The Weekend Wife Read online

  Kimberly nearly went numb. He’d said it slowly, like it would be as hard for him to hear as it would be for her to tell—but he was giving her the chance now, the chance to finally explain what had happened on that ill-fated day.

  She took a deep breath and tried to think where to begin.

  “Well, I found out my mother was dying on the day I blew the case,” she started. From the corner of her eye, she saw his gaze swing around to land on her, but she kept talking. “She called me around noon to tell me she’d been diagnosed with cancer, stage 4. She’d known something was wrong and had been seeing doctors and getting tested without telling me, because she didn’t want me to worry. I wasn’t supposed to meet with Margaret Carpenter until later that afternoon, so I was taking it easy in my apartment—letting her assume I was at work. So after the call, I rushed out the door to go be with Mom—and my cat got out into my building’s common hallway.”

  “Misha?” Max said, stunning her once more by recalling a small detail about her life, even if it was only her cat’s name.

  She nodded. “I’d already locked my door, and I was frazzled and not thinking straight—but I saw my neighbor, Mrs. Baines, coming in, and she said she’d catch Misha and take her to her place. I figured I’d get her when I came home before going to meet Margaret. Nothing really mattered besides seeing my mom right then, you know?”

  “Of course.” He spoke quietly and squeezed her hand. And she tried to let it buoy her as she sank deeper into all the bad memories of that day.

  “When I got to her house, we both cried and it was…well, rough is an understatement.” She had to take a deep breath and steel herself to go on. “I wanted to stay with her and even thought about calling Margaret to reschedule, but Mom insisted I go on and do my job. So I headed home to change and when I got there—” her throat seized up, but she swallowed hard and forced the rest out, “—Misha was lying in the street. Dead.”

  “Aw, babe,” he murmured.

  It struck her funny that the memory of her dead cat came closer to causing tears now than the part about her mother, but—like then—it was the culmination of the events happening all at once that had the ability to make her feel so weak and helpless.

  She took a deep breath and forged ahead. “Apparently, Mrs. Baines had trouble catching her—Misha was always afraid of strangers—and when one of the other tenants left the building, Misha ran out the door and got hit by a car. I picked her up and lay her on the sidewalk and cried until Mrs. Baines came out with a shoebox and helped me put Misha inside it. And then I pulled myself together and got ready to go meet Margaret.”

  Now Max was running his thumb lightly back and forth over the top of her hand. “You should have cancelled with her, Kimberly,” he said sweetly.

  “I know that now.” She sighed. “Believe me, I know it. But at the time, I was on auto pilot—still reeling from the news about my mom and just pushing my way through the day, trying to get to the end of it, I guess.

  “So I went to Margaret’s house, ready to work. But Margaret…well, despite what she did, Max, she was a very sweet woman. She immediately saw that something was off and asked me what was wrong. I knew I shouldn’t tell her, but I truly liked her, and I had to tell her something—and you always taught me that it’s best to stick as close to the truth as possible when undercover. So I told her about my mother, and about what happened to Misha, too. Of course—” she stopped, rolled her eyes, “—I had to make up a stupid story about Misha being my friend’s cat and not my own, or Misha would have been there with me at the bungalow. Having to lie in the middle of all that didn’t help. But anyway, Margaret listened to me, and I knew she really cared, and it helped.”

  She paused again, readying herself for the next part—since this was the part Max had really asked her to tell him about. “Then her son came in.”

  “Our client,” Max said.

  She nodded, hardly caring about that fact. “I could tell immediately that Margaret was afraid of him. Like I’d told you before, he was gruff when he spoke to her. He didn’t even knock on the door of her little house—just barged right in. And he ignored me completely. I was already so upset that seeing how he treated her made me angry.

  “Margaret was clearly living on a shoestring, something I started thinking about while her son was there, and it helped me get back in a working frame of mind. After he left, I finally got down to business. I talked about the money she wanted to invest—and I casually asked her where she’d gotten it. She told me that she’d saved a little here, scrimped a little there. I said, ‘Your son doesn’t help you out with the bills?’ And she said, ‘No, I only have what I get from Edgar’s social security.’

  “And then—then I noticed these bruises on her arm, mainly because they were like fingerprints, like someone had grabbed her too hard. I asked her about them. And she blushed and looked away and started fiddling with the doily on the table next to her. When I pressed her for an answer, she finally admitted that her son had done it. She told me they’d argued and he’d pushed her. She tried to play it off like it was no big deal, but I couldn’t see it that way.

  “And that’s when I cracked, Max. I quit caring about the case and started caring more about Margaret. And I told her the truth about why I was there, why I had gotten to know her. I told her everything.”

  She barreled ahead now. “I know it was wrong. I know it was stupid. And I regret it more than anything I’ve ever done. It was the biggest mistake of my life. It cost me my job. And worse, it cost you yours and you had nothing to do with it.” She turned to face him in the shadows then, surprised and comforted that he still held her hand, even now. Their faces were close. “I know this doesn’t help or change anything, but I’m so very sorry, Max. I was so wrong to let my emotions get in the way of what I was there to do, and I’m so sorry for all the harm it caused.”

  She waited then—for him to turn cold, or at least cool. That’s how it had been on the day they’d gotten fired. And it was how he’d reacted a few days ago when she’d tried to explain. Now she finally had explained, and it suddenly hit her—it wasn’t a very good excuse. Her emotions had gotten in the way? How utterly lame. How completely unprofessional.

  “I understand,” Max said softly then, slowly, as if amazed by his own words.

  But he couldn’t have been anymore amazed than she was. She drew back slightly, regarding him with utter astonishment. “You do?”

  Beside her, he gave a short nod. “Maybe I couldn’t have understood it before, even if I had let you explain it all to me. But I can understand now because I’m guilty of the same thing, guilty of bringing my emotions into this case.” He lowered his voice. “Emotions for you.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Her stomach clenched. Emotions for her? Was he talking about lust? Or…was there something else, something more?

  “I owe you an apology, Kimberly,” he went on. “For the times this weekend when I got angry with you. I put you in a tough position making you sexual bait for Carlo—and everything you did to reel him in worked on me instead. I haven’t been very professional over the last couple of days, and I was wrong to take out my frustrations on you. But I just wanted you so damn bad and it was so hard to watch him touching you, and even harder to watch you giggling and encouraging him.”

  She swallowed, still unsure how he felt inside—if it was all merely sex or if anything deeper lay behind his desires. “It was my job, Max,” she reminded him.

  “I know,” he told her. “And that’s why I’m apologizing. You were doing your job and I started acting like you were doing something wrong.” He paused and turned toward her, their eyes meeting in the semi-darkness. “Maybe the truth is that I expected you to do a worse job at being a seductress. I thought it would bother you more—maybe I wanted it to bother you more.”

  “It bothered me plenty, but I’ve gotten better at my job over the past three years.”

  “I’ve noticed.” To her surprise, he gave her a s
mall grin. “As we’ve discussed before, you’re considerably sassier than I recall.”

  She shrugged. “As we’ve also discussed before, I found out I had to be a little tougher if I wanted to survive in this business.”

  “It works for you,” he said. “But…”

  “But what?”

  “But I like the other you, too, Kimberly. The softer you.”

  Something in her stomach rippled. He liked the softer her—the her she thought of as the real her. And the real her was melting inside a little, wanting to succumb to his gentle words—but she thought at the moment it would be smarter to concentrate on business lest she crumble completely. “I guess this has all proven, though, that tough or not, I’m not a very good P.I.”

  She felt his perplexed look. “Why would you say that?”

  “Because in the end, when it mattered the most, I panicked and caved in—I messed up. I was afraid of him and I let him see that.” She was remembering the moment she’d uttered Max’s name when he’d burst into the room and rescued her from Carlo, how it had tumbled from her lips unbidden, how desperate and afraid and needful she’d felt all at once. No matter how perfect the sight of him had been, letting Carlo see her fear had been an entirely unprofessional move.

  But then Max reached up to smooth her hair with gentle fingers—and he said words she’d never thought she’d hear him say. “Some things are more important than a case, Kimberly. And I hate that I let you do that, that I let you be in that position with him.”

  “It’s not an uncommon thing for a female P.I. to have to do, Max. You know that.”

  He sighed. “Of course I know that, but it’s different—and a lot easier—when it’s someone you don’t know very well, someone you don’t care for.”

  Max cared for her? Her body suddenly felt as if it belonged to someone else, as if—piece by piece—it was shattering in a frightening bliss that it was far too soon to feel. But stop it. You’re misunderstanding him, reading too much into his words. You must be. Tears pressed to leak out, but she held them back. “You…care for me, Max?”

  His response was to slide his arms around her, draw her close, and hold her against him like something cherished. “Kimberly,” he whispered, “do you really have to ask?”

  Again, she yearned to simply succumb, surrender, believe—yet she pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. Because it had been a long weekend. Full of mixed messages. “Well, yes, I do have to ask. I mean, after we slept together, Max, you…well, you acted…”

  He silently leaned over until his forehead rested on her shoulder. “I know,” he said. “I’m sorry for that. I didn’t want to admit to myself how I felt, how damn much I cared. But I did, Kimberly. So much that it caught me off guard.”

  She swallowed at the impact of his words. That sounded serious. Serious enough that she couldn’t delve any deeper right now, couldn’t risk finding out it wasn’t really true, that it meant something less than what she was hearing. So she kept it simple and asked him the question that had haunted her all weekend. “Max?”

  “Hmm?” His head still rested on her shoulder.

  “Who is Julie? A…lover?”

  He lifted his head and smiled into her eyes with a short, low laugh. “Julie is my neighbor. I pay her to clean my condo and do my laundry. She’s sort of like a second mother to me.”

  “But you came out in a towel, thinking I was her.”

  Again, he chuckled quietly. “She’s seventy years old, and believe it not, she’s seen me in a towel, or less—she nursed me through a killer stomach infection with a fever of 102 last winter. She was supposed to drop my laundry off that night you came by.” He gave his head a sly tilt, accompanied by a wicked little grin. “Were you jealous, babe?”

  She smiled at him as she lied. “No.”

  And of course he could see right through her, but that was okay, because they were sharing a moment—one without need of anymore words. She still didn’t know how deep his feelings for her went—after all, he’d said wonderful things, but he’d not exactly used the L word or anything. And, even so, it just felt good to know there was something mutual between them, that it wasn’t one-sided, and most of all, it was incredible to know he understood now about the Carpenter case, and that he might even begin to forgive her.

  Hours passed and hunger mounted. Max decided that when this was all over he was going to take Kimberly out for a lavish dinner someplace expensive. But for now, he tried not to mention food—God knew he was thinking about it, but if she wasn’t, no need to make her start.

  Each time he thought about leaving the closet and making a run for it, he remembered how vehement Carlo’s boss had sounded when he’d insisted that they be found and it made Max stay put. Who knew how many men were out there looking for them, or waiting for them to make the mistake of showing themselves?

  And just where was Frank? Enough time had passed that his old mentor should have come looking for them by now, hopefully with the police in tow. But then, who knew how often Frank checked his personal messages? Anything could have happened—the voicemail could have malfunctioned, or he might simply be out doing something fun on a Sunday afternoon and not thinking about phones or P.I. work.

  “Any luck?”

  The muffled voice came from just outside the closet—and Kimberly and Max both tensed, their gazes meeting.

  “Nope, but the boss said to scour every nook and cranny until we find ’em. They gotta be here somewhere.”

  Then they heard the storage room door open.

  And the vague, soft sounds of someone stepping inside, looking around.

  Max squeezed Kimberly’s hand, praying neither of them breathed too loud or made even the tiniest move. He hated how afraid he felt. Not afraid for himself, though Afraid for her.

  His heartbeat thundered in his chest as he waited for the door to shut again, for the relief to flood him, for them to be safe once more—sort of, anyway. Seconds seemed like hours.

  And that was when he suffered the horrible, unmistakable sensation of being seen. The room’s stark, hollow silence did nothing to relieve the feeling, to make him think he was imagining it—instead, it only intensified his awareness.

  Dread filled him as he shifted his gaze to the left and up over the wall of boxes he’d built. Carlo’s eyes peered back. And he wore a leering grin. “Hi there, Max.”

  His chest tightened as he tensed for a fight—only then he remembered. Now Carlo had something he didn’t—a gun. And the bastard chose exactly that moment to hold it up for Max to see.

  “Stand up,” Carlo commanded. “Both of you.”

  Max got to his feet and Kimberly clambered up to stand slightly behind him, as another guy appeared behind Carlo, one they hadn’t seen before. “Jackpot,” Carlo said with a slight glance in the new man’s direction. “Clear a path, Rocko.”

  The man, tall and thin but sporting sizable muscles through a too-tight t-shirt, began to move some of the boxes away until no barrier stood between them.

  “All right,” Max said to Carlo. “You win. Just let us go and we won’t tell anybody about this place.”

  Carlo only chuckled. “You think it’s that easy?”

  No, of course he didn’t. But the shot had seemed worth taking. “Seems easier for all of us,” Max pointed out. “And we’ve learned our lessons here—so why not let’s just all go our separate ways and forget we ever met? Nice and simple.”

  Carlo shrugged, looking unimpressed by the suggestion. “Even if I was dumb enough to believe you, Max, not my decision to make.” Then he looked around the storage area. “This seems like a safe enough spot for you until the boss gets back. No way out but the way in. And we’ll be sure you don’t get out that way, so don’t even try.”

  “What’s gonna happen when the boss gets back?” Max asked.

  “Again, not my call. But if was a gambling man?” Carlo lifted the gun in his hand again, this time leveling it at Max’s face, wearing a hideous smile. “Bang, bang.�
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  Max felt all the blood drain from his cheeks, but kept his voice steady when he asked, “What about Kimberly?”

  As Carlo’s gaze shifted admiringly to Max’s “wife,” he gave his head a regretful shake. “If it was up to me, I’d find some other way to deal with her. But the boss isn’t one for taking chances.”

  With that, the two thugs left the room, locking them inside. And Max instinctively pulled Kimberly tight against him. Neither of them said a word. This was a high stakes operation; they knew Carlo wasn’t exaggerating their fate. She slid her arms around his neck and they embraced.

  “What now, Max?” she whispered, feather-soft in his ear.

  He considered their options as he held her—there weren’t many. “I’m not sure.” He hated to admit that, but it was the truth.

  And when she pulled back just far enough for him to see her pretty face, he lifted one hand to her cheek. “I’m so sorry, Kimberly.”

  She peered up into his eyes and shook her head. “No, Max, don’t be sorry. Because it’s not your fault. And because I’m not giving up yet. I refuse to believe this is over.”

  Even amid their despair, he managed a small smile for her. “This is that tough, sassy side of you I like.”

  And their gazes held and he saw in Kimberly’s…a fresh heat—a heat he recognized, a heat now tempered with a primitive sort of fear. They might very well die soon. This wasn’t a comic book, not pretend—this was as real as it got.

  His heartbeat increased as he let himself be absorbed into those pretty eyes of hers. In the shadowy light of the closet, they were so dark as to be almost colorless, yet they still shone hot upon him, and he could see in her all he ever had—all the beauty, all the grace, all the sweetness, and all the raw sexuality, now magnified with the need that accompanied it.