Free Black Water by T. Jefferson Parker

He always controlled it, but it was there. She believed it to be considerable. And she respected him for keeping it safe but ready, like a gun.
She liked the way he smelled. She liked the little curves that made double parentheses around his occasional smiles. Even the nasty lump: he got in the gym. And how in profile his eyelashes looked sad. She imagined touching him and being touched. Wondered how his cleanly shaven cheek would feel against her neck. Wondered how his wiry arms would feel around her, what his flat boxer's chest would feel like against hers. Sometimes she'd picture him and herself together and she'd smile inwardly because he was two inches shorter than she was. This amused her and made her think of the famous actors she'd heard about who were shot from heightening angles. In particular Yul Brynner standing on a box in The King and , according to her mother, who saw the movie something like twenty times.span>
Merci couldn't help imagining what their children might look like. And how terrific it would be for Tim Jr. to have a brother or sister. She liked to picture that pink house on the beach in Mexico, but instead of just her and Hess and Tim Jr. staying in it, now there were also Paul and their child, a girl she'd named Ann, in fact. Ann and Tim Jr. got along beautifully. As did Hess and Zamorra. Merci loved them all equally but in different ways and they were always exceptionally happy.
So she waited to see if Paul was feeling the same way. She doubted it. She pictured him with someone petite, blonde and not associated with law enforcement. She would be elegant and feminine, but not showy about it. She would be devoted to him instead of her career. She would have that little bit of class that Paul had—a genuine appreciation for fine things. She would be eager to please him and would instinctively understand how, or find out. Merci tried not to be prejudiced toward the moronic slut. If she was good for Paul she would support them in every way she could.
But Zamorra showed no signs of interest in Merci. At least any that she could find. She toyed with the idea of telling him, or showing him what she was feeling. But it seemed wrong. Zamorra would love her when he was ready, or he would not. She believed there was nothing she could do about scheduling a man's heart, nothing she had a right to do. Love was an act of nature. Nature would take care of itself, as it had been doing for quite some time.
Then, in June, just a couple of months ago, Zamorra had shocked her.
After lunch they were walking around the old courthouse and Paul had told her that he'd found someone. Her name was Kirsten.
Merci was thankful she'd had her aviators on because she was certain her eyes would betray her disappointment. But she kept everything else under beautiful control—her voice and choice of words, he mild exclamation of joy for him, her gently protective questioning about this, this . . . person.
She'd never known what a good actor she was. And the longer she walked along on that warm spring morning and played the part of happy friend, the better she got. By the time the walk was over Merci had arranged a three-way lunch when it was convenient for Paul and Kirsten. She also revealed to Paul that she was seeing someone, too. He was in real estate, she said, mentioning his name only once: Frank.
Zamorra looked at her oddly, then. The only thing she could read for certain in his eyes was relief.
Zamorra had known.
By the time she got to one of the ladies' rooms back at head quarters her heart was pounding and she was sweating but cold and she had only just lifted the toilet seat when she vomited. After wiping up she'd sat on the seat and wept into a huge wad of toilet paper that shredded and broke away and stuck to her face. She hadn't vomited since the night she'd seduced Mike McNally in order to gather evidence to charge him for murder. This felt worse but she didn't know why. Maybe because back with Mike she'd been disgusted