The Perfect Husband by Lisa Gardner Read Free Book Online Page A

defy him. But then she picked up her spoon and eyed her oat-meal as if it were a summit to be scaled.
    “I can do this.” She dug in.
    “It's oatmeal, Angela, not Armageddon.”
    She ate the whole bowl and cleared the dishes without saying a word. Then she began washing them with the smooth movements of someone who'd done chores all her life.
    J.T. wasn't used to having someone else around who wasn't Freddie or Rosalita. He felt uncomfortable and, worse, self-conscious. Virginia etiquette crept up and tapped him on the shoulder. He should put on a shirt. He should put on shoes. He should pull out a chair for the nice young lady, offer her lemonade, comment on her beauty, and talk about the weather.
    “Why move to Arizona?” Angela asked. She stacked the rinsed dishes noisily beside the sink. Her bruised wrist didn't seem to bother her.
    “No helmet laws.”
    “Oh.” She'd run out of things to say. He'd run out of them a long time ago himself. He began ticking off the seconds in his mind. He'd hit only six when she shut off the water and pinned him with a determined look.
    “I'm not going to leave,” she announced. “I need your help. Sooner or later you'll realize that.”
    “I'm not going to realize any such thing. You're lying to me through your teeth.”
    Her lips thinned. “You don't want the truth. I know men like you. You don't want to become involved. You think you're happy living in a self-pitying vacuum.”
    “Self-pity, that's what's wrong with me? First, it's drinking, now self-pity. Do you watch a lot of Oprah?”
    “You think you'll be better off if you never care again.”
    “Can you prove otherwise?”
    “I don't need you to care, Mr. Dillon. I don't need you to give a… a rat's ass about me. I want you to train me anyway.”
    “You want me to be a lapdog,” he corrected her. “You want me to listen to your lies, do as you ask, and never question a thing. I know how it works. I've seen Oprah too.”
    He kicked back his chair and crossed the alcove. He passed the barrier of the counter. He kept advancing, his eyes dark slits. He saw her mouth open, but no word of protest emerged. She took a step back, but was brought up short by the kitchen sink. She was trapped.
    He flattened her against the counter. Her breath came out more rapidly, but she didn't back down. She brought her chin up defiantly and met his gaze. He leaned into her, flattening her breasts against his bare torso, pressing his body against hers so she'd know exactly what he was capable of. He lowered his head until his breath whispered across her cheek, and she sucked in her breath in an attempt to put distance between them.
    “I don't believe you,” he said softly, dangerously. “I don't believe a woman abandons her daughter and comes halfway across the country to a mercenary's house just because her ex-husband is stalking her. And I don't like being lied to and used.” He planted his hands on the countertop.
    “Why shouldn't a woman hire a trained professional?” She licked her lips nervously, then caught herself and stated more fiercely, “Husbands, boyfriends, fathers, kill women all the time.”
    “Hire a bodyguard.”
    “I don't want a bodyguard! I want to know how to fight. I want to know how to protect my daughter. I am so sick and tired of running scared. You” — her finger jabbed his chest — “you probably don't know anything about being vulnerable, being frightened. But I know. And I'm sick of it. I want my life back.”
    She grabbed one of the porcelain bowls and shattered it against the sink. She raised one jagged shard and wielded it like a knife. “I might have been slow once. I might have actually thought that if I was just good enough, just obedient enough, just
sweet
enough, it would keep me safe. Well, I don't do ‘sweet' anymore and I don't do ‘obedient' anymore. So don't mess with me, Mr. Dillon. You have no idea what I am capable of.”
    She pressed the sharp edge against his bare chest