Die in Plain Sight by Elizabeth Lowell Page A

that bad as a husband, was I?”
    “You want validation or eggs?”
    “Eggs. Want me to make toast?”
    “It’s toasting.”
    “Damn, you’re good.”
    He took another healthy sip of the drink and felt his nerves begin to uncurl. As he did, he thought it was funny how Ward, for all his shrewdness, hadn’t noticed how upset his former son-in-law was. But Bliss, who was rarely shrewd about people, had seen his edginess right off.
    Score a first for Bliss. Maybe getting older really did turn people into adults. Finally.
    “Want to eat there or in the kitchen?” she called.
    “Kitchen.”
    He stood and walked in his stocking feet to the cool tile floor in the kitchen. There was nothing awkward or slow about his movements. One of the things he had done as sheriff of Moreno County for the past fifteen years was to get rid of the doughnut-gut brigade. Any man—orwoman—who wanted to rise under his command was as fit as their fifty-four-year-old boss was.
    He slid into a chair whose cushions were striped in orange and gold and lime. The omelet Bliss set in front of him on an elegantly simple white plate was light, fragrant with some exotic cheeses, and filled with chunks of ripe tomato and tender ham. Fresh chives were scattered across the top. He picked up a fork, cut off a mouthful, and bit in. Heat, textures, and something spicy zinged his tongue.
    “Oh, man,” he said, forking in another mouthful. “Sure you don’t want to get married again?”
    “That’s it. I’m calling the Enquirer to come and interview my alien.”
    “Yeah, well, before they get here, think about it. We had more going for us than most.”
    Silently she refreshed Rory’s drink, poured a mild gin and tonic for herself, and waited for him to get around to whatever it was that had brought him to her door in the first place. Though she would have undergone torture rather than admit it, she loved watching him enjoy her food. Cooking was her one domestic accomplishment. That and sex.
    Come to think of it, the sex hadn’t been at all domestic. Not with Rory. She’d had other men, but none of them had been as good for her as her ex, damn him. She couldn’t live with the man and couldn’t stop thinking about living with him.
    Marriage.
    Again.
    What if he was serious?
    What if he wasn’t?
    “You’re biting your thumb,” Rory said.
    Guiltily she put her hand behind her back. She gnawed on her thumb only when she was feeling unusually insecure. And only Rory noticed it. She didn’t know whether that irritated or enraged or reassured her. All three, probably. Just one of the many things about their relationship that kept it from dying a simple, painless death by indifference.
    In silence Rory finished the omelet, ate the toast she’d brushed with olive oil and herbs and a hint of cheese, and carried his plate to the sink. With the economical motions of someone who was used to cleaning up after himself, he soaped the dish, rinsed it, and set it on the rack to dry.
    Then he scooped up everything else in the kitchen that she’d used to prepare his meal and began washing them, too.
    Bliss wanted to gnaw on her thumb again. She didn’t know what was on Rory’s mind, but she knew she wasn’t going to like hearing about it. What intrigued her was that he wasn’t eager to tell her, either.
    “Spit it out,” she said when he began cleaning the counters with a soapy sponge.
    “How much money do you go through every month?” he asked.
    She shrugged. “I don’t know.”
    “You just send the bills to Ward and he pays them.”
    “Not all of them. I have a trust fund from Mother and Grandmother.”
    “How much is it?”
    “What the hell is this all about?” Bliss asked.
    “Concerned Citizens for Sane Development.”
    “Shit. I knew it. You came here to chew on me for Daddy.”
    Slowly Rory shook his head. He dumped the sponge in the sink, dried his hands on a towel in the same cheerful colors as the dinette chairs, and went to stand close