Fay Robinson - Mr. And Mrs. Wrong

“I know,” Lucky told her sister. “We’re already separated. What’s a baby going to do to us?”

“Lucky, if the marriage isn’t working and you’re not happy, then file for divorce and save yourself a lot of grief. It is possible to raise a child without a man around.”

Lucky didn’t respond. At this point she didn’t know exactly what she wanted. But despite his annoying quirks, she loved Jack and didn’t want to raise their child alone. He’d never allow that anyway. He’d demand to be part of his child’s life.

“You’d better tell him as soon as possible,” her sister said.

“I will,” Lucky replied, but with little conviction.

“Lucky, do it. Don’t make things worse by having him find out some other way.”

“I will, okay?” And she would, but she dreaded it because she knew how Jack would react. He’d be thrilled. He’d want to move back in. But not for her. Not because he wanted to be with her. Only for the sake of the baby. And when that happened, she’d never be able to trust his feelings again.

This pregnancy would destroy any hope she had of saving her marriage.

Dear Reader,

In my story, Mr. and Mrs. Wrong, Jack and Erin Cahill love each other, but their differences result in a separation before their first wedding anniversary. Jack has secrets from his past that he’s unwilling to share. Lucky—as Erin has been nicknamed by her family—must let go of hurts from long ago if she and Jack are to have any chance of making their marriage work.

Lucky is a bit eccentric. Of all the characters I’ve created, I believe she’s my favorite. To do justice to her, I paired her with someone very special. Jack is a strong, sexy cop who adores her but doesn’t always understand how her mind works. That makes for some interesting conversations—and trouble. The people of Potock, Alabama, don’t call Lucky the “Body Magnet” for no reason. And her nickname “Lucky” isn’t always appropriate.

This book contains drama and laughter, suspense and romance. The setting is special to me—the Black Warrior River, where I spent many wonderful days of my childhood.

I very much enjoyed writing this story. I hope you enjoy reading it.

I’d love to hear from readers. You can write me at P.O. Box 240, Waverly, AL 36879-0240. You might also want to visit my Web site at http://www.fayrobinson.com/. Or check out the Friends and Links section at http://www.eHarlequin.com.

Sincerely,

Fay Robinson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For my mother, who was fearless.

And for Casey, who never minds listening to my crazy ideas.

My deepest appreciation to the following people

for their help with research questions:

Buck Sanders, logger; Larry Hood, forestry manager;

Julie Merced and the Autism Society of Alabama;

forensic investigator Jim Sparrow and the Alabama

Department of Forensic Sciences; Larry Nichols of the IRS;

Cindy Taylor, private investigator; Robert Seidler, game

warden; and the members of the P-rock research list.

Any errors in this material are mine and not theirs.

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

EPILOGUE

HE SHOWED UP without warning on a Thursday night. He said he’d left his boxing gloves behind when he’d moved out and needed them, but they both knew he kept them in his locker at the gym.

Lucky undid the latch on the screen door and the one on her heart and invited him in—again. Last time, the supposedly missing object had been his extra pistol. Before that, a basketball.

In the four months since Jack had taken an apartment in town, putting their eleven-month marriage in question, they’d searched for a “favorite” shirt he’d never worn and for tools he didn’t use. They’d turned the cabin upside down looking for a first-edition Hemingway he didn’t own and for a burglary-case file he’d never have left lying around. The only things they’d ever found were the zippers to each other’s pants.

“Whoa!” he said with a start, getting a better look at her. “What the hell did you do to your hair?”

“Whacked it all off, obviously.”

“No kidding.”

She waved back a moth that tried to follow him onto the porch, then flipped on the lights at the pier to draw the insects down to the water and away from him. The mosquitoes never bothered her. Like all the creatures who called Alabama’s Black Warrior River home, she’d accepted them as a natural part of life.

But Jack was already slapping at his skin, so she handed him the canning jar she’d learned to keep by the door. It contained a mixture of herbs and 190-proof grain alcohol. She’d inherited the recipe for the insect repellent from her granddaddy thirteen years ago, along with this cabin and eighty acres of surrounding bottom land.

Unscrewing the lid, Jack took a sniff. “You didn’t brew this in a whiskey still out here somewhere, did you, runt?”

“If I had, don’t you think I’d be drinkin’ the stuff, instead of making bug juice out of it?”

Chuckling, he dipped his fingers in the jar and dabbed a few drops of the liquid on his neck, face and below his rolled-up sleeves. He wore his dress clothes from work and, after chasing bad guys all day and being out in humidity over ninety percent, appeared wilted and tired. His tie was askew, and beggar lice and other bits of plant material clung to the hems of his pants. He needed a shave.

The gun he usually carried was probably locked inside his car’s glove compartment, but the empty shoulder holster by itself was enough to give him a dangerous look.

Much about Jack was dangerous, mysterious even, including his background. That was one of the things that had attracted her to him in the beginning. These days, though, the unanswered questions about his past only irritated her.

“So what’s the deal with your hair?” he asked. “Did you have one of those hissy fits your grandmother talks about?”

“A hissy fit is when you’re mad. I wasn’t mad.”

“What were you?”

“I don’t know. I felt like cutting it off, so I did.”

She fingered it. Three nights ago, during a depression over their crumbling marriage, she’d suddenly decided—after a lifetime of wearing her hair to her waist—that it had to go. The first crude snips she’d made with sewing scissors. A beautician had taken off most of the rest the next morning while trying to repair the damage Lucky had done. With the weight gone, it was no longer forced to behave, resulting in a riot of brown curls.

“Pretty awful, huh?” she asked him.

“No, not at all. Shocked me at first because you look so different, but it’s cute.” He reached out and playfully ran his fingers through it.

She let out a breath, exasperated. Never in a million years had she imagined he’d like it. Maybe she’d even lopped it off to spite him; she wasn’t sure. Where Jack was concerned, she had a hard time being honest with herself.

“But…you told me a million times I looked good in long hair.”

“You did. But this suits you, too.”

“Cal says I look like I had a brawl with 100,000 volts of electrical current.”

He chortled. “Want me to hurt him for you?”