The Marriage Profile. Metsy Hingle
as the woman herself had haunted every corner of his life for the past five years.
When she’d first walked out on him, he hadn’t been all that sure he would get over her. Those first few weeks had been a real bitch. But eventually time and burying himself in work had helped to dull the pain.
He’d gotten over Angela Mason. Or at least he’d thought he had gotten over her—until she’d walked through the doors of the hospital for tonight’s party. And now in less than an hour after seeing her again, she had him all tied up in knots.
He didn’t want her here. At least he’d been honest with her about that. What he hadn’t told her, and had no intention of telling her, was that he didn’t want her here because he didn’t want to remember what it was like to be with her, to hold her, to touch her, to taste her.
Justin shoved a hand through his hair. Dammit, he didn’t need this kind of grief. Not now. Not when he had so much on his plate trying to train a rookie deputy, finding the judge’s murderer, dealing with Del Brio and finding that missing baby. Having Angela show up now would only screw up his head, something he could ill afford at the moment. She would simply have to go, Justin reasoned.
“Justin? Are you all right?” she asked, and touched his arm.
Justin stilled even though his body went on full alert. Angela had always had that affect on him, from day one when he’d first seen her at the police academy. With a look, the brush of her fingers, one little word, she set off some primal instinct in him—an instinct that had caused him to practically bully her into marrying him because his need to bind her to him had been so strong. It was also an instinct that invariably led them to bed where the sex had been mind-blowing. And thinking about having sex with Angela was the worst thing he could do. He jammed his fists into his pockets to keep from reaching for her as that instinct kicked in again now. “Go away, Mason,” he told her, his voice deliberately hard. “Just go away.”
“I’m sorry,” she said softly, in much the same way she had that day when she’d told him that their marriage wasn’t working and that she was taking the job in San Antonio. “Truly, I am.” There was regret in her voice and in her expression as she turned away from him.
It was like déjà vu, Justin thought, watching her walk away from him. Five years ago, he’d been a lovesick fool. He had swallowed his pride and pleaded with her to stay. When she’d refused and kept right on packing, he’d resorted to threats and then anger. But nothing had worked. She’d walked away from him, anyway. He’d almost gone to San Antonio after her—until what little pride he had left kicked in and kept him from making a bigger fool of himself. And it was that same stubborn pride that kept him from going after her now. Pride and the fact that he wasn’t the same lovesick fool he’d been all those years ago.
But not even pride could stop him from tracking her movements as she crossed the room. And pride didn’t have a thing to do with that kick in his gut when he saw her hook up with Ricky Mercado again. Irritated with both Angela and himself, Justin marched over to the bar.
“What can I get for you, Sheriff?”
Justin glanced up at the petite redhead he recognized from the Lone Star Country Club. “Erica, isn’t it?”
“That’s right. Erica Clawson,” she replied, and gave him a smile that was a shade too saccharine for his taste. Not at all like Angela’s warm smile, he thought, then chastised himself at once for thinking of her again.
“You got anything besides soda pop and wine back there, Erica?”
“What did you have in mind?” she asked, tipping her head to one side flirtatiously.
“Whiskey, neat,” Justin said, choosing to ignore the come-on. Besides the fact that he wasn’t interested, he’d heard noises that little Miss Butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-her-mouth Erica Clawson had been keeping company of late with Frank Del Brio.
“Here you go.” She slid the glass toward him, gave him a soulful look.
“Thanks,” he murmured, taking the drink and turning his back to her. He tossed the whiskey back, welcomed the fiery burn down his throat and the way it spread like acid in his stomach. Like radar, his gaze sought out Angela. She was still with Ricky, their heads bent close together, the two of them in what appeared to be a deep conversation. Justin tightened his fist around the glass, wishing it was Ricky Mercado’s throat. Agitated with himself for letting her get to him, he turned away and slapped the empty glass down on the bar.
“Another one?”
“Yeah.” He had the glass halfway to his mouth, was already anticipating the fiery kick, when he noted Ricky leading Angela toward the exit. In the blink of an eye, he had an image of Ricky sliding into the car next to Angela, reaching across the seat to touch her face, to taste her mouth.
Unable to shake the image, Justin slapped his glass on the counter. Ignoring the slosh of whiskey, he started to get up and follow them when a firm male hand clamped down on his shoulder. “You might want to let your head and your blood cool before you go after her,” Hawk Wainwright told him.
Justin narrowed his eyes, stared into the sun-darkened face of his half brother. Although he’d been aware of his father’s long-ago affair with the Native American beauty who had been Hawk’s mother, only recently had he and Hawk acknowledged the blood bond between them. The relationship was tenuous at best, and there were old wounds that needed time to heal. But tonight he was feeling too edgy to mince words with Hawk and blurted out, “That a Native American thing? You being able to tell what’s going on inside a man’s head?”
Hawk smiled, something Justin realized that he could rarely recall the other man doing. “More like an observation.”
“Then you have some pretty amazing observation skills,” Justin told him, and went back to nursing his drink.
Hawk declined a drink with a shake of his head and urged Justin away from the bar. “Not all that remarkable. I remembered that the woman you watch with hot eyes was once your wife.”
“Was being the operative word here. We’re divorced now, have been for more than five years.”
“There are still strong feelings between you.”
“Not the kind you’re talking about,” Justin assured him. “Whatever Angela and I had ended a long time ago.”
“Who are you trying to convince? Me? Or yourself?”
“Neither. And since discussing my ex isn’t exactly one of my favorite things to do, I’d just as soon drop the subject.”
“Whatever you say.”
Noting his brother’s stoic gaze, Justin asked, “What?”
“I was just wondering if you’ll be able to shut off your feelings for her as easily.”
“What are you talking about?” Justin asked.
“I’m talking about the green-eyed monster that eats at your heart now as you think of your woman with another man.”
“She’s not my woman anymore,” Justin insisted.
“But you want her to be. Or am I wrong?”
Justin gritted his teeth and met Hawk’s steady gaze, refusing to answer the question even to himself. “It’s not that simple.”
“It’s not that complicated, either.”
“You don’t understand,” Justin told him.
“Maybe I understand far better than you realize. I may have Apache blood in my veins, but I also have Wainwright blood,” Hawk explained. “I know what it is to want something, to want someone, until that want becomes a hunger that burns like fire in the belly. And I know what it is to feel the steel talons of pride digging deep into the soul until it’s pride that rules one’s tongue and actions instead of what’s here,” he said, thumping a fist against his heart.
But