Page 70 of Finding Amanda

"He had a client meeting in Boston."

"I'll just bet he did."

"He did! Listen to me, Mark!" She stepped forward, the leaf blower clutched in her hands. "You have no right to question me. I'm a grown woman, and I can do as I please. And you can mind your own business!"

"You are my business. You're my wife."

"Not for long."

The words hit their target. He stepped back, fury catching fire and raging. "Go inside. Now."

"You're crazy."

He squeezed his eyes shut and saw in his memory another woman, another place.

She was hidden beneath a burka that covered her from head to foot. Mark's outfit was driving slowly through the centerof a small town, and locals were everywhere. The market was bustling, the scents of exposed meat and fresh bread and body odor filled his nostrils.

Something was different about her. She moved quickly through the crowd and seemed to be headed straight for their convoy. As Mark watched, he felt a familiar prickling along the back of his neck. Something wasn't right.

He jumped off the back of the truck and approached, stopping a few feet from her on the edge of the dirt road. She said something in her own tongue. It sounded pleading, but the hair on the back of his neck stood up. Instinctively he lunged forward and grabbed her arm, which was hidden beneath the black fabric. He lifted it and, in her hand, saw a small pipe, wires hanging out. Then the other hand. The left hand . . . a glint of metal. He ducked away as she jabbed the knife into his shoulder. He punched her in the face, but she fought, far stronger than any woman he'd ever met. She was no match for him. Reflexes and training took over, and when they'd finished, she lay on the ground. Dead.

He'd killed her with his bare hands.

He blinked and grabbed the leaf blower from Amanda. She stumbled backwards, barely righting herself before she fell.

"Yes, I am crazy. Go in the house."

"I—"

"Now, Amanda."

She turned and ran. The door slammed behind her.

He stared at it, his anger draining, replaced with regret.

So much for winning her back.

Instead, he’d given her a glimpse of the monster she’d married.

Amanda madeher way into the kitchen, spying the two wine glasses on the counter. Of course. Mark was so much more observant than she. With shaking hands, she dried each glass and placed them in the cabinet.

Mark wouldn't have hurt her. Still, she'd never seen him so angry.

Amanda emptied the dishwasher, putting away the evidence from her date the night before. Then she filled it with breakfast dishes.

By the time she'd finished, she'd almost stopped shaking.

What had gotten into him? She'd only had dinner with a friend. It wasn't that big of a deal.

She surveyed the kitchen. What to do? She yanked eight large cans of crushed tomatoes from the cupboard. She'd given up canning her own years ago, finding the canned variety tasted almost as good and took hours less time. Her cookbooks might have been about made-from-scratch, but everybody had to find some extra time somewhere.

That’s it. Cook. Don’t think about Mark.

She chopped four large onions and sautéed them on the stove top while she peeled a handful of garlic cloves.

In almost ten years of marriage, she'd never seen Mark jealous, not until today. Had he hidden it that well, or was it new? Of course, she'd never given him any reason to be jealous before. It was almost enough to make her wonder how he felt about her. If he didn't love her, why would he care?

She was glad about one thing. Mark called him Alan Morris, not Alan Morass. Small difference, but if Mark were planning to track Alan down, maybe that would throw him off. Whatever it took to keep the two men apart. Mark might never hurt her, but she wasn't so sure what he'd do to Alan.

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