Free Whiskey Beach by Nora Roberts Page A

divorce?”
    “First degree wasn’t on the table. I was pissed. Crime of passion.”
    “Well, that’s bullshit,” she said as she retrieved her massage oil. “You were so passionate you went into your own house and prepared to take three items—arguably your property? The case against you didn’t stand, Eli, because it was, and is, weak. They proved the time you entered because you switched off the house alarm, and have the time of your nine-one-one call, and because people know the time you left your office that evening. So you were in the house for less than twenty minutes. But in that small window of time you went upstairs, into the safe—taking only your great-grandmother’s ring—came down, took the painting you’d bought off the wall, wrapped it in bathroom towels, killed your wife in a fit of passion, then called the police. All in under twenty minutes?”
    “The police reconstruction proved it was possible.”
    “But not probable,” she countered. “Now we can stand here debating the case against you, or you can just take my word that I’m not worried you’re going to kill me because you don’t like hospital corners on your bed or the way I fold your socks.”
    “Things aren’t as simple as you make them.”
    “Things are rarely as simple or as complicated as anyone makes them. I’m going to use the powder room to wash up. Go ahead and undress, get on the table. I’ll start you faceup.”
    In the powder room Abra shut her eyes, did a full minute of yoga breathing. She understood perfectly well he’d lashed out at her to push her out, scare her off. But all he’d done was annoy her.
    In order to expel stress, dark thoughts, frustrations with massage, she couldn’t hold on to any of her own. She continued to clear her mind as she washed her hands.
    When she stepped back in, she saw him on the table, under the top sheet—and board stiff. Didn’t he understand that even that weighed on his innocence for her? He’d made a bargain, and though he was angry, he’d keep it.
    Saying nothing, she dimmed the lights, walked over to turn on her iPod to soothing music. “Close your eyes,” she murmured, “and take a deep breath. In . . . out. Another,” she said as she poured the oil into her hands. “One more.”
    As he obeyed, she pressed her hands on his shoulders. They didn’t even touch the table, she noted. So stiff, so knotted.
    She stroked, pressed, kneaded, then slid her hands up along the column of his throat before she began a light facial massage.
    She knew a headache when she saw one. Maybe if she could bring him some relief there, he’d relax a little before she began the heavy work.
    It was hardly his first massage. Before his life had shattered he’d used a masseuse named Katrina, a solidly built, muscular blonde whose strong, wide hands had worked out tensions built up from work, strains generated from sports.
    With his eyes closed, he could almost imagine he was back in the quiet treatment room of his club, having his muscles soothed after a day in court, or a couple hours’ competing on one.
    Besides, in a few minutes, the deal would be met, and the woman who wasn’t the sturdy Katrina would be gone.
    Her fingers stroked along his jaw and pressed under his eyes.
    And the screaming violence of the headache quieted.
    “Try another breath. Long in, long out.” Her voice melted into the music, just as fluid and soft.
    “That’s good. Just in, then out.”
    She turned his head, worked those fingers up one side of his neck, then the other, before she lifted his head.
    Here, the firm, deep press of her thumbs brought a quick, stunning pain. Before he could tense against it, it released, like a cork from a bottle.
    Like breaking up concrete, Abra thought, an inch at a time. So she closed her eyes as she worked, visualized that concrete softening, crumbling under her hands. When she moved to his shoulders, she increased the pressure, degree by degree.
    She felt him relax—a