Page 68 of Finding Amanda

He slid closer to her on the couch and wrapped his arm around her. "I've spent some time in counseling myself over the years. I know how hard it is, how vulnerable it makes you."

"Yeah. It does."

"So I understand a little of what you went through."

She rested her head on his shoulder. It was okay that he hadn't told her why he'd seen a counselor. There was plenty of time for that later. Right now, she was content that they'd talked about her past, and Alan hadn't stormed out of the room or flipped on the TV to hide his rage. Instead, he'd shared a snippet of his own issues. She glanced at the picture of Mark on the mantle. If only . . .

No. It was Alan who'd found a way to soothe her fear andloneliness, not Mark. She snuggled closer until, too soon, it was time for him to leave.

She walked him to the front door. "I hope it was worth your drive down from Boston."

He ran his hand the length of her blond hair. "You could've served McDonald's, and it would have been worth it. I got to see you."

A tingle slithered down her spine.

He kissed her on the cheek. "Thank you, friend."

"My pleasure.” And it had been.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Two crystal wine glasses sat beside Amanda's sink the next morning. Mark stared at them, one fact overtaking all others: Two.

Amanda had entertained someone the night before.

Mark's fists clenched, itched to punch something. Who was Amanda entertaining on Friday night? And where had the girls been? A birthday party, he remembered. Was it a sleepover?

When Amanda had opened the door for him a few minutes earlier, she'd greeted him brusquely and rushed back upstairs. At his feet on the front porch lay a small brown box, which he'd picked up and carried inside. Apparently, whatever it was, Amanda wasn't interested. No return address—no address at all. He shook it. Lightweight, perhaps empty. Maybe it belonged to one of the girls. He'd tossed it on the dining room table, planning to ask her about it when she came back downstairs.

And then he entered the kitchen and saw those wine glasses.

He pulled open the dishwasher and peeked inside. Pots, pans, plates . . . she'd made dinner, served dinner, served wine in his house to . . . someone.

This jealousy was becoming too familiar. He tried to ignore it as he stomped into the garage. He bypassed the leaf blower and grabbed a rake. Maybe the manual labor would help him shake off some of his fury. He opened the garage door and ducked beneath it as it rose, heading for the backyard.

The grass was covered with a thick layer of leaves, enough to keep him busy for hours. Just what he needed. Beyond the back patio on the far side of the yard, beneath the maple trees, he began to rake.

Alan Morris. It had to be him. As far as he knew, there weren't any other men in Amanda's life at the moment. There'd better not be.

Maybe she'd had a girlfriend over. But Amanda didn't have a lot of girlfriends, and Mark knew Chris had taken Jamie to a movie.

He pounded the rake into the ground and yanked. It held fast, the prongs embedded in the soft grass. He inched it out. He had to relax or he was going to break the stupid thing. Carefully, he lowered the tool into the leaves. See, he was under control. He wasn't about to kill anybody.

But if Alan Morris showed up here . . . Tremors of fury began in his chest and radiated into his limbs. He swallowed and kept raking.

He could track down the man and have a chat with him. Mark allowed himself to visualize the scene. He would convince Alan to stay away from his wife. Very few people had the nerve to fight him. But wouldn't it be nice if Alan tried? The slithering snake wouldn't know what hit him.

Then Mark could track down Gabriel Sheppard. Would he have the self-control not to kill the man if he met him face-to-face? Doubtful. And if he took care of Sheppard and Morris, then what? Would Amanda want him back?

Maybe not, but he'd feel better. How many times had hefantasized about killing Gabriel Sheppard? He'd always talked himself out of it. So far. He'd had enough killing in Afghanistan. It was hard enough to live with the things he'd done over there, he couldn't imagine adding more to his sins. He wasn't a murderer.

But he could be. He knew the idea wasn't far-fetched. And imagining Amanda right now with some faceless snake in his house, on his couch, in his bed . . .

More tremors of rage.

Rake. Just rake.

He heard the crunching of footsteps behind him. He wheeled around to find Amanda approaching, leaf blower in hand.

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