Kitabı oku: «Intimate Enemy», sayfa 3

If she ever got married, it would be with the intention of striving for the till-death-do-us-part. If divorce became inevitable, she would be heartbroken, but she would know she’d done everything possible to avoid it.

Like Russ. Even Melinda had admitted in an unguarded moment that none of it was his fault. He’d tried to work with her, had compromised and given in, had even been willing to go to marriage counseling. But all she’d wanted was out, with as many of their assets as she could get.

And Jamie had helped her get them. If she could somehow return to the past and undo her involvement in a particular case, that one would be at the top of the list.

Then she rubbed the spot low on her ribcage that still ached at times, though the wound was long since healed, and amended the thought: Russ’s divorce would be second on the list.

She worked through the rest of the morning, hardly noticing the passage of time until her stomach growled. It was after one o’clock, and the satisfaction from morning pizza was long gone. Rising from her chair, she slung the strap of her purse over one shoulder and went into the outer office. “I’m hungry. Want to get a sandwich at the deli?”

Lys looked up from the fax machine she was feeding. “Sure. Why don’t you go on over and order, and I’ll be there as soon as I finish sending the Thompkins stuff to his new lawyer in Miami. I’ll have a vegetarian wrap.”

“With ranch dressing, baked veggie chips and bottled water.”

Lys gave her a thumbs-up before turning back to the machine.

It was another warm day with only the thinnest of clouds in the sky. Humidity hung heavy, trapping the fragrance of the flowers that bordered the square close to the ground. Jamie loved the mix of smells: flowers, greenery, dampness, tasty aromas from Krispy Kreme, the coffee shop and the restaurants along the block. She fancied she could even catch a whiff of fresh-sawn lumber from the River’s Edge project—which, she congratulated herself, she hadn’t so much as glanced at since stepping outside.

Ellie’s Deli occupied prime corner-of-the-square real estate, an old building that had begun life as a general store. Broad steps led to a porch, and a few items there harked back to its past: metal advertising signs mounted on the walls, a checkerboard balanced atop an old wooden barrel and rockers, silvered with age.

Jamie placed their order, took a number and went looking for a table in her favorite section, a long narrow enclosure that had once been a back porch. Screens had been replaced by windows that looked out on Ellie Chase’s kitchen garden.

Her favorite table was empty. Setting down her bag, she slid into the chair and tension she’d hardly noticed eased away. It was a lovely place, with exposed brick walls and a well-worn brick floor, with all the glass and light and ceiling fans lazily stirring the air. The noise from the main dining room was muted, and the proximity to the kitchen allowed the fragrance of hot bread to seep into the space, along with hints of desserts baking.

She was so lost in noticing that she didn’t realize she wasn’t alone until a pair of boots came into view through the glass tabletop. Work boots, spattered with paint and mud. Faded jeans, also spattered. A snug-fitting T-shirt with a coat of chalky dust overlaying its crimson hue.

And a world-class scowl.

The muscles in her neck knotted and her jaw clamped together hard. This wasn’t fair. No more surprise sightings. No more sightings at all if he was going to look at her as if she were something nasty in need of squishing.

Russ rested one hand on the back of her chair and bent closer. “I thought I saw blood oozing from the brick.” Uninvited, he sat down in the chair to her left.

She forced a smile. “Watch it, or I might turn the sky dark, too.”

Coincidentally, the sun disappeared behind a cloud, shadow falling over the garden. She resisted the urge to laugh at the timing. He clearly felt no such urge.

“Have you dragged my brother into something he can’t handle?”

Jamie kept her gaze even, unflinching. Russ didn’t even make the list of people Robbie might have discussed her admirer-stalker with. He and Jamie occupied distinctly separate areas of Robbie’s life. If he’d tattled to anyone, it would have been Tommy Maricci or his cop brothers.

“Offhand, I can’t think of anything Robbie can’t handle.” Then she slyly asked, “We are talking about Robbie, aren’t we? You’re not accusing me of impropriety with Rick or Mitch, are you?”

His response was a snort, but it said enough. His older brothers wouldn’t be interested. She wasn’t pretty enough, sexy enough, to tempt them away from their wives, but no woman was. Fidelity might not have meant much to all Calloways—J. D. Stinson came to mind—but it was important to these four brothers.

And Melinda had taken such pleasure in publicly airing all the dirty details of her extramarital affairs. A broken heart, wounded pride and a bruised ego—Russ had hit the trifecta.

“What’s going on?” His voice was deep, tautly controlled, a lot like Robbie’s, except she could count the number of times she’d heard anger in Robbie’s voice on one hand. It was all she’d heard from Russ for three years.

“Maybe you should ask him.”

“I did. All he would say was that someone he knows is in trouble.”

“And you automatically assume it’s me?”

“Who else is as deserving?”

Her first inclination was to ignore the tiny ache in her chest. As her number was called over the intercom, she decided to go with her second. Rising, she put one hand on the back of his chair, leaned close enough to smell sunshine, sweat and dust and softly said, “Bite me, Russ.”

She made it halfway to the hall that led to the main dining room before he caught up with her. “If something’s going on, leave Robbie the hell out of it.”

She didn’t slow her pace. “Robbie’s a big boy. He can make decisions for himself.”

“I’m not kidding.”

She gave the girl behind the counter a tight smile as she claimed the trays that held her and Lys’s lunches, then faced him again. “Give it up, Russ. I’ve been threatened by people way scarier than you. If you have enough energy to worry about someone’s life, make it your own. You’re way more screwed up than Robbie will ever be.”

“You don’t know what the hell—”

The bell over the door dinged, announcing a new arrival. Russ looked that way, and so did Jamie. Lys’s gaze locked on them, and she charged forward like an overprotective bulldog in puppy’s clothing.

Jamie shoved Lys’s tray into her hands, then bared her teeth at Russ in a parody of a smile. “It’s been fun talking to you. What do you say we wait another three years to do it again?”

Color stained his dark skin crimson, and his gaze turned stormy. She didn’t wait to hear what he might say, but took Lys’s arm and steered her toward the back. It wasn’t until they’d turned the corner into the glassed-in porch that Lys spoke.

“Good show. Now would you please let go of my arm so the blood can start flowing again?”

Contritely Jamie did so. “I’m sorry. It’s just…”

“I know. It’s just Russ.”

He’d been the reason for a lot of emotions in her life—happiness, giddiness, need, desire, lust, satisfaction, affection, love, anger, betrayal, headache, heartache and every other kind of ache. He’d been the best part of her life for a time, and the worst.

One of these days, he wasn’t going to be any part. She promised herself that.

Just as soon as she figured out how to perform magic.

Chapter 3

In less than a day and a half, three people had offered criticism of Russ’s life. He hadn’t asked for advice, hadn’t given a clue that he was open to suggestions, so why the hell couldn’t they keep their opinions to themselves?

And after three years of pretty decent avoidance, why the hell did he have to keep running into Jamie?

“Because God doesn’t like you,” he muttered as he walked into the kitchen.

It was after eight o’clock. The sun had set, darkness had settled in, and he was still on the job. The day had turned into the day from hell—too many appointments, too much work, too little time—and his run-in with Jamie at lunch had only made it worse. He’d walked out of the deli with a pounding headache, and the aspirin tablets he’d taken were eating a hole in his stomach. He should have gotten something to eat before the last dose, but anything he ate right now would just aggravate the burning in his gut.

But this Walton Way job was his last stop, and then he was heading home. A night’s sleep would make everything better—and no matter what else was going on in his life, he always slept like a baby. He was lucky that way.

The work on this remodel was slow going. The house was old, and they kept running into unforeseen problems, like wiring that wasn’t up to code and pipes that had to be replaced. Another few weeks, and he could scratch this one off his list.

Another few weeks, and he wouldn’t have to come back into Jamie’s neighborhood until someone else hired him.

He shouldn’t have spoken to her at the deli. He should have just walked past as if she were a total stranger. She was right: Robbie was grown. He didn’t always make the smartest decisions—his continued friendship with Jamie proved that—but he was old enough to face the consequences.

The next time Russ saw her, he would ignore her. He didn’t want anything to do with her; she didn’t want anything to do with him. Simple solution. They would act like strangers, and before long they would really be strangers.

He finished his walk-through of the house, then let himself out the front door, yawning as he locked the deadbolt. The homeowners were staying with the husband’s parents during the remodel, and the wife called every other day wanting to know when she could move home again. Russ, his secretary, his subs and everyone on his crew who’d had to deal with the woman would be as happy when that day came as she would be.

He was walking to his truck in the driveway when a familiar voice across the street caught his attention. “Mischa? Mi-i-i-scha.”

The call was distant, coming from the back of Jamie’s house. A sissy name for a pet. Probably a sissy cat.

Jamie’s outside lights came on, then the front door opened. He refused to let his gaze linger; the instant she stepped outside, he focused narrowly on unlocking his pickup, on opening the door and tossing the clipboard he carried into the passenger seat. He was about to slide behind the wheel when her voice sounded again, this time only slightly calmer than a scream.

“Mischa! Oh my God!”

He couldn’t stop himself from looking, even if it was just a damn cat. The lights on either side of her door shone down on a large form, and Jamie, damn near prostrate over it. Had she fallen? Was she hurt?

None of his business. If she had a problem, let her call someone for help. She had friends besides Robbie—freaky Lys Paxton, for starters—and the police were duty bound to come if she called. His head hurt. His stomach hurt. He’d dealt with enough for one day. He was going home.

But when he moved, it wasn’t to step up into the truck. Swearing with every step, he stalked down the driveway, across the deserted street and into her yard. As he drew closer, he could see that the form was a dog, huge, black and tan, lying motionless on the top step. Shivers rippled through Jamie, and her words were frantic.

“It’s okay, Mischa, you’re okay, baby. Wake up. Come on now, open your eyes. You can’t be…Mischa, you can’t…”

Tears. Jamie Munroe was crying. He wouldn’t have thought her capable of it.

He took the steps two at a time and crouched beside the dog. It could have been asleep, except no one could sleep through the shaking Jamie was giving it. “What happened?”

She looked up, startled, and swiped at her tears with one hand. “I don’t know. I let her out a few minutes ago, like I do every night, and she didn’t come back.”

The dog was breathing, slow and easy. Running his hands over its body, at least on the side he had access to, didn’t reveal any signs of obvious injury, but when he lifted its head, something crackled beneath his fingers. Heavyweight paper, index card-size, tied to the dog’s collar with a ribbon.

He worked it out from beneath the dog, read the message neatly printed on it, then lifted his gaze to Jamie. “What the hell…?”

I can get to you as easily as I got to Mischa.

She stared at the words as if they made no sense, then a great shudder jerked her gaze back to the dog. “Oh my God, Mischa…”

Russ ripped off the note and slid it into his hip pocket. “Get your car keys. We’ve got to get him to the vet.”

She scrambled to her feet and disappeared into the house, returning seconds later with her keys and purse. While she unlocked the car and opened the rear door, he heaved ninety pounds of limp animal into his arms, gritting his teeth with the effort. Getting the dog into the backseat of the rental wasn’t any easier. It took both of them, supporting, tugging and pushing, and he was out of breath by the time they were done.

He held out his hand, and she slapped the keys into his palm, then wiggled into the back with the dog. He adjusted the seat for his legs, backed out of the long drive and headed out of the neighborhood. Sliding his cell phone from the clip on his belt, he offered it to her. “Call Yancy and tell him we’re on our way. His number’s in the phone book.”

What the hell was he doing getting involved with this? He didn’t like animals. Didn’t like Jamie. Didn’t care what had happened to the dog or who had left that note on its collar or whether Jamie was in danger. With Robbie out of the state for the time being, he didn’t give a damn about anything.

But there was no way she could move the dog on her own, and his mother, Rick, Mitch—all of them would have kicked his ass if he’d gone on home and left her there to deal with it. A Calloway—at least, their particular branch of the family—didn’t walk away from someone in need, regardless of his opinion of her.

Yancy Yates’s vet clinic was on the east side of town, a large cinder block building dating back to the 1920s. He was married to Russ’s aunt Diane and lived in the rambling farmhouse next door.

Yancy had already unlocked the door and turned on the lights. Looking surprised to see Russ, he helped him unload the dog and place it on a stretcher, then together they carried it into the back room of the clinic. Yancy checked the dog’s breathing, listened to its heart and examined it thoroughly, keeping up a quiet murmur to Mischa, still out, and to himself.

“I’ll draw some blood and send it to the lab,” he said at last, “but my best guess is that she’s been drugged.”

Jamie’s color was ashen under the florescent lights, and her voice was little more than a whisper. “With what?”

“I’ll have to see the tox screen to know for sure. It could be something as simple as a sleeping pill or a sedative.” Yancy looked from her to Russ and back again. “Why would anyone want to drug Mischa? I thought Russ here was your only enemy in town, and he would never harm an animal.”

Russ’s face warmed. Jeez, did everyone in Copper Lake know how much he resented Jamie? It wasn’t as if he advertised the fact. Until lately, he hardly ever saw her, and other than a few outbursts three years ago, he never talked about her with anyone outside of a small group of friends and relatives.

Who apparently talked to everyone else.

Jamie didn’t seem to notice the comment about him. “I don’t know,” she murmured, clearly not intending to mention the note. When she bent to stroke the dog’s fur, Mischa breathed heavily, then rested her big head against Jamie’s neck, as if seeking familiar comfort.

“Have you called the police?” Yancy asked.

“I didn’t think about it.”

“You should. Anyone who would drug someone’s pet is obviously up to no good.” Yancy rubbed one weathered hand over the dog’s spine. “All we can do now is watch her. Odds are she’ll get a good night’s sleep, nothing else. I’ll keep her here, and we’ll have the results of the tox screen by noon tomorrow. Russ, you want to help me put her in that kennel over there?”

After they settled Mischa in the kennel, Jamie knelt beside it, stroking the dog, whispering to her. She didn’t look so much like Satan at that moment.

Finally, she got to her feet. “Thanks, Dr. Yates. You’ll call me?”

“I’ve got your numbers. I’ll keep you updated.”

They left Yancy there, making notes on a chart, and walked outside into the muggy night. Still looking pale, Jamie waited in silence for him to unlock the car doors, but instead he faced her over the roof of the car.

“What the hell is going on?”

In the past thirty minutes, Jamie had gone from pleasantly tired to exhausted. Her jaw hurt, her nerves were on edge, and the last thing she wanted to do was talk. She just wanted to curl up someplace safe. But where was safe? Not her house. Not after what had happened to Mischa right outside her door.

What kind of lowlife would threaten her dog? Mischa wouldn’t hurt a fly, though she might chase it around the room a few times. She wasn’t a guard dog, would never attack. If someone broke into the house, she would hide under the bed, eyes closed and whimpering. She loved everyone.

But apparently not everyone loved her.

The bulk of the lights went off inside the clinic, throwing them into shadow. She gestured impatiently toward the car door and Russ unlocked it. She slid into the seat and fastened the seat belt, but she didn’t kid herself that she’d escaped his questions. She couldn’t be that lucky.

The first thing she smelled inside the car was the earthy fragrance Mischa always wore when she’d been outside. The instant Russ slid into the driver’s seat, it was replaced by his scents—sweat, hard work, a faint hint of cologne, him. Familiar smells. Comforting.

Even though Russ Calloway was the last person on earth she could take comfort from.

Through the plate-glass window, she caught a glimpse of Dr. Yates, still in the back room, no doubt checking on the other animals spending the night in his care. He was a good vet. Mischa would be safe with him.

Russ started the engine, powerful enough, but it had nothing on his own growl. “Well?”

“Someone wanted me to know that Mischa’s vulnerable.”

“No, someone wanted you to know that you’re vulnerable. Someone who knows where you live, who knows your dog’s name. Who?”

“I don’t know.”

“Oh, come on.”

“I don’t! If I did, I’d have his ass hauled off to jail for messing with Mischa.” Threatening her was one thing. Threatening her dog…That was cold.

“What else has happened?”

She stared out the side window, hardly noticing the buildings they passed. “He’s sent me flowers. Candy. A note.”

Russ snorted. “Yeah, I saw the note.”

The reminder of the message attached to Mischa’s collar sent a shiver down her spine, and she hugged herself to contain it. “Another note. Congratulating me on a case.”

“Why haven’t you called the police?”

“I didn’t think it was necessary.” Couldn’t admit it was necessary. Not again.

Hearing a rustle of movement, she glanced his way as he retrieved his cell and flipped it open. Feeling fairly certain he was looking up Tommy Maricci’s number, she closed her eyes and rested her head against the seat.

Russ’s conversation with Tommy was short. He shut the phone and set it in the cup holder. “Tommy’s going to meet us at your house.” He didn’t look at her but kept his gaze locked on the road ahead. Both hands were on the wheel, and the muscles in his jaw were taut. He radiated tension.

But she was still glad to have him there. How would she have gotten Mischa to the vet’s by herself? How would she have held herself together alone?

“Robbie knows about this.”

It wasn’t a question, but she answered anyway. “Yes.”

“So you are the one dragging him into trouble.”

There was no reason to feel guilty. She hadn’t lied to him at the deli. She simply hadn’t answered him at all, and that was her right. It wasn’t as if they were friends, as if he had a stake in anything happening in her life. “I told him about it, but I didn’t ‘drag’ him into anything. We just talked.”

“And what did he think?”

“He said I should call the police. He thought it was weird.”

He signaled for the turn off River Road onto her street. “What idiot wouldn’t think it was weird?”

“I just hoped…” She’d convinced herself it was harmless weird. She’d fought too hard to get back a normal life; she hadn’t wanted to surrender it without concrete evidence. She had that now.

The neighborhood was quiet as they drove through. She’d loved the area since the first time she’d seen it—the huge lots, the old charm of the houses, the trees, the privacy and the sense of home. In the two and a half years she’d lived there, she’d always looked forward to coming home. She’d always felt welcomed.

Until tonight.

Russ’s truck was still parked in the Petrovskis’ driveway, five hundred feet from her front door. How loudly had she shrieked when she’d found Mischa unresponsive on the steps?

Loudly enough to get his attention. To appeal to the decency that was inside him under all that hostility, to bring him to Mischa’s aid. If he stayed angry with her for the rest of their lives, she would always be grateful for that.

He parked in her usual spot and shut off the engine. She got out and, still close to the security of the car, looked around. Neither of the houses to the side could be seen from her vantage point; tall hedges of azaleas and red-tip shrubs hid them. The Petrovski house across the street had a few dim lights burning, and lights were on at their closest neighbor’s, but much of the yards were in shadow.

Was he out there somewhere, watching? He’d come close to her house to reach Mischa; the dog never left the yard when she made her postdinner trips outside. Jamie had been inside, the television on, the dryer running, a book open on the arm of her favorite chair, blissfully unaware that someone had invaded her property. How easily could he have gained access to the house? She wouldn’t have given a second thought to a noise at the back door; she would have assumed it was Mischa, unlocked the door and opened it without looking to let the dog in.

She shuddered.

Russ circled the car and started along the sidewalk toward the steps. The more distance he put between them, the more vulnerable she felt. Exactly what the mystery man wanted.

She caught up within a few steps, took the keys he offered and unlocked the door, but she hesitated at going inside. What if the stalker was in there, waiting for her?

Then he’d be disappointed to find Russ with her—and Tommy Maricci, who was turning into the driveway, followed by two officers in a marked car. Her comfort level eased up a notch or two.

“Any way this nutcase could have gotten inside the house?” Tommy asked as a greeting.

Jamie glanced down the long hallway. From the doorway, everything appeared as she’d left it, but that didn’t mean anything. Had she locked the back door after futilely calling Mischa? Was the lock sturdy enough to keep him out? Had he broken a window somewhere in the shadows?

Her silence was answer enough. Tommy directed one of the men to check outside the house, the other to search inside. As soon as they went off in opposite directions, he gestured toward the door. “Let’s go in the living room and talk.”

It was harder stepping through the door than Jamie had expected. Damn it, she wouldn’t let some pervert rob her of the comfort of her home. Squaring her shoulders, she walked into the hallway, then turned into the living room on the right.

Tommy didn’t waste any time as he settled in an armchair. “I called Robbie on the way over here. He told me about the other incidents.” A pause for effect. “He also told me about what happened in Macon. Is this a garden-variety stalker or could there be a connection?”

Russ, looking at the photographs on the fireplace mantel, turned around. “What happened in Macon?”

She’d decided to stand, but just the sharp edge of his gaze made her rethink and sink onto the sofa at the nearest end. “If there’s a connection, I can’t see it. Shan Davis and his father are in prison. His mother left town before Shan’s trial even started. There were no brothers or sisters, no relatives who came to the trial or visited him in jail.”

Russ moved forward, no more than a foot or so, but the distance between them seemed to shrink immeasurably. She could feel the annoyance radiating from him. “Trial for what? In prison for what?”

Tommy was quiet, leaving her to answer. In a monotone, she did. “Nearly four years ago, I defended Shan Davis on murder charges. He’d confessed, then recanted, but there were witnesses, fingerprints, DNA. The best I was hoping for was a life sentence, but he received the death penalty. He was nineteen, an only child. His mother accepted that he was guilty and left town. His father never accepted it. He blamed me for the verdict, and he came to my office one night when I was working late. Fortunately, I’d ordered out for pizza, and the delivery guy scared him away.”

Russ stared at her, his blue gaze so intent that she felt it, hot and damn near vibrating along her skin. “He didn’t go to prison for visiting you at your office.”

“No,” she agreed. “He went to prison for stabbing me four times. Obviously, none of the wounds were fatal.” Painful, yes, and terrifying. She’d been utterly certain she was going to die, and she hadn’t been prepared. She’d prayed harder that night than ever before.

Who’d known prayers could be answered in the form of a Domino’s delivery guy?

Russ’s entire body stiffened, and his expression shifted from annoyance to anger. Was he regretting that Harlan Davis hadn’t succeeded at killing her? Then someone else could have represented Melinda. Someone else could have been on the receiving end of his hostility for the past three years.

He opened his mouth, but before he gave voice to any words, Tommy spoke. “Why the hell didn’t we hear anything about this?”

“I guess it wasn’t big news outside of Macon.” Actually, the story had been picked up by the media outside the city—one of those little filler pieces that took a few seconds’ airtime or an inch or so of column space, heard or read and forgotten immediately.

“Robbie knew.”

Jamie smiled faintly. There was an accusing undertone to Tommy’s voice, like a child left out of the secret his friends shared. “So did Lys. I asked them not to tell anyone.”

Robbie had been in Atlanta the night it happened; he’d gone straight to Macon from there, or he surely would have told someone in his family first. She’d been a mess—weak, in pain, terrified and filled with self-recriminations. She shouldn’t have worked late at the office, shouldn’t have dismissed Harlan Davis as just another angry parent, shouldn’t have taken his son’s case to begin with. She should have fought harder, should have been stronger both before and after, should have resisted being such a victim. She’d been ashamed of herself and hadn’t wanted anyone to know.

Hadn’t wanted Russ to know. He’d been married, after all, and happily, as far as she knew. He’d long since stopped caring about her.

“So that was why you came to Copper Lake. To feel safer.”

“To make a new start.” Then she shrugged. “And to feel safer.”

“If this guy was part of that,” Russ said, drawing her gaze to him, “why send the flowers and the candy? Why make it look like he’s interested?”

“To throw us off,” Tommy replied. “If we’re looking for a wannabe boyfriend, we’re not gonna be looking at the guy who tried to kill her. Are those the flowers?”

She nodded. The vase sat on the coffee table that separated sofa and chairs. A bit of the bloom was off the roses, their color not quite so vivid, their petals not quite so fresh.

“No tag, no card, no delivery info?”

“No. And there’s nothing special about the vase. I have three or four just like it under the kitchen sink.”

“But there was a card tonight.”

Russ pulled the note from his pocket, dangling it by the ribbon, as one of the officers came into the room. Tommy directed him to bag the note. “You’ll find Russ’s fingerprints all over it,” he said with good-natured sarcasm.

“There’s something else at the office,” Jamie said, then told him about the wood strip. “I can get it for you tonight or in the morning. And you’ll find Russ’s, Lys’s and my fingerprints all over it.”

“If we get you amateurs out of the way, we might have a chance at ID’ing this guy,” Tommy grumbled. “I’ll pick it up in the morning. In the meantime, you’re not gonna stay here for the next few days, are you?”

Her chest tightened. Part of her wanted to. This was her home, her sanctuary. But the mere thought of the men leaving, of being there alone, of locking the doors and turning off the lights and knowing that she wasn’t safe, was enough to make her knees weak.

“You can move in with Lys, can’t you?” Tommy suggested.

“No. If I’ve got some psycho after me, there’s no way I’m going near any of my friends’ houses. I won’t put them at risk. I can go to a motel.” It wasn’t a great choice. Once she checked in, she would still be alone. Would still be afraid.

Then, in a day filled with surprises, she got another.

Russ folded his arms across his chest, looking as distant and cold as ever and, in a hard voice, said, “You can stay with me.”

It wasn’t the worst idea Russ had ever had. That was marrying Melinda. But it wasn’t the most sane, either, judging by the looks Jamie and Tommy were giving him. He shrugged off their surprise. “We’re not friends, and I can take care of myself.”