The Secret Lives of Doctors' Wives

Not so funny.

Michael’s mouth thinned at the memory of Rosie’s long, honey-gold legs wrapped around his on that hellishly hot Sunday, the morning after. They’d cuddled all night long, but come morning, she’d turned on him.

Why was it that, with a little alcohol on board, two former lovers feeling the need for a little TLC could take up right where they’d left off?

It had been a pretty amazing night. He might have been well on his way to falling in love with her again, but the next morning she’d taken one look at his black head on her pillow and had started throwing things at him—first his shirt, then his jeans and then his boots. When she’d gone for the lamp and handcuffs, he’d locked himself in the bathroom.

Good thing, too. She’d smashed the lamp against the door. Next, he’d heard the handcuffs bounce off the wall. Then she’d run just like before, screaming, “You ruined my life—all over again!”

What the hell had that meant? She’d run out on him after high school. He’d called her a few times, but she’d always hung up on him.

When his wife had finally called him back, he’d stupidly confessed about Rosie, and that had been the final straw for Marie. Since their divorce, he’d been lonely as hell.

So, now Rosie’s granddaughter was missing.

He hoped to hell Rosie wasn’t connected to this murder. Or that the kid wasn’t in the hands of whoever had cut Carver up.

Just the thought and his palms began to sweat. Gut instinct told him to get over there fast.

Without so much as a glance toward his silent partner, Michael started the ignition.

As he drove, he thought about the missing kid. When his marriage hadn’t worked out, he’d been glad Marie and he hadn’t had children. Still, deep down, not having them was one of life’s big disappointments.

What if Rosie’s granddaughter’s life depended on somebody who gave a damn making the right decision?

Hell.

When he stepped on the gas, Keith swore viciously and flicked his cigarette lighter.

Three

The large windows of Yolie’s mansion threw long bright rectangles of yellow out onto the dark lawn as Rosie pulled up. Red and blue lights blinking, cop cars were everywhere.

Alexis, please…Please be okay, baby.

Rosie parked the Beamer in the driveway, got out and ran stumbling up the dark sidewalk. Besides the radio cars, several cars she’d never seen before were parked on the narrow street in front of the house. Dark, shadowy figures moved about near the brilliantly lit pool house and pool.

Expecting the worst inside, she struggled with her keys and pushed the big door open.

“Jennifer?”

Her coppery curls bouncing and her blue eyes as bright as lasers in her olive-toned face, Alexis got up from the television set and hurled herself into her grandmother’s arms, nearly knocking her down.

“You didn’t come home when you said, Mimi!”

Rosie swallowed guiltily and tried not to think about why.

“So, I went to your bed! I crawled under the covers with Lula on top so I could hide and surprise you! I guess I fell asleep, and I didn’t hear Jennifer when she called me! So, guess what? She called the nice policeman! But don’t give me a time-out! Please don’t!”

Rosie pressed the slim child close and drank in the musky fragrances of unwashed little girl, sweaty curls and peppermint breath. Her nose was running, too.

“You’re okay? You’re really okay! Oh, honey…” Relief flooded Rosie as she searched her purse for a tissue. Finally. Something good had happened since she’d turned forty.

“You’re squeezing me, Mimi!”

As she hugged Alexis even closer, Rosie slowly became aware of the tall, dark, lean-hipped man writing something on a notepad.

The police! She was in no shape to deal with them. When he strode into the living room and stood over her, tingles of alarm coursed through her. Then her gaze climbed a pair of long muscular legs encased in rumpled black slacks.

Familiar long muscular legs.

For no reason at all she remembered the furious rattle of palm fronds, the sound of a Mexican xylophone, the salty air that smelled of the sea…and the sting of hot skin from that awful sunburn she’d gotten from lying on the beach in the shade too long with Michael.

It couldn’t be him…Not Michael Nash!

Michael wore a brown sport coat that needed an iron. His tie had been yanked loose at his throat. There were shadows under his long-lashed, dark eyes that hadn’t been there when he’d fast-talked and fast-kissed and fast-petted her into riding off on the back of his motorcycle to Veracruz, Mexico, the day after they’d graduated from high school.

Michael. He had a tattoo of a cute little palm tree on his chest over his heart, which matched the one she had over her left breast. Thank God they were both clothed.

With a low moan, she stood up slowly and blew out a mortified breath. She’d dressed in such a hurry at Pierce’s and then at the hospital again that she was sure she looked even more of a mess than Michael did.

Michael turned off the TV and shot her his famous football star grin that back in high school had made all the cheerleaders want to sleep with him. Okay, obviously she’d gone for it, too.

Alexis must’ve fallen for the smile because she ran over to him and lowered her lashes much too fetchingly for Rosie’s peace of mind. And she was all of five.

Oh, my God!

Rosie watched in horror as he knelt. Oh, how she hated how infinitely gentle his voice was when he spoke to the little girl. “You okay, sweetheart?”

Alexis nodded up at him. Holding her blue blanket, she twisted it to and fro shyly.

“Of all the cops in this city—you had to be the one to come.” Rosie ran her hands through her wildly tangled hair. Then she snapped, “Alexis, it’s time for bed!”

The child put her hands on her hips. Her jaw squared mulishly. “I’m not sleepy.”

“I thought you were a homicide detective,” Rosie said to Michael.

“So you remember?” His grin twisted. “I like it that you paid attention. Your babysitter called 911. I heard your name.”

“So you volunteered?”

His eyes darkened, and she felt a little scared.

“Something like that.” He lowered his voice, but not before she caught the edge in it. “Fond memories.”

Why did he look so serious? Why was he studying her so intently with those cop’s eyes of his? As if she’d committed a crime?

She tried not to think about Pierce. “Aren’t there enough bad guys to keep you busy?”