things he really excelled at. Pain bled through her. Her hazel eyes narrowed to slits. “You jerk.”
She grabbed the first thing her hand fell on and flung it at him as hard as she could. He fended off the plastic container of Cover Girl face powder with his hands, knocking it aside and sending a mushroom cloud of fine dust into the air.
“Jesus, Jolynn!”
He hauled himself naked from the bed, choking on the combination of smoke and powder, half tripping as the sheet tangled around his knees. Jo turned and made a dash for the bedroom door, but was caught just shy of getting her hand on the doorknob. A strong arm banded across her midsection, and she was pulled back into the curve of Rich's body as he bent over her. She struggled to get away—from Richard, from herself, from her dumpy little bedroom in her dumpy little house.
“Come on, Jolynn,” he cajoled, his mustache brushing the shell of her ear, scratchy and soft like the edge of an old shaving brush. He spewed out platitudes with the ease of long practice and little sincerity. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. I just don't want you to leave, baby.”
“Tough shit. I'm going,” she snapped, sniffing back tears. She may have had no pride when it came to sleeping with him, but she damn well wouldn't cry in front of him. She shrugged him off and took another step toward the door.
“I'll be here when you get back,” he murmured.
She hesitated with her hand on the tarnished brass knob, dredging up the nerve she never seemed to find when he showed up on her doorstep. “Don't bother.”
FIVE
“ Y OU ' D BETTER WAIT IN THE SHERIFF ' S OFFICE .”
Lorraine Worth grasped Elizabeth firmly by the elbow and propelled her through the maze of gray metal desks toward the door of Dane Jantzen's private lair. Behind them and beyond the incessant ringing of the phone, Elizabeth could hear a commotion in the outer hall and guessed that some of the press had decided to stake out the courthouse, to lay in wait for the sheriff. Lorraine looked extremely peeved at the prospect of having to deal with them, her thin lips pressing into a grim white line, penciled brows slashing down above her cat-eye glasses like dark bolts of lightning. Without another word the dispatcher hustled Elizabeth into the office, thrust a cup of black coffee into her hand, and bolted back for her station, swinging the door shut behind her.
Elizabeth set the coffee aside and dug a cigarette out of her purse. A brass plaque on the desk shone up at her under the glare of the fluorescent light, the words THANK YOU FOR NOT SMOKING etched in bold black. She flipped it facedown and lit up. Jantzen could thank someone else for not smoking. After what she'd been through, she damn well deserved a cigarette at the very least.
The lighter she used was wafer-thin, twenty-four-carat gold, engraved on the flat side with the words “To B from E with Love”—one of the small prizes she had managed to get away with when Brock had told her to move out of their penthouse apartment in Stuart Tower. The Nikon now reposing in the visitor's chair with its hideously expensive Hasselblad lens pointing at the ceiling was another. Small victories.
It wasn't that she approved of stealing. She didn't. Beneath her veneer of practical cynicism she was basically a morally upstanding sort of person. What she believed in was justice. But sometimes a person had to make her own. Brock had screwed her eight ways to Sunday in the divorce. She'd come away from the marriage battered and bloodied emotionally. A lighter and a camera didn't seem like much in the way of compensation, but they helped a little.
Trying not to think about it, she prowled around Dane Jantzen's office, the Virginia Slim smoldering in her right hand. She paused in her pacing long enough to bring it to her lips and take a deep, calming drag. She would have sold her soul for a tumbler of the forty-two-year-old malt whiskey Brock had specially flown in from
She grabbed the first thing her hand fell on and flung it at him as hard as she could. He fended off the plastic container of Cover Girl face powder with his hands, knocking it aside and sending a mushroom cloud of fine dust into the air.
“Jesus, Jolynn!”
He hauled himself naked from the bed, choking on the combination of smoke and powder, half tripping as the sheet tangled around his knees. Jo turned and made a dash for the bedroom door, but was caught just shy of getting her hand on the doorknob. A strong arm banded across her midsection, and she was pulled back into the curve of Rich's body as he bent over her. She struggled to get away—from Richard, from herself, from her dumpy little bedroom in her dumpy little house.
“Come on, Jolynn,” he cajoled, his mustache brushing the shell of her ear, scratchy and soft like the edge of an old shaving brush. He spewed out platitudes with the ease of long practice and little sincerity. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. I just don't want you to leave, baby.”
“Tough shit. I'm going,” she snapped, sniffing back tears. She may have had no pride when it came to sleeping with him, but she damn well wouldn't cry in front of him. She shrugged him off and took another step toward the door.
“I'll be here when you get back,” he murmured.
She hesitated with her hand on the tarnished brass knob, dredging up the nerve she never seemed to find when he showed up on her doorstep. “Don't bother.”
FIVE
“ Y OU ' D BETTER WAIT IN THE SHERIFF ' S OFFICE .”
Lorraine Worth grasped Elizabeth firmly by the elbow and propelled her through the maze of gray metal desks toward the door of Dane Jantzen's private lair. Behind them and beyond the incessant ringing of the phone, Elizabeth could hear a commotion in the outer hall and guessed that some of the press had decided to stake out the courthouse, to lay in wait for the sheriff. Lorraine looked extremely peeved at the prospect of having to deal with them, her thin lips pressing into a grim white line, penciled brows slashing down above her cat-eye glasses like dark bolts of lightning. Without another word the dispatcher hustled Elizabeth into the office, thrust a cup of black coffee into her hand, and bolted back for her station, swinging the door shut behind her.
Elizabeth set the coffee aside and dug a cigarette out of her purse. A brass plaque on the desk shone up at her under the glare of the fluorescent light, the words THANK YOU FOR NOT SMOKING etched in bold black. She flipped it facedown and lit up. Jantzen could thank someone else for not smoking. After what she'd been through, she damn well deserved a cigarette at the very least.
The lighter she used was wafer-thin, twenty-four-carat gold, engraved on the flat side with the words “To B from E with Love”—one of the small prizes she had managed to get away with when Brock had told her to move out of their penthouse apartment in Stuart Tower. The Nikon now reposing in the visitor's chair with its hideously expensive Hasselblad lens pointing at the ceiling was another. Small victories.
It wasn't that she approved of stealing. She didn't. Beneath her veneer of practical cynicism she was basically a morally upstanding sort of person. What she believed in was justice. But sometimes a person had to make her own. Brock had screwed her eight ways to Sunday in the divorce. She'd come away from the marriage battered and bloodied emotionally. A lighter and a camera didn't seem like much in the way of compensation, but they helped a little.
Trying not to think about it, she prowled around Dane Jantzen's office, the Virginia Slim smoldering in her right hand. She paused in her pacing long enough to bring it to her lips and take a deep, calming drag. She would have sold her soul for a tumbler of the forty-two-year-old malt whiskey Brock had specially flown in from
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