Free The Perfect Husband by Lisa Gardner Page A

by now, but the air would be scented with the rich, musty odor of drying leaves and aging pine, the refreshing tang of wind sweeping down from the Berkshires. She wondered what her daughter was doing just then. Probably fast asleep, tucked in bed with her pink flannel nightgown and her favorite talking doll. If she closed her eyes, she could almost capture the scent of No More Tears shampoo and baby powder.
    Baby, I love you.
    “You eavesdropped, didn't you?” J.T. asked.
    “Yes.”
    J.T. flipped open the slim cigarette case, banged out a cigarette, and lit it. He stared at her as he dragged deeply. “Filthy habit. Would you like one?”
    He held out the case, then snatched it back. “Wait, I forgot. You can barely walk as it is — no cigarettes for you.”
    He exhaled, leaning back and crossing his ankles.
    “I didn't know you smoked.”
    “I'd quit.”
    “You went out in the middle of the night to buy cigarettes so you could start again?”
    “Nope. I stole Marion's cigarettes. I was the one who taught her how to smoke, you know.” His lips twisted. “At least that's what I recall. You'll have to ask her what she remembers.”
    “There seems to be little love lost between you and your sister.”
    “I've never been a fan of revisionist history.”
    Keeping her voice neutral, she asked, “She's really an FBI agent?”
    “Yes.” Briefly his chest puffed out. “A damn good one.”
    “I heard her say she's staying for a week.”
    “She is. So if you are a crook, don't tell her. She'll drag you in.”
    “And you would let her?”
    “If you're a crook.”
    “Very good,” she acknowledged. “You've covered all the bases. If I stay, I must be legal. If I'm gone in the morning, well, I've saved you a bunch of trouble.”
    “Don't let my good looks fool you, sweetheart — I'm no dumb bunny.”
    She nodded, her gaze returning to the night sky. She was cold. She wanted to go inside and sleep. She was terrified of the nightmares that would find her again.
    “One month of training,” J.T. said all of a sudden. “I'll do it.”
    “I know.”
    “Don't be so smug. We start first thing in the morning, oh-six-hundred. Physical fitness, self-defense, small firearms, the works. I'll burn your butt into the ground and turn you into a whole new woman.”
    “All right.”
    “Do you want to know why I changed my mind?”
    “It doesn't matter.”
    “But it does matter, Angela. It matters to me.” He waved his hand around the villa, the garden, the pool. “I don't own this. Not really. Every square inch of this place, every pebble, every cactus, was paid for by my father. You could say I'm still on allowance. I can keep this, I can live this way forever in return for only two things. The first doesn't concern you. The second is that I never return to ‘the business.' I take you on, I train you, I lose all this. Do you think I should do that for you, Angela?”
    “No,” she told him honestly.
    “Then we agree. I'm doing it for me. Because I want to. Because I've got the worst case of orphan envy in the whole wide world.”
    He grabbed a beer, climbed off the chair, and walked toward her.
    She could feel the tension in him. He was not a man who played by the rules — he probably
had
blown up churches. He had anger and dark moods she didn't understand. He was unpredictable, raw around the edges. When he moved, he didn't make any sound. And after the marble-smooth facade of Jim, he seemed unbelievably real. If this man had a problem with you, he wouldn't poison your dog or burn down your garage. He'd tell you about it in your face. He'd let you know. If he discovered a father beating his daughter, he wouldn't rig a stockroom ladder to fall, breaking the father's leg. He'd walk up to the man and slam a fist through his face.
    He stopped so close, she could feel the faint heat of the cigarette.
    “You dreaming about him, Angela?”
    “Sometimes.”
    “When was the last time you slept through the