Broken Wings (A Romantic Suspense)(63)

“The owner didn’t mind letting me bring you breakfast, hon.”

We eat together in the bed, trays propped up on our legs. I don’t want to go anywhere today. I don’t even want to put on clothes. I finally take the sweatshirt Jack was wearing yesterday and slip into it, but that’s all. The way he looks at me when I move, carefully waiting to catch a glimpse of my bare ass when the hem of the shirt pulls up, amuses me.

I flop back on the bed and sprawl out. Jack is still sitting up, next to me. He scoots down the bed and takes my hand.

“What should we do?”

“I think we should stay in this room and have sex all day until we get too tired or hungry to leave.”

“I like that plan. I mean in a longer term, though.”

I sigh. “Do we have to talk about this?”

“Yes. Just a little. Then we can go back to it for a while.”

“Mmm. I think we should go home.”

“Go home?”

“Jack,” I sigh.

I sit up and turn on my side. “My house is mine. My mom has remarried. My stepmom, I mean. There’s nothing connecting me to her anymore. She has a new husband. She should move out, and you should move in with me.” I let out another sigh, and my voice trembles a bit. “My dad would really like that.”

“I’d like that. I think it’s a great idea. I’d feel like I was taking advantage, though.”

“You’re my husband,” I say, taking his arm. “I can help you while we start our life together. It’s over. I’m not alone anymore. You’re not alone.”

He turns and puts his arms around me. “With you by my side, I can do anything.”

We start to sink into the bed, and he starts hitching up the sweatshirt.

Then there is a knock at the door, and the unmistakable sound of Richard Marshall’s voice.

“Jack, I know you’re in there. Open the f*cking door. Now.”





Jack





This is it.

From the minute I got back to the States I knew this would happen. This my Rubicon. My Waterloo. I’m standing at the Crack of Doom with the One Ring. Childe Jack to the Dark Tower Came.

The door shakes on its hinges and my father bellows, loud.

“Open the f*cking door!”

I give Ellie a glance and she pulls the covers up to her chin. I turn the lock then spin the doorknob on its oiled core. It’s slick in my hand from the sweat on my palm. When I open it my father stands in the doorway flanked by a pair of his goons looking like CIA extras from a shitty spy movie.

“Where the f*ck have you been? You left your assistant in charge of your department and you’ve been ignoring my phone calls for days. My wife can’t get ahold of her daughter and her staff says no one has seen her since Sunday.”

His voice sort of trails off. He sees Ellie and flinches, his eyes going wide. It’s weird to see genuine emotion on his face.

“What the hell is this? What are you doing here with her? Are you out of your goddamn mind, boy?”

“I haven’t lost my mind, I’ve found it.”

“Fuck, f*ck, f*ck!” he roars. “I hope nobody saw you. I can’t have my son f*cking a—”

Ellie’s voice cuts through his like a thin, sharp blade.

“A what?”

She rises from the bed and strides over.

“A freak? An ugly bitch? What were you going to say? Well? Spit it out!”

For the first time in my entire life, I see my father sputter.

“This is over, right now. You’re both coming back with me. End of story.”

“No,” Ellie snaps.

“No,” I agree.

“What? Listen to me, you little idiots. We can still fix the damage—”

I hold up my left hand and proudly display my wedding ring.

“Fix this.”

My father stares at my hand. “Oh my God, what the hell did you do?”

“We got married.”

“What?”

“In Vegas.”

“What?”

“By Elvis.”

“WHAT?”

Lightning quick, he grabs fistfuls of my shirt. “You stupid little bastard, do you have any idea—”

You know what? If Dad wanted to wool me around like he did when I was a little kid, he shouldn’t have pressured me to join the Army.

I’m no kung fu master or anything, but it’s a pretty basic self defense technique, defending yourself from someone grabbing at your upper body. I don’t even really think about it. I twist, and two hundred and twenty pounds of middle-aged business mogul goes sprawling on the floor.

Ellie shrieks and jumps out of the way.

“Stop it!” she yells.

Too late.

My dad rolls over and gives me that look, and surges to his feet. He’s not that ungainly. Some of the college football star must still be in him, and he’s got height and weight on me. He tackles me into the door, slamming it back against the wall so hard it punches a big spidery crack in the plaster.

I do the only thing I really can do, in a situation like this. I punch my father square in the face.

It’s not a good punch. I didn’t have room to wind up and like I said, no kung fu master here. No one-inch punch. It’s enough to light him up and get him off me and I follow up on my jab with a right hook, and swing for the fences with a haymaker that doesn’t land because a pair of arms just wrapped around mine, another around my waist.