Motherhood Without Parole. Tanya Michaels

dominated by men.

      She could certainly handle two polite, if withdrawn, children whom she saw only several times a year. Just because Kate hadn’t had a stellar maternal role model didn’t mean she was doomed to emotionally scar Neve and Paul Jr. Preteen Neve had asked to join one of her friend’s families for their upcoming spring break, and eight-year-old PJ was surprisingly quiet and well-behaved for a little boy. How much trouble could he possibly be for a week?

      This summer both kids would be home for almost two months, but Kate had time to prepare. She would ask her girlfriend Patti for advice. Then there was Lily, Paul’s former sister-in-law, who dispensed parenting advice whether it was solicited or not. Between Kate’s determination to overcome the challenges of motherhood and Paul’s guidance on how to cope with his kids, they would navigate any family situations that arose. Piece of cake.

      Not that she, personally, had ever baked one.

      Domestic skills had never been high on Kate’s list of driven priorities…which should make cooking for her new husband even more special. He deserved thoughtful gestures and extra effort. Granted, in the weeks before the wedding Paul had grown uncharacteristically distant, but she’d given him space to work through any unresolved guilt toward his late wife, Heather, who had survived barely a month after the nasty shock of her stage-four cancer diagnosis.

      Kate had been right to trust her instincts when it came to letting Paul sort out his feelings. During the short time they’d been married Paul had been attentive and affectionate. Delia joked that the newlywed phase wouldn’t last forever—just one of many reasons she planned never to marry—but Kate was blissfully happy. A decade ago, watching her colleagues divorce and remembering her mother’s unstable relationships with men, she couldn’t have imagined herself married and trying to plan a homemade Valentine’s breakfast. Yet here she stood, chenille bathrobe belted over a turquoise nightie Paul said matched her eyes, humming under her breath.

      Kate returned her attention to the book on the countertop; Delia had given her Six-Course Seduction, a cookbook for lovers, as a wedding gift. A feisty, independent woman who lived with a man six years her junior, Delia had expressed surprise that Kate or any bride would “give up” her surname. Well, not even Delia knows everything. Kate had been nearly giddy to say goodbye once and for all to Katherine Brewster of Dallas, Texas.

      Pushing thoughts of the past away, Kate reminded herself that the future was bright. The coffee had just stopped percolating when she heard knocking. Several raps at the front door, almost louder than they needed to be, with a borderline impatient cadence.

      Frowning, she glanced at the digital clock on the microwave. All the appliances and counters in Paul’s kitchen were the same immaculate white, and Kate loved the bright, spacious feel, even though Patti joked the room would make her feel as if she lived in a bleach commercial. Nine o’clock. While not obscenely early for Saturday, few of their acquaintances would disturb a recently married couple on Valentine’s morning. Could it be someone ignoring the cul-de-sac’s no-soliciting policy?

      “Honey? Do we know who that is?” Paul’s voice came from a couple of yards behind her, in the hall that led from their bedroom through the den and into the kitchen. He was barefoot and bare-chested, wearing only expensive jeans and wire-rim glasses as he absently rubbed a towel over his thick salt-and-pepper hair. Patti’s opinion of Paul was a lot more favorable than the one of Paul’s kitchen—she thought he could pass for Richard Gere’s more attractive younger brother. High praise, considering how many times Patti had watched Shall We Dance? and Pretty Woman.

      Kate smiled at her husband. “I was planning to ignore them until they go away.”

      Another series of staccato raps filled the house.

      “Maybe we should check.” He turned toward the front of the house with a sigh. “I’ll get it. Whatever you’re doing in here smells delicious.”

      Since all she’d managed so far was their normal coffee and melting some margarine in a pan with vague omelet notions, she laughed. His not being hard to please boded well for their marriage.

      Through the cutout in the kitchen wall she watched him cross the living room. Paul had such a gorgeous house there’d been no question of which one of them should move after the wedding. Because of the angle, she couldn’t see the front door, but she heard it open, heard low voices. A swirl of cold air found her, along with the words federal agents and economic crimes unit.

      Head-to-toe goose bumps broke out beneath the chenille. Agents?

      She took a cleansing breath, unconsciously falling back on relaxation techniques taught by a series of drama coaches. Paul was an important man, the CEO of an up-and-coming communications company. He’d left a more established corporation shortly before learning Heather was sick because he’d believed in this one so strongly. His move had paid off in spades…and stock options. Maybe agents needed to question him about one of the businesses he dealt with regularly? Or they could even want someone of Paul’s expertise to consult on some kind of investigation.

      That would be an exciting topic for the next country club event, but the clipped voices she heard and the agitation in Paul’s tone spoiled the fantasy.

      With barely a thought to her bathrobe or disheveled dark hair, she rushed to his side, attempting a smile. “Sorry to interrupt, but—”

      “Kate.” Paul’s green eyes were wide, glinting with tension and alarm. Something in his trapped expression made her think of a hurt animal who might bite and claw anyone who tried to help. “Call my lawyer.”

      She glanced from her husband to the two granite-jawed men in the foyer. One wore sunglasses; the other stared back with an expression so contemptuous she wished he would put on a pair. “I don’t understand. What—”

      “Now.” Paul looked briefly like himself again when he added, “Please.”

      Dozens of questions collided inside her, but one thing felt certain. The honeymoon was definitely over.

      CHAPTER 1

      Six months later

      “Are you sure you don’t want us to come get you?” Delia asked over the phone. “We’re good listeners. Well, Patti is. But I can get you drunk.”

      In the background, Patti Jordan huffed that booze was not a long-term solution.

      Delia, who enjoyed riling the housewife with outrageous statements, retorted in a stage whisper that two of the best short-term ways for a woman to forget her troubles were getting nailed or getting hammered.

      Actually, the promise of premium Grey Goose was tempting right now, especially since Kate’s financial situation had changed in the past few months. Any liquor purchases she made in the near future would be limited to the affordably generic. Joe’s Vodka? Yikes. But tomorrow would be difficult enough without being hungover.

      “I’m sure.” Kate tucked her legs beneath her on the bed, wondering if she’d ever get used to sleeping alone on the king-size mattress. Her old queen was upstairs, but sleeping in the guest room would only make living in Paul’s home without him more surreal. Adjust already. It had been five weeks since the sentencing. “Thanks for the offer, though.”

      “In some ways, Katie, I envy you having the place to yourself. There have been one or two occasions I wanted to smother Ringo with his own pillow.” Delia’s live-in lover, Alexander, had been dubbed Ringo to go with Kate’s and Patti’s husbands—Paul and George. No John. But, like Lennon, Paul now had his own FBI file.

      Kate fought the mad impulse to get roaring drunk and belt out “I Am The Walrus.”

      On the other end of the phone there was a muttered “ouch.” Patti had probably thumped Delia on the shoulder for insensitivity, much the same way that she did whenever Delia tried to light a cigarette in Patti’s home.

      “So. Tomorrow.” Delia cleared her throat. “Conjugal visit? Très kinky.”

      Federal prisons didn’t