Silent Killer Page 0,42

had his share of women over the years, but there had been only one he’d never forgotten. Maybe it was because he had been her first. Or maybe it was because he’d honest to God been in love with her. When he’d first found out that she’d married someone else, he’d been as mad as hell. But he hadn’t held on to his anger and bitterness. He had learned that it didn’t pay to judge others unless you walked a mile in their shoes. He figured Cathy had had her reasons for marrying someone else, for giving up hope, for not waiting for him to come back. And he knew that that reason could have been as simple as her falling out of love with him and in love with Mark Cantrell.

He’d spent the past hour watching Cathy as she devoured their greasy meal. She’d eaten with gusto, as if she were starved to death. And she’d downed several glasses of beer, which probably was the reason she was smiling now. A couple of times, when she’d licked her fingertips, his racy thoughts had given him a hard-on.

“Want dessert?” he asked, forced to talk loud to be heard over the din of conversation, laughter and music pounding from the old jukebox.

Laughing, she leaned back in her chair and rubbed her stomach. “I don’t know where I’d put it. I’m stuffed.”

He glanced at the nearly empty pitcher on the table. “I could order some more beer.”

She groaned. “I’ve had my limit. Actually, I drank more beer with dinner tonight than I’ve drunk in years.”

“What about some coffee?” He was trying to find a way to keep her here for a while longer. Food, drinks, conversation, whatever would persuade her not to go.

“Maybe some decaf later.” She scooted back her chair and stood. “What I want right now is to dance.” She held out her hand.

Dance with Cathy again? Cheek to cheek. Bodies pressed together.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

Grinning, she shook her head and clicked her tongue. “You aren’t afraid to dance with me again, are you?”

He rounded the table, took her hand and led her onto the crowded dance floor. She slipped into his arms as naturally as if she’d done it a thousand times. He pulled her close. She was soft and warm. When she laid her head against his shoulder, he pressed his cheek against her silky hair.

If she were some other woman, a woman he’d just picked up here at the Catfish Shack, he would maneuver her out of the door and to the nearest bed as quickly as possible. But this was Cathy, and unless he missed his guess, she still wasn’t the type of woman who had casual sex. And if he were a different kind of man, he would take advantage of her vulnerability. She was working hard at trying to have a good time. He understood why. He’d been there. More than once. She was holding on for dear life, the control over her emotions hanging by a mere thread, that modicum of control not easily achieved or maintained.

“If you need to talk, I’ve been told I’m a pretty good listener,” he said, his lips brushing the tip of her ear.

When she shuddered involuntarily, he clenched his teeth. Her reaction probably wasn’t anything personal. He figured she hadn’t had sex since she lost her husband.

“Who told you that you were a good listener?” She lifted her head and gazed into his eyes. “One of your many women?”

Jack chuckled. “Well, actually, the only woman who told me I was a good listener was my sister, Maleah.”

Cathy smiled. “How is your sister? I heard she lives in Knoxville now. Is she married? Does she have children?”

“Maleah’s still single. I guess after witnessing the horror of our mother’s second marriage, we’re both gun-shy when it comes to wedded bliss.”

“All marriages aren’t like that. Your parents’ marriage wasn’t.”

“What about your marriage? Were you happy with Mark Cantrell?”

Cathy’s smile faded as she glanced away, her gaze focusing on something over his shoulder. “Mark was a good man, a good husband and a good father.”

Yeah, he’d figured as much. After all, the man had been a preacher. Cathy’s husband had been one of the good guys. But she hadn’t said they’d had a good marriage, that she’d been happy.

“If it bothers you to talk about him…”

“It doesn’t. Not anymore. But I’d just as soon not talk about the past, not tonight. I spent nearly a year talking to my therapist