Catherine Spencer - Passion in Secret

Stomach heaving, she turned to Jake. “Please don’t make me do this!”

“Why ever not?” he asked, surveying her coldly. “Place not to your liking?”

“No, it’s not,” she managed to say. “I’m insulted you’d even ask.”

“But it was good enough the night you came here with Penelope, the night she died, wasn’t it?” he said. “So why not now, with me?”

SHE didn’t reply, nor had he expected she would. He’d outmaneuvered her too thoroughly. Instead she hovered just inside the door, uncertain whether to flee or surrender. Since he hadn’t a hope in hell of catching her if she tried to make a run for it, he eliminated the possibility by marching her to a booth on the other side of the dance floor.

“Cosy, don’t you think?” he said, sliding next to her on the shabby vinyl banquette so that she was trapped between him and the wall. Too bad he had to put his mouth to her ear for her to hear him. He didn’t need the dizzying scent of her hair and skin making inroads on his determination to wring the truth out of her.

“What’ll it be, folks?” A giant of a man, with beefy arms covered in tattoos and a head as bald as an egg, came out from behind the bar and swiped a dirty cloth over the tabletop.

Without bothering to consult her, Jake said, “Beer. Whatever you’ve got on tap. And nachos.”

“I don’t drink beer and I don’t like nachos,” she said snootily, the minute the guy left to fill their order.

“No?” Jake dug in his hip pocket for his wallet. “What did you have the last time you were here—champagne and oysters on the half shell?”

“What makes you think I’ve been here before?”

“I read the police report, remember?”

She slumped against the wall, defeated. “Why are you doing this, Jake?” she asked, raising her voice over the din from the jukebox. “What do you hope to accomplish?”

“I want to know why my wife made a habit of frequenting places like this while I was away on combat duty, and if you won’t tell me, I’ll find someone here who will.”

“You’re wasting your time. Penelope and I were here only once, and when I realized the kind of place it was, I insisted we leave.”

He scanned the room at large. On the other side of the dance floor, a woman much the worse for wear had climbed on a table and was gyrating lewdly to the applause of the patrons lining the bar. Swinging his gaze to Sally again, Jake asked, “Was it your idea to stop here to begin with?”

“Certainly not!” she snapped. Then, realizing how much she’d revealed with her indignation, added, “We’d decided to drive out to a country inn for dinner that night, it started snowing on the way home, the roads were even worse than they are tonight, and we were looking for a place to wait out the storm. Why is that so hard for you to believe?”

“It’s not, Sally. But nor does it explain what made you change your minds and venture back on the road anyway, before the weather improved. One look out the door, and you must have known you were taking your lives in your hands by getting back behind the wheel of a car.”

“I already told you. We didn’t like the…clientele here.”

The tattooed hulk returned just then. “Where’s your gal pal tonight?” he asked, sliding a tankard of beer across the table to Sally. “The regulars miss seein’ her around the joint. She knew how to party.”

“You know what they say,” Jake cut in, before Sally could answer, even assuming she could come up with anything plausible after having just been exposed as a blatant liar. “Three’s a crowd.”

The server’s face split in a grin. He had a scar running down one side of his massive neck and was missing three front teeth. Probably got the first from a knife wound, and lost the rest in a brawl. “Little old Penny-wise wouldn’t horn in on your date for long, dude. Plenty of guys around here’d be only too willing to take her off your hands.”

“I think,” Sally said, in a small, despairing voice, as the oaf lumbered off to collect their nachos, “I’m going to be sick.”

Unmoved, Jake knocked back half his beer. “That tends to happen when a person’s attempt to hide the truth blows up in her face. I’d bet my last dollar you’d feel a whole lot better if you’d spit out the load of rubbish you’ve been feeding me.”

“It would serve you right if I did!” she cried with surprising passion. “But since truth’s so all-fired important to you, try this on for size—I don’t know what happened to turn the boy I used to know into such a hard-nosed bully, but I do know I don’t like the man you’ve become.”

He didn’t much like it himself. Browbeating a woman—any woman—wasn’t his style. Traumatizing Sally to the point that she looked as bewildered as an innocent victim caught in enemy crossfire filled him with self-loathing. He hadn’t come home to continue the inhumane practices of war. He’d come looking for a little peace.

Trouble was, he was no closer to finding it here than he had been on the other side of the world, and it was eating him alive, though not for the reasons Sally might suppose.

Hardening his heart against her obvious distress, he said, “I’m not especially enamored of you, either. I’d hoped by now that you’d outgrown the habit of taking the easy way out of whatever tight spot you happen to find yourself in.”

She picked up her tankard of beer and, for a second, he thought she might fling it in his face. But at the last minute, she shoved it away and spat, “I resent that, and I refuse to sink to the level of the company in which I find myself. I might be all kinds of things, but I’ve never lied to you in the past.”

“Never, Sally? Not once? Not even to spare my feelings?”

She opened her mouth to reply, but at the last minute appeared to think better of it. Her eyes grew huge and haunted, and filled with tears.

He wanted to wipe them away. Wanted to take her in his arms and tell her he was sorry; that raking up the distant past wasn’t his intent because it didn’t matter—not any of it. He wanted to tell her that he could forgive her anything, if only she’d free him to live in the present and be able to face the future without guilt weighing him down and souring each new day. And the depth of his wanting staggered him.

His wife was barely cold in her grave, for Pete’s sake, and all his suspicions aside, common decency demanded he at least observe a token period of mourning.

Slamming the door on thoughts he couldn’t afford to entertain, he drained his beer. “I don’t know who it is you think you’re protecting, Sally,” he said, “but to prove I’m not completely heartless, I’ll make a deal with you. Instead of badgering you to betray secrets you obviously hold sacred, I’ll spell out what I believe happened, the night Penelope died. All I ask of you is that you tell me honestly whether or not I’m on the right track. Agree to those terms and, after tonight, I’ll never bring the subject up again.”

She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue and stared stubbornly at her hands, but he could see she was wavering.

“I’ll give you some time to think about it,” he offered, levering himself away from the table and grabbing his cane, “but don’t take too long. I’ll only be gone a few minutes.”

He wove his way through the couples squirming up against each other on the dance floor, knowing she was watching him the entire time. The men’s room lay at the end of a long, badly lit corridor toward the rear of the building. A boy no more than eighteen swayed in the doorway, vacant-eyed and decidedly green about the gills. The squalor in the area beyond defied description.