Free Jermy, Marie - Together Forever [The Andersons 1] (Siren Publishing Classic) by Marie Jermy Page B

hollered.
    And he was a fool. A damn great big one. A fool for openly admitting his feelings to Jessica. Matt had been right. Jessica had used him. Well, never again. He swore if he ever saw Jessica again, it would be too soon.
    Erecting a wall of steel around his heart, Ross snapped the lid shut and stuck the ring box in one of the backpack’s pockets. Then, slinging the backpack over his shoulder, he stalked from the airport, intent on getting very, very, very drunk.

    * * * *

    Jessica made it to her Mini without a tear shed. They came out as she drove away. When her vision became too blurred to drive straight, she pulled over, folded her arms on the steering wheel and wept like a baby. She didn’t want to finish things with Ross, but until she found out who wanted her dead, she and Ross were so not going to happen.
    Though saying that, despite the appearance of more photographs, one in the mail that morning, there had been no further communication from her would-be killer. No other words apart from “BlackBerry or your funeral”. No telephone number, or even a call telling her where to drop the phone. Which she wouldn’t do anyway. Her would-be killer could take a hike. She’d firmly decided to use the BlackBerry, once she figured out the damned password, to bring down every criminal scumbag listed in its memory.
    Her tears finally drying up, Jessica pulled herself together and removed a packet of Kleenex from the glove box. Her eye makeup, she knew, would be halfway down her chin by now. One look in the rearview mirror told her she was right.
    “Jessica Ferris,” she scolded herself as she wiped her face clean. “You’re a screwup.”
    Crumpling the tissue into a ball and lobbing it out of the window, defying anybody to ticket her for littering, she turned the ignition and drove home.
    Once there, and with the door secured behind her, she forcibly kicked her shoes down the hallway, went into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of Chianti from the half bottle in the refrigerator. She then entered her bedroom.
    The air in the room was stifling from being closed up all day, so she opened the window. However, the smell of garbage from the dumpster directly below had her closing it before she passed out. Thank God, the sanitation strike was over, and despite it being Sunday, a collection had been scheduled for that night.
    She flicked the switch for the ceiling fan and relaxed on the bed, sipping the wine, her thoughts on Ross and what had happened at the airport. If she didn’t know any better, she’d say he’d been about to propose again. She would, of course, have said yes.
    But how could she?
    The hurt etched across his handsome features when she’d ended their relationship had been profound. She’d almost wobbled, but the very real possibility of him being killed kept her solid. There was no way she was going to be responsible for Ross’s death. The only church service she wanted was a wedding, not a funeral.
    With the delightful image of being Mrs. Ross Anderson, Jessica drained the last of the wine, placed the glass on the nightstand, and wandered into her walk-in wardrobe. Using a small trunk to stand on, she popped open the concealed space in the ceiling above the shoe shelves at the far end. She was just about to remove the BlackBerry from the strongbox when the front door buzzer sounded.
    She would have ignored it, but whoever was calling had their finger pressed firmly on the button. Somebody was pissed off. Somebody, she concluded, could only be Ross. Cursing with exasperation, she closed the concealed space and the wardrobe doors and hurried down the hallway before the buzzer got rung off the wall.
    She peered through the peephole but saw only blackness. The moron had his hand over it. She again swore, slid the chain from the catch, and flung the door open.
    “Take your finger off—”
    The rest of Jessica’s sentence never made it past her lips, probably due to her jaw smacking the doormat.