Along Came a Husband. Helen Brenna
through his pack, verifying that his laptop had not been compromised.
After pulling on some clothes and tucking his gun inside the waistband of his sweats, he made his way slowly down the hall and into the main living area of the house. The space felt airy and open without any barriers between the kitchen and living room, living room and all-season porch.
Footsteps sounded behind him and, instantly on alert, he spun around. Pain shot up his side at the sudden twisting and he cringed.
Missy was coming down the stairs. “We have to talk.” She barely glanced at him as she moved past to put a teakettle on the stove.
The pain, mostly, subsided. “I’m not sure we have anything to say to one another.”
“Well, I have plenty to say to you, but first I want some answers.” She scooped some loose tea leaves into a metal mesh container and then focused on him. “Why aren’t you dead?”
Oh, yeah, that.
Jonas carefully eased himself onto one of the bar stools at her kitchen counter and studied her. Apparently having grabbed what she’d needed for today before she’d left him last night, she’d dressed simply, in a pair of straight-legged jeans and a long, loose, short-sleeved brown sweater. With naturally clear skin, she’d never needed much makeup. Her hair hung in damp curls. The only jewelry she wore was a necklace, a couple of hefty faceted quartz crystals strung on a strip of woven leather.
But it was the way she carried herself that set her apart. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t noticed it the first time he’d met her, the way she held herself, so straight and confidently. The regal set of her chin, angled slightly downward as if she were looking down upon the masses. Her hands. Long, royal-looking fingers and bones so fine she looked as if he could break her in half.
There were changes, too. Not a lot, not enough that most people would notice, but noticing things was part of his job. Her easy way of smiling seemed to have been replaced by a touch of seriousness about her mouth. There was more depth to her eyes, a more sober line to her brow. Was it possible she’d matured inside as well as out? He wasn’t holding his breath.
“I’m not dead because there was no helicopter crash,” he finally answered. “It was staged.”
“Brent Matthews? The other agent in the helicopter with you?”
“No one died, Missy.”
“There were two bodies,” she said as if she couldn’t quite wrap her mind around this twist in the past. “I saw them. I saw…your body.”
If he didn’t know better, he’d have said a shadow of something damned close to sadness momentarily passed over her features. “John Does from the morgue.” He shook his head. “They put the bodies in the shell of the chopper before they blew it up.”
“Why?”
“Because they didn’t expect me to live through the undercover assignment I’d accepted.” He almost hadn’t. “On top of that, they knew it would be long-term and they wanted absolutely no contact with family or friends. I received a totally new identity, and I’ve been on that same case ever since.”
“So you’re still with the FBI. How long were you undercover?”
“It took us a couple years to infiltrate the group. Since then, it’s been another two years.” He sighed. “Plus.”
“You’ve been living someone else’s life for four years?”
“It’s my job.”
“Your job.” Clearly disgusted, she shook her head. “You’re the same as you’ve always been, aren’t you? The job is still the only thing that matters in your life.”
How often had she thrown that accusation in his face? Well, it may not have been as true all those years ago, but it sure as hell was true now. After all that time undercover, living as he had surrounded by lawless, disrespectful thugs, getting hardened to seeing things he hadn’t wanted to see, there were days even he didn’t recognize the man he’d become.
“Why’d you agree to do it?”
“I think the more appropriate question is why not?” After watching his father stand ineffectively by while his mother slowly died, Jonas had wanted nothing to do with the dead-beat. He’d never had any siblings, no relatives at all, really. At the time Stein had come to him with the risky undercover opportunity, Missy had been his only family. When she turned her back on him, he had nothing left in the world.
“Why not?” She glared at him. “Because you had a wife and a father. A life.”
“Did I?” he bit out. If he hadn’t felt so weak, he would’ve stood and paced the floor of her kitchen. As it was, all he could do was sit there. “You filed for a divorce, Missy. Remember that part of the equation?”
The morning she told him she’d seen an attorney, he’d felt as if he’d been hit dead on by a train. Bam! Life gone. Rejected. Start over. That’s exactly what he’d deserved for letting himself get carried ass-over-teakettle away by an immature young woman. He’d thought himself in love, and he’d found out the hard way there was no such thing.
Love. Right.
If Jonas had known the truth about her age, about who Missy really was when he’d first met her, he never would’ve married her, let alone had sex with her in the back of his SUV the first night they’d met. Hell, there had to be any number of women in the world who shared her name. Who would’ve ever guessed she was the Melissa Camden? He was still pissed she hadn’t told him the truth about her background until a few days before their wedding.
He’d tried, he really had, to look beyond it, to see Missy for who she was and not what her family had made her, but his pride had been hurt too much to recover. He’d soon had to face the fact that he could never have supported her in a lifestyle in any way, shape or form close to what she’d been used to. From the beginning, the deck had been stacked against them.
“The way I see it,” he said, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice, “my death just made things easier for you.” Not to mention that a small, stupid part of him had inexplicably reasoned that she’d still be his wife.
“Easier?” She laughed, but the sound was laced with what sounded a lot like desperation. “How was that supposed to make it easier? For me?”
“Bang. I was out of your life. No attorneys. No messy division of assets. One little funeral and it was over.” He shrugged. “I’ll bet you didn’t even cry.”
She fell silent. Then that damned cat jumped onto the counter and rubbed against her. She snuggled the animal to her chest, scratched its neck and glanced back at him. “No, you’re right. I never cried. Not one single tear. Satisfied?”
No, he wasn’t even close to being satisfied with what had happened between him and Missy, but he’d accepted the fact long ago that he’d made a rash decision in marrying her. Everyone knew a man didn’t need to care deeply about a woman to be elementally and viscerally attracted to her. What a lot of people didn’t realize was that some women—women like Missy—could be the same way.
Apparently, if the quick rise and fall of her chest were any indication, she hadn’t changed. As if she remembered the heat that had unfailingly risen between them, the long hours spent simply pleasing each other, her gaze caught with his and held.
He’d never known a more passionate, uninhibited woman than Missy. All he’d ever had to do was touch her face and she’d melted in his hand. Caress her breast and she’d arch to meet him. Touch his tongue to hers and she’d do anything he’d ask. What he wouldn’t give to find out if he still held that kind of power over her. All it would take was one touch to find out. Just one.
The teakettle whistled in the heavy silence and she spun around. Damn. After putting down the cat, she flipped off the burner and poured steaming hot water into a metal travel mug. “Your dad was at your funeral,” she said