|
 Healer's
Heresy
The back doorbell rang three
times in rapid succession. Urgent. Imperative.
Startled, Cassidy McCabe sat
up straighter on the waterbed and clicked off the TV. The numbers on
the clock said ten-thirteen.
People almost never show
up this late. Except for the neighbor who locked herself out. And twice
when the police got you up at three in the morning to tell you your
garage had been burgled.
From the den across the
hall Zach Moran, clad in a heavy blue robe, headed downstairs. She was
curious, but not curious enough to follow her husband in her current
state of undress: a thin tee shirt, mid-thigh length, nothing
underneath. Besides, you and Zach have an unspoken agreement that
he gets to play protective, chest-thumping male when you have
late-night callers.
She felt impatient for him
to return and tell her who the door-ringer was. She told herself not to
watch the minute number on the clock, which sometimes took incredibly
long to change.
If it was the neighbor,
Zach would come upstairs right away to get the key she had asked them
to keep for her. Or maybe not. The neighbor was a cute
thirty-something chick who buttonholed Zach whenever she could and
engaged him in long flirty conversations. But Cassidy had nothing to
worry about because Zach considered the neighbor a ditz. Or so he said.
Don’t be ridiculous. You and Zach are so idiotically in
love he’s more likely to become a suicide bomber than an errant husband.
If it was the police, Zach
would come up and tell her. Unless he forgot she was waiting to hear
and went outside to inspect the garage with the cops. Her eyes slid
toward the clock. Ten-sixteen.
So what makes you think
you have to play passive wife? Just get dressed and go see for yourself.
She put on her panties,
discarded the well-worn tee she slept in, then turned her bra inside
out and twisted it around to the front to hook it. Only a
misogynist would design bras that fasten in the back. She was
zipping her jeans when she heard footsteps on the stairs and Zach came
into the bedroom.
"It's a guy named Jodan Wenzlaff. Says he's a client. Insists he's
gotta talk to you tonight."
"Jordan? Oh God!" Cassidy
stared wide-eyed at Zach.
"I don't think you should
go down. He smells like booze and looks pretty messed up. Plus there's
a brown stain on his shirt that could be blood."
"I have to see him."
"No you don't. It's not in
your contract that you have to see whacked out clients who show up
after hours. Whatever jam he's got himself in can wait till morning."
"I'm going down." She
grabbed a purple tee out of her drawer.
"He'll be gone by the time
you get there." Zach started toward the doorway.
"You don't get to decide
about my clients," she snapped.
"Then I'm coming with you."
"I'm going to take him into
my office and close the door." She crammed her feet into her gym shoes.
"I'll wait in the kitchen
where I can hear if you scream."
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