With athletic ease, he rolled off the mattress and stormed toward the kitchen. He thumped a hand against the ice-dispenser with brutal disregard. If the kitchen comp failed to acknowledge the request, she wouldn’t blame it. He returned shortly with a tea-towel packed with ice, heavy footsteps stomping across the synth-wood floor. Smack, smack, smack went the soles of his feet.
She wanted to smack him upside the head. Seemed they both had a temper.
He crouched on the mattress beside her, mouth tight, and gently pressed the ice pack to her cheek. The rush of cold felt good against the hot spot.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“For ruining my after-sex happy?”
He grunted, one hand holding the icepack while his other hand cradled her jaw. “No. For hitting you. Keep still.”
“Nothing to forgive. It was an accident.”
“I’ll sleep on the couch from now on.”
“Like hell.” Louise pushed the ice pack away and dealt him her mightiest glare. One, she hoped, that would make his big testes wither in fear. “I mean it, Adam. We’ll deal with this.”
Her husband watched her with worried eyes. Dark hair stuck out every which way on his head and stubble lined his handsome face. His concern for her was obvious. How he cared for her. He made her want things—dangerous things. Made her want to spill her whole life story into his careful hands, to tell him everything and hold nothing back.
Gods. Suddenly it occurred to her—it had been seven days. A week since she’d stepped off the shuttle to find him waiting for her, and her new life had begun. She grinned, feeling the ache in her cheek at the motion. “Happy anniversary. We made it a whole week.”
Adam hung his head, but not before she caught the reluctant smile creasing his eyes. “A week? That is something.”
“If you try to sleep on the couch, I’ll follow you.” She strung her arms around him, rested her un-bruised cheek on his shoulder. “I’ve gotten used to having you there. You keep me warm.”
“Ah.” He rubbed the side of his face against the top of her head, gave her arm a light squeeze. “All right then.”
Chapter Eight
Day Eight
The bastard had left the bed once she’d fallen asleep, made good on his threat to sleep on the couch. Asshole, cock-sucking sonofabitch.
Louise stabbed her small spade into an innocent mound of dirt and turned it over with more zeal than care. Asshole. Gods, when she got her hands on him. As if she couldn’t recognize the imprint of his big, fat, dumb head in a couch cushion.
Rose had come over for a cup of tea first thing. Some ranting had been done. It couldn’t be whining when you projected your voice so well. Turned out Louise could project pretty damn well when she put her mind to it. Rose’s eyebrows had climbed higher and higher. It had felt kind of nice to have a girlfriend to confide in once again. She’d missed it.
In went the spade again, with great vigor and little skill. She’d pull a muscle in her arm at this rate. Asshole, asshole husband. She had sent him a com saying as much. Its succinctness had pleased her no end. He had not deigned to reply.
Normally the gardens soothed her—all the rich, fertile smells and the cool, damp air. Nothing could calm her today. She had tucked herself away in a corner of the overgrown jungle to spare the others her shitty mood. Not all displayed Rose’s patience or quick wit.
They stayed away in droves, wise people. Or they had.
Footsteps approached from behind, noisily thrashing through the undergrowth she was currently using as camouflage. Her khaki pants and blah beige T-shirt blended quite well with the surroundings.
“Ouch.” A man crouched beside her, sizing up the bruise on her face. He came closer than necessary, crossing one of those invisible social boundaries. It set off all sorts of alarms inside her. “How’d that happen?”
“Sorry, do I know you?” She knew she didn’t. The deliberate look she dealt him held more than a touch of “get lost”.
The man smiled broadly. He looked handsome enough—short blond hair and about her own age. He was pretty, and cocky with it. She’d seen the type before. Con had been of the same ilk. Arrogance didn’t turn her on as much as it used to.
“No, sorry,” he said. “I’m Josh Thoms. I’m from Security. Came down to alert you to an emergency communiqué from Earth. It should be waiting on your com unit.”
“Oh. Thanks.” Louise dusted off her dirty hands and retrieved her com from her pants pocket. Sure enough the message was waiting. She’d forgotten she’d muted the stupid thing on the off chance Adam decided to reply.
The message was from the district attorney. Shit.
“Mrs. Elliot, I need to ask.” Thoms motioned to her face with a finger, mouth small and expression serious. The way he looked at it, you’d have thought someone had taken a bat to her face. “Did your husband do that? Was it Adam?”
Without hesitation she looked him straight in the eye and lied. “No.”
“You don’t need to be afraid, you know.” Understanding eyes studied her, concern written in every line of his face. It felt false and a lot like fishing.
“I know.”