Point of Danger (Triple Threat #1) - Irene Hannon Page 0,70

supportive of your career?”

Why would this man ask that?

Unless . . . had she let a comment or two slip about Steve’s reservations during one of her chats with Eve at the station or at the spinning class? Had Eve mentioned that to the detective?

“It’s a temporary job, until we have a family. He and I discussed it.”

That didn’t answer the question—and the slight narrowing of the man’s eyes indicated he knew that.

But what did this have to do with anything?

He spoke as if he’d heard her silent question. “If Eve goes away, so does her show. And your job.”

When his implication sank in, Meg’s jaw dropped.

He thought Steve would try to ruin Eve’s career just to get his wife to stay home?

That was absurd.

Wasn’t it?

She massaged her temple as she tried to sort through all the information and insinuations that had been zipping around this room during the past few minutes.

“Detective Lange, I appreciate that you’re trying to do your job. But Steve would never be involved in anything illegal. He may still be working through all the issues associated with his loss, but he—”

“What loss?”

“The death of his first wife. You knew about that, didn’t you?”

It was impossible to interpret his expression. Not surprise, exactly—but it was clear he hadn’t known about Steve’s first marriage.

That was odd. This guy struck her as the type who did his homework.

He studied her for a moment. Let out a breath. “His first wife isn’t dead. They divorced two years ago—after she got a protection order on him for abuse.”

Meg heard the words. Understood them. But they were as difficult to make sense of as an algebra equation.

Before she could process this new information, Lange dropped another bombshell.

“His previous girlfriend also took out a protection order on him.”

Steve had been in two abusive relationships.

His wife hadn’t died.

The marriage he’d described as blissful had been the polar opposite.

Why had he lied to her?

And if he’d lied to her about all that . . . could she believe anything he’d told her?

Mind spinning, she lurched to her feet, gripping the edge of the table to steady herself. “I have to . . . to get to work.” Her response echoed in her ears as if it came from a great distance.

The detective rose too, and a business card appeared in her field of vision. “If you want to add to your story—or change anything—you can reach me at this number. Night or day.”

After a tiny hesitation, she took the small rectangle and stumbled toward the door.

The detective beat her to it. He twisted the knob and pulled it open.

Somehow she made it to the ladies room before she lost her breakfast.

Leaning against the wall of the stall, stomach quivering as she hovered over the toilet, Meg tried to digest all she’d learned in the past fifteen minutes.

Maybe . . . maybe there was an explanation for everything. Steve may have been afraid that if he told her the truth about his past, she wouldn’t have wanted anything to do with him. It was possible Candy was nothing more than a friend. The jewelry purchases could have a simple explanation too. His friends might have asked him to put gifts on his credit card to keep the purchases hidden so they could surprise their wives. Some guys were thoughtful like that. The hair on the parking lot could also be coincidence.

But that was a lot of maybes and might haves and could be’s.

Too many.

Meg pulled out a length of toilet paper and wiped her mouth, but bitterness clung to her tongue—and her heart.

It appeared she’d been a fool.

The very word her parents had used when she’d told them she was going to marry Steve.

Someone came into the ladies room, and Meg straightened up. She should get back to her desk. Focus on her job. She had eight hours to decide what to do about the situation at home. And if she needed more time than that, she’d figure out how to buy some.

She wadded up the soiled tissue and tossed it in the toilet bowl, flushing away the evidence of her bout of nausea.

Nausea.

She watched the water swirl in the bowl.

That could work, considering how Steve had walked a wide circle around her during the morning sickness phase of her pregnancy. Even a hint of the stench of vomit made him queasy—and she knew how to produce that, thanks to the battle she’d once waged with bulimia.

If necessary, that tactic could give her breathing space