A Kiss In The Dark. Jenna Mills

Lance had developed a fondness for. She didn’t want the passion that propelled her mother from marriage to affair to marriage. To affair. She didn’t want the chaos Dylan created without even trying.

      “A husband who loves me and a couple of kids, that’s all I want.”

      “That’s all?”

      “Well, maybe a house in the mountains, a couple of dogs and cats, some goldfish.”

      The innocence of that long ago day burned. At the time, she would never have imagined how quickly things could fall apart, that within a month she’d tell Dylan that she’d never loved him, never wanted to see him again. That she would lay her hand against the tiniest casket she’d ever seen. That Lance would sit quietly beside her hour after hour, listening to her cry her heart out. That Dylan would leave town, but Lance would stay. That she wouldn’t see Dylan again for three long years, until the day she pledged her life to his cousin.

      That Lance would become blinded by ambition.

      That she would be sterile.

      That the marriage she’d been so determined to make work would crumble.

      That Dylan would suddenly reappear in her life.

      That Lance would one day lie dead on the living room floor.

      That the fire poker would be in her hands.

      “Beth?” Janine asked, touching her hand. “Are you okay?”

      She blinked, a steely resolve spreading through her. Slowly, she looked up, meeting Detective Livingston’s hard gaze. “I didn’t have sex with him today, this week, this month, or even this year. And I didn’t kill him.”

      The older man leaned forward and steepled his fingers. “Then maybe you’d like to tell me why you were in a negligee.”

      “She’s already told you she doesn’t know,” Janine reminded.

      “So she’s said.” This from Detective Zito, the tall, strikingly handsome man who’d stood in the shadows with Dylan.

      “What about your wrists?” he asked, flipping through the pages of his small notebook. “Who put those bracelets there?”

      Beth looked at the nasty purplish bruises, but saw only Dylan’s hands curled around her flesh. “I don’t know.” The claim sounded weak, but she spoke the truth. “I had no reason to kill him. We were divorced. There were no hard feelings.”

      “You wouldn’t be the first woman to strike out at the man who walked out on her,” Livingston pointed out.

      The pale green walls of the cramped room pushed closer. “That’s not how it happened.”

      “Refill anyone?” Detective Zito asked, crossing to pick up the coffeepot.

      Beth looked at the paper cup sitting in front of her, its contents long cold. She’d barely taken a sip. The mere smell of the burned coffee made her gag.

      “Guess not.” He filled his cup and returned to the table. “Did your husband have any enemies?”

      “He worked for the district attorney’s office,” Janine answered for her, practically snarling at Zito. “You know that. He was a prosecutor.” Just like Janine was. If Beth was arrested, Janine would be unable to help in an official capacity. “We all have enemies. It’s a hazard of the job.”

      “Anyone in particular? Had he received any threatening phone calls or letters?”

      “Not that I know of,” Beth said, but then, she and Lance had rarely spoken of that kind of thing. Toward the end, they’d barely spoken at all. She’d lost herself in her work at Girls Unlimited, a center for underprivileged teenage girls, and Lance had worked ungodly hours as one of Portland’s leading prosecutors. His political future had never burned brighter.

      “That’s quite a security system you’ve got at the house,” Zito went on. “Was he worried about someone coming after him?”

      Obviously, the detective hadn’t known the man whose murder he investigated. “Lance wasn’t scared of anything or anyone. He was born a St. Croix. It never occurred to him that something bad could happen to him.”

      “And you?” Zito asked. “Did the thought occur to you?”

      Icy fingers of certainty curled through her. “Bad times don’t discriminate. They touch us all.”

      “Even the St. Croixs?”

      “Yes, even the St. Croixs.” Especially one in particular. But then, Dylan preferred it that way. He’d caused an uproar by dropping out of law school six months before graduation, opting for private investigations rather over the formal justice system. His grandfather the judge had been furious, and while Lance had put on a good show, she knew he’d secretly embraced the opportunity to outshine his black sheep cousin.

      Beth stiffened, shaken by the direction of her thoughts. She had no business thinking of Dylan now. No business remembering. He was a living, breathing reminder of mistakes she’d give almost anything to erase. Fire burned. Fire always, always burned.

      “I’ve told you everything I know,” she said, and stood. The room spun like a tilt-a-whirl, prompting her to brace a hand against the chair. The two detectives looked at her oddly, Janine in concern.

      “It’s late, I’m tired and my head is pounding.” And she was afraid she was going to be sick. Gingerly, she lifted a hand to the gash at the back of her head, but rather than feeling her fingers, she felt Dylan’s. Gentle. Disturbing. “I’d like to go now.”

      “We’re not done—” Livingston started, but Zito cut him off.

      “Don’t leave town without letting me know first.”

      She hardly recognized the woman in the mirror. Beth stared at the pale mouth and dark eyes in the reflection, and felt her throat tighten. Cupping her hands, she returned them to the stream of cold water running from the faucet, then lifted them to her face. Over. And over. Only when two female patrol officers strolled into the bathroom, laughing, did she stop.

      Very quietly, very deliberately, she patted her face dry and slung her purse over her shoulder, walked out the door.

      She saw him the second she stepped from the elevator. He stood not ten feet away, talking on his mobile phone and slicing a hand violently through the air. He had his back to her, but she didn’t need to see the hard lines of his face to recognize him. She always felt him first, that low hum deep inside, followed by a tightening of her chest.

      Somehow, she kept walking.

      “No, damn it,” she heard him bark. “Let me handle this.”

      Her heart revved and stalled. Handle what?, she couldn’t help wondering. Her? It didn’t matter. She’d—

      “Beth, wait!”

      She stiffened and, though she wanted to keep going, had no choice but to stop. “Janey,” she said, turning to her friend. “I appreciate all you did for me. I hope I didn’t pull you away from anything important.”

      “Don’t think twice about it.” Janine took Beth’s hands and squeezed. “How are you holding up? I know things weren’t great between the two of you, but this has to be hard.”

      Her throat tightened. Janine was Lance’s friend first, but in her soft voice and expressive brown eyes, Beth found a concern that almost undid her. “I didn’t do it,” she whispered.

      “Of course you didn’t,” came a rough masculine voice.

      Beth barely had time to turn before the man was beside her, pulling her into his arms. “I just heard, Beth. I’m so sorry.”

      The hug caught her off guard. As district attorney, Kent English had been both Lance’s mentor and friend. And though she and Kent had been cordial, the man whose place the media had speculated Lance