Upon a Mystic Tide (10 page)

“So who said life was fair?” Her eyes widened, and her pupils dilated. “Life is
not
fair, John. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but this is the real world, and one day you’re going to have to live in it just like the rest of us. In the meantime, could you please move aside so I can open the door?”

A barrel of anger bounced around in his gut. He should let her have it, but he couldn’t. He’d done this to her. How, he wasn’t sure. But Bess had never been this way before and, Lord knew, before her death, Meriam Richards sure never missed a chance to tell him he was to blame. Bess and Meriam had been close. Bess hadn’t told him why she’d left him, but she’d evidently told Meriam. “So you’d rather go to jail than to touch anything of mine—or of ours?”

“Jail?”
Bess’s jaw fell slack.

He nodded.

“Why in the world would I go to jail?” She snorted. “I hate to break it to you, darling, but me not taking your money isn’t a crime to anyone but you.”

Darling.
Once the endearment had struck him nearly as powerfully as her Jonathan. It didn’t anymore. Now it rang as empty as an echo. As solid as a reflection. But his hunch had been right. She didn’t know about the judge’s order. “I hate to break it to you,
darling,
but it
is
a crime—at least according to Judge Branson.”

“Don’t call me that.” She clamped her jaw shut and shuttered the anger from her eyes. “Judge Branson? What have you done to me?”

“Me?” How typical that even this was John’s fault.

“Well, who else?” She jerked at his coat sleeve to tug him away from the door.

“Don’t get physical, Bess, unless you’re serious about it.” He lifted his brows.

She jerked back as if he’d burned her. “Would you just move?”

“Not until you apologize. I haven’t done anything to you, and I don’t appreciate your saying I have—and I don’t appreciate your
darling,
either. You walked out on me.” He started to object to her calling him Jonathan as well—his name was John and what once had been her pet name for him and had made him feel so special now grated at his ears—but he couldn’t bring himself to actually do it.

“Here we go again.” She let out a sigh that could power a substation for a week.

“If you’d talk to me just once about this, it’d be done. But, no, not you. You walk out and consider yourself above even giving me an explanation.”

“If you don’t mind, can we get back to this jail business?” She swept her hair back from her face. The wind tore more of it loose from the bow at her nape and she held it back with a cupped hand. “Why is Judge Branson jailing me?”

“Call your lawyer,
darling.”
John slid away from the door.

She frowned at him, deliberately holding it so he wouldn’t miss it. “You know exactly why and you’re just being contrary by not telling me. I never liked that about you—your being contrary. In fact, I hated it.”

She’d hated it. She’d hated him. And maybe it was time she regretted both. Yeah, maybe it was
past
time.
“You loved it.” He gave her his best killer smile. “And me.”

“I hated it, I said.” Pain flashed through her eyes. Anger chased it and burned. “And at times, God forgive me, I’ve hated you, too.”

She meant it. He nearly staggered from the blow. Both blows. That she’d felt these things
and
that she’d admitted feeling them. Bryce had said she’d changed, but
 . . .
Double-checking, John baited her. “Liar.”

“Don’t you wish?” She grumbled then shoved past him and strode into the house.

John watched her back. Well, for the first encounter on a reunion meet, it could be going a lot worse. Could be better, too. She had let him peek inside her. That was a plus. But she had no right to still be beautiful to him. No right to still make him ache. And no right to make him remember how good the good times had been between them. Why did just looking at her still turn his gut inside out?

A champagne-colored mop of a dog, sporting a jiggling pink bow atop her head, ran across the entrance floor, nails clicking, tail wagging, and tongue hanging out. It passed the registration desk, where Bess stood flipping through mail, and came straight to John. Smiling he scooped up the tiny ragamuffin. It couldn’t weigh more than three pounds.

“That’s Silk.” Bess
tossed an envelope back onto the counter between a green banker’s lamp and a wooden pen holder, then reached for the dog. “She’s mine.”

Silk whined at Bess and licked at her wrist, sending her a pleading message:
Look but please don’t touch. I’m comfortable right where I am.
John rewarded the pup with a good ear scratch.

“Stop being rude, you ungrateful vagabond.” Looking miffed, Bess grabbed the dog.

Poor Silk would pay for her loyalty lapse. Did Bess send her subtle messages, too? “Judge Branson is ticked because you left town without having the property settlement finalized. He’s holding you in contempt.”

Bess looked up at him, clearly surprised John had told her. She couldn’t be any more surprised than he was. Why
had
he told her?

The dog, he figured. Being met at the door by someone—well, something—glad to see him. He shrugged and took back the dog. “Save you a call to Francine.”

“Contempt is absurd. The dispute
is
settled.” She frowned at Silk, who was licking at John’s hand, then snatched her out of his arms, tucking her into her own. “The dog is mine, Jonathan.”

“Half-right.” He leaned against the wooden registration desk. “The dog is yours, but the dispute isn’t settled—and it won’t be until you agree to take half of our assets.”

She stared at him. The house grew oddly silent, almost as if it were waiting. The stately grandfather clock opposite the desk ticked, and a soft whir of the ceiling fan’s spinning blades overhead pulsed out a humming
thump, thump, thump.

“I can’t do that.” Bess looked over at the ceramic boxes atop the desk.

“Well, I guess we won’t be getting a divorce, then.” He met her puzzled stare with a rock-hard, steady one. He wasn’t going to bend on this, and the woman had best realize it right up front.

“Fine.” She turned, hooked a left, and then started up the stairs. “It’s just a piece of paper and doesn’t change a thing.”

What the hell did
that
mean? Ending their marriage was no more than a formality to her?’ His ego took another stab. Hadn’t she bludgeoned it to death already?

He frowned up at her, her slim hips swaying step to step. His groin tightened, and his deathbed promise to Elise flitted through his mind. “You can’t just walk out this time, Bess. You’re going to have to face me sometime and tell me why.”

She stopped on the landing, below the two portraits of Seascape’s original owners, Collin and Cecelia Freeport. According to Miss Hattie, their love was a legend. And, simply put, John envied them. Even after one of them died, they’d known more of love than he’d ever known in his life and, from all indications, more than he ever would know of it.

Silk squirmed in Bess’s arms. She absently patted the dog, and glared down at John. “I’m not walking out. I am, however, leaving.”

Figured. Cut-and-run. Vintage Bess. “Bad idea, but no surprise.” John grabbed the banister. She was upset, all right. All cashmere and eel-skin and cool elegance on the outside, but mad as hell inside. About an eight on the scale, he figured. “When you’re packed, yell. I’ll carry your bags down.”

She lifted her chin. “I can take care of myself, thank you.”

“Fine.” He started up the steps. When she reached the top and he the landing, he stopped beneath the portraits. The temperature dropped ten degrees and a cool breeze that seemed to come from nowhere chilled his skin. He shivered and walked on, prickly and feeling
 . . .
watched.

Seeing no source for that either, he pushed the feeling aside. Imagination, no more than that. Only he and Bess were in the house. Miss Hattie was still having tea with Miss Millie at the Antique Shoppe. “In case you’re interested,” he topped the stairs and turned the corner, “the fine is ten thousand dollars.”

At the end of the hall, Bess stumbled against a hand-carved bookshelf, then collapsed onto a plump window seat cushion.
Tall Ships
tumbled to the floor. The mullioned windows above her head let in soft gray light that swept over a white Berber rug and on down the shadowy hallway of closed doors.

“Ten
thousand
dollars?” She sounded breathless.

Oh, boy. A ten response if ever he’d seen one. Definitely a ten. He returned the book to the shelf, straightened its spine to match the others, then sat down beside her on the bench. Now that he had her attention—she was as pale as a ghost—what did he do with it? “Or jail.”

“Good grief.” Silk scooted off her lap and crossed the cushion to John.

“Only you would do this to me.” Anger flashed in Bess’s eyes. “Only you.”

“Hey, Doc,” he used his pet name for her without thinking, “I haven’t done a thing here, except to try to pay your fine.”

“You didn’t.” She dragged her lip between her teeth but still failed to hide her frown.

“I did. Ask Bryce.” John gave Silk’s back a stroke. “Branson refused to let me cover it—even though it was
our
money.”

“You set me up, didn’t you? You paid off Branson to make this divorce even tougher on me.” She stood up, stiff-spined and hands fisted, but her voice remained oh-so-cool. “I knew you were a jerk, John Mystic. I didn’t know you were vicious or crooked.”

She knew better. It was anger talking. Bess’s rendition of pulling out the heavy guns. “Now why would I do that?”

“To punish me.”

“What for?” As if he ever had punished her for anything.

“For divorcing you and wounding your overinflated ego by refusing to touch your fortune.” She blew out a breath reeking of frustration. “That really galls you, doesn’t it? That you can’t buy me off to soothe your conscience just eats you up inside.”

Buy
her
off? Soothe
his
conscience?
She’d
walked out on
him.
God, but this infuriated him. How could she stand there looking so beautiful, sling arrows that cut right through his heart, and look so unaffected and calm? She more than infuriated him. And her accusation made him sick. What kind of man did she think he’d become? “I never tried to buy you, Bess. Never.”

“Admit it. That
is
what this is all about. You. Mr. Hotshot Private Investigator who’s got it all. Looks, money, the whole nine yards. You’ve always had everything your way—until now. Well, consider this reveille. I will
not
bend and take your money, Jonathan. Why in the world your mother—”

He snapped his head up. “Don’t!”

“Oh, right.” Bess slapped at a crease in her slacks. “I forgot that your mother is a forbidden topic. Excuse me, Mr. Mystic, for breaching yet another of those areas of your life where you shut out everyone—including your wife.”

His chest went tight. This wasn’t getting them anywhere. Her standing there huffing with righteous indignation, him sitting here feeling like a put-upon slug. “Let’s stop this, okay?” What in God’s name had come over her? In all their time together he’d never seen her act like this. So
 . . .
emotional. And again the secret about his parents weighed heavily on his soul. If not for knowing what the truth would do to Selena, he could risk telling Bess. But he couldn’t afford the risk because Selena could have to pay the price.

“Gladly.” She visibly grabbed control and slid back behind her sleek mask of porcelain-skinned indifference. “You can lie to me, but you can’t lie to yourself. This is about ego—yours. And about money.”

“Listen to you.” He shook his head and stood up. “You’re an intelligent woman, but do you realize how stupid you sound right now?”

“Jonathan, do not insult me.” Her chin quivered.

Whether near tears or near committing murder, he couldn’t decide. “Okay. Yeah. Yeah, you’re right, Bess. You’re exactly right. I’ve busted my buns to turn a modest inheritance into a fortune and, thanks to Elise’s investment advice, I succeeded. Now, I just can’t stand the thought of not giving half of it to you to spend on that sorry Spaniard.” He shrugged. “Makes perfect sense to me.” Silk yapped. “Makes sense to her, too.”