Page 35 of Our Little Secret

She rolled over to find Neal beside her in the familiar room lit only by the clock’s digital display and the city lights visible through the window. “You were whimpering.”

Oh. God. “Was I?”

“And restless, rolling around.” The twisted sheets were a testament to his words.

“Bad dream,” she said. “Nightmare.”

“About?”

“Marilee,” she said quickly. “I can’t remember the details, but she was in some kind of trouble.” A quick lie as the particulars of her dream were fresh. Imprinted. And scared her to her bones.

“The only trouble she’s in is that her mother won’t let her go on a date with an older boy.”

“And her father would?”

“No. We settled this.” He levered himself up on one elbow and his face was more visible in the weakest of light from the window. The dim glow exaggerated his bold features, making his deep-set eyes appear more guarded, his nose more prominent, his beard shadow darker. “But I like it that you’re the bad guy.”

If you only knew, she thought. “Nice of you.”

He tugged at the covers; she’d wound herself in the bedclothes. “Not nice, but practical.” Once the sheets were straightened over both of them, he snuggled up against her, his long body spooning hers as she faced the window again. “Better?”

“Yes,” she said, grateful for his strength. Theirs had been a far-from-perfect marriage, but she did care for him. And a once-passionate marriage that had seeped into indifference, even infidelity—was that so unusual? They’d weathered a lot of storms right from the get-go, but they were still together, if tentatively, the tether of matrimony that bound them frayed but not severed.

Yet.

She nestled into his warmth and felt his arms surround her, his big hands cupping her breasts, pulling her tight to hug against him. This was right, she told herself, noticing how her knees bent perfectly inside his. As she sighed, she sensed his arousal, felt his erection against her buttocks, noticed that he was fingering her nipples until they responded, which they did.

She closed her eyes.

For the first time in a long while, she welcomed him.

An hour after their lovemaking, Brooke was still restless. Neal, as always after sex, was sleeping soundly, snoring a bit, dead to the world, while she was keyed up, her nerve endings afire. She slid from beneath the covers and moved quietly down the stairs, her ankle aching a bit. Without switching on any lights, she padded to the kitchen and the French doors leading to the deck.

The dead bolt hadn’t been turned.

So the house was unlocked.

Anyone could climb up the stairs from the backyard and walk into the kitchen and . . . She bit her lip. Was this how Gideon had gotten inside? This was the way they all let the dog out, and during the day it was usually unlocked.

Well, no more. She’d keep the house locked tight day in, day out. Now, still bothered, she stepped quietly onto the deck. This time she didn’t hesitate but found her pack of cigarettes and lit up. Years ago, she and Neal had shared a cigarette after lovemaking. Now they never did. Neal was a holier-than-thou ex-smoker, and the phrase her grandmother always used, “There’s nothing so self-righteous as an ex-sinner,” came to mind as she took a deep drag. The cigarette was stale but hit the spot. She leaned over the rail to stare at the distant city lights, seeming to float in the darkness of the early morning. She heard a scratching and turned to see Shep on the other side of the glass door. “Oh man, did I wake you?” she asked, opening the door. The dog stepped out, paused for a quick pat, then made his way to the steps leading down to the backyard, waddled down them, and disappeared.

Brooke rotated her stiff neck. Her body ached from the accident with the jerk in the Porsche—Gustafson—and, of course, from her scuffle with Gideon.

Scuffle?

More like a fight to the finish.

And that worried her.

Was it the finish? Was it over? Now that she suspected Gideon had invaded her house and taken her private things, she had a deeper look into his obsession. How far would he go? The question, one he’d posed earlier, rang through her mind. Her physical injuries were evidence of how disturbed he was.

Gideon had been quiet ever since the struggle on the sailboat, but she wondered how long it would last. If it would.

And when had he been in her house—when had he been in her bedroom? Before she’d broken it off with him? Maybe because he’d sensed it was coming. No matter how gobsmacked he’d acted when she’d called and then gone to his sailboat for their confrontation, she’d hinted before in the last few weeks when he’d wanted to make plans, and many times she’d made excuses. Maybe he’d had access all along and had taken the items one at a time so she wouldn’t notice.

Was it possible?

He’d had the nerve to show up on her doorstep, facing her and her family, so why wouldn’t he sneak around?

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