Spooning Leads to Forking (Hot in the Kitchen #2) - Kilby Blades Page 0,7
at the news and reading the paper had been Keenan’s thing.
Shea normally preferred something soothing, like Tibetan singing bowls. Six weeks in Sapling and she’d begun to embrace the silence. Like everything else in the house, the master bath was glass-walled, its view looking out at the aspens. It was late enough in the morning that strong sunlight had begun to filter in. If she could get hold of the remote, she could lower the sunshade with one button and crack the sliding door with another, letting in a bit of the midmorning breeze.
Her hand was halfway to reaching said remote, which sat upon a well-placed stool right next to the tub. A loud chime came out of nowhere, startling her so badly she sat up straight. It created a mini tsunami that sent water sloshing out both sides of the tub.
“Oh my gosh,” she whispered, as if emoting as quietly as possible would allow the space to retain some modicum of peace. She put on her glasses so that she could see. A skyrocketing heartbeat ruined all tranquil relaxation. A single thought amped up its volume each time she repeated it in her head—a thought that found her hands shaking, but her body moving up and out of the tub, too naked and vulnerable, somehow, to stay inside.
Someone found me. They know about the money.
But the money was rightfully hers. Any sane judge would see it that way, eventually. The gray area was who it belonged to right now. Keenan had kept money she had earned out of her reach, on purpose, for years. He had their financial managers—his people, of course—tucked safely in his own deep pocket, using them as gatekeepers to keep her in line.
The account she’d snuck money out of had been from a business she had nothing to do with but technically owned. Keenan was always routing money through businesses with odd management structures for “tax purposes.” So she’d taken a lump sum out of the blue, outside of their accountant’s knowledge and without paying taxes on the withdrawal. The next day, she’d skipped town and had her attorney inform Keenan’s that she wanted a divorce. The problem was what she’d had to resort to, just to start over, could be constituted as embezzlement.
Toweling off hastily as she stepped on heated floors, Shea padded into the closet, scanning for clothes that could be pulled on quickly. When the doorbell rang again, she decided on pajamas and a robe. She also decided she was under no obligation to open the door to anyone. Unless it was Girl Scouts selling cookies, it would be better to pretend she wasn’t home.
What if it’s Keenan? What if he found me?
She had taken so many precautions—had been hyper-vigilant about laying low. Maintaining access to her would only feed his delusion that her divorce talk was a phase. She’d been asking for one for more than a year; begging him to enter into mediation; even threatening to serve him papers if he refused. Blind optimism and sheer audacity had him dismissing her only wish. Leaving the way she did had been her last resort.
Not yet certain she would answer the door, Shea took a detour into a spare bedroom that faced the front. If she stood in just the right spot, she’d be able to see a car and maybe even its driver. What she saw through the window made her stomach drop. The only visitor that made her as nervous as an FBI agent or Keenan himself was standing at her doorstep: a cop.
Shit.
She cursed out loud, frozen to her spot for a tense second—one tense second too long. The officer at her door, sensing eyes on him, perhaps, darted his gaze in the direction of where she stood. He made eye contact, flash a perfunctory smile and waved.
Double shit.
With no other option, Shea returned the gesture with a wan smile, thankful that he seemed in good spirits. If he were there to question her, he wouldn’t be so jovial, right? As her feet carried her toward the door she couldn’t not-answer now, she returned to the mantra that would have to see her through:
Act natural.
Act natural.
Act natural.
“Morning, ma’am. Sorry to bother you,” the officer said as Shea swung open the door, clutching the lapels of her robe together for effect. Shea was glad she’d fully submerged her head in her bath water a minute before the doorbell debacle. It had left her hair disorganized, disheveled and all curled up.