She wasn’t going to let Tony Mendez or Cal Dixon or anyone else think that she had to have her husband’s permission to do anything. It was 1986, for God’s sake, not 1956.
“I’m going,” she declared.
Hands jammed at his waist, Vince heaved a big sigh of absolute frustration. Muscles worked at the back of jaw as if he were trying to choke something down.
“Let me get some clothes on,” he said at last. “I’m driving.”
