Smash Cut by Sandra Brown Page A

this particular film. It has a running length of ninety-four minutes. So last night while watching it, she heard fuck , or a derivative thereof, spoken every one and a half minutes, give or take a few seconds. But if my saying fuck offended her, then I’m fucking sorry.”
Sharon couldn’t contain her giggle, but Doug wasn’t amused.
Trying to defuse the situation, she said, “Look, I just finished addressing the acknowledgment cards. They can be mailed tomorrow. Everyone was so nice, but it’s been an ordeal to write all these thank-yous.”
“I appreciate your doing that,” Doug said. Then he turned to Creighton. “I’ve just come from a meeting with Derek Mitchell.”
Creighton shrugged, dropped down into an armchair, and rested his head against the back of it, apparently uninterested.
“Refresh my memory, Doug,” Sharon said.
“He’s the defense attorney. Remember we talked about retaining him.”
“Oh, right.” There had been some discussion over dinner a couple of nights ago, but her mind had wandered.
“He wants to meet with you,” Doug said to Creighton.
“I’m getting sick of this. I really am. First those detectives and that limp dick lawyer of yours, hanging on to my every word, making notes.” Creighton mimicked frantic scribbling. “Now this guy. What makes him so special, anyway? And why do I need him?”
Doug didn’t address the questions. “His assistant made an appointment for you tomorrow.”
“I can’t tomorrow. You’ve got me taking those brick and stone people to lunch, remember?”
“Three o’clock.”
“My car is being serviced at three o’clock, and I stay with it. I don’t trust that cretin mechanic.”
“Here’s his address.”
Doug extended him a business card. Creighton shot each of them a hateful look, then in one uninterrupted motion, he snatched the card, came out of the chair, and stalked from the room, slamming the door behind him.
Neither Sharon nor Doug moved or said anything for several seconds, then he went to the bed and picked up his discarded jacket. She followed him into the closet, which doubled as a dressing room they shared. He whipped off his necktie and began unbuttoning his shirt.
“It was my fault,” she said. “I shouldn’t have watched his DVD without asking.”
“Don’t do that, Sharon. It is not your fault. You’re excusing him again. He’s never going to grow up and assume responsibility if you undercut me every time I try and instill in him—”
“You sound like Paul.”
She regretted the words the instant they left her mouth. They pained him, she could tell. He removed his shirt and tossed it along with his suit jacket into the hamper. She moved behind him and put her arms around his waist, leaning her cheek against his shoulder. “I’m sorry.”
He gave a soft laugh. “I did sound like Paul.” He turned to face her and pecked a kiss on her lips. “But he was right, Sharon. Creighton is spoiled and we’re to blame.”
“Chiefly me.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t want him to feel alone and unloved the way your parents made you feel.”
She tilted her head up and looked at him. “You’re a psychologist now?”
“You don’t need therapy to figure that out. But we’re both to blame for spoiling Creighton. I indulged him, too, because it was easier.”
She laughed softly. “I don’t recall him ever being easy.”
“Neither do I, really.” His grin was rueful.
“I just loved him so much, Doug. I wanted him to know it. I didn’t want him ever to be mad at me.” She hesitated, then said, “Maybe if we’d had more children…”
After Creighton, she’d miscarried twice before her doctor recommended a hysterectomy. Doug had never blamed her for not giving him more children, but Mary had once sadly joked that the Wheeler boys hadn’t done so well in the progeny department. They hadn’t married good breeders.
Doug rubbed his hands up and down her arms. “None of that.” He kissed her forehead as he released her. “Just, from now on, when I crack the whip, back me up.”
She nodded, but she didn’t make a