Marriage: Classified

Beside her, Jordan stood. “Sara, you stay here with June for a while. I have something I need to do.”

There was a grim determination on his masculine face. She wouldn’t have wanted to cross him then.

But what was he going to do? Make sure he hadn’t left any clues that would identify him as her attacker?

That was a nasty shot, Sara castigated herself. Even if there was something a little off in the way Jordan, her new husband, treated her, she had no reason to think him a suspect in her father’s death or in the attacks on her.

Except that June had told her that Jordan and her father had been arguing….

No, whatever Jordan was up to, she could be certain it would be in her best interests.

She lifted her face up to him for a kiss. Wasn’t that what new brides did?

He blinked in what appeared to be surprise and uncertainty before he caught himself and bent toward her. His lips were cool, and their contact with hers brief. Unsatisfying.

“See you later,” he said over his shoulder as he strode out of the room.

Bewildered and hurt, Sara nevertheless noticed the expressions on the faces of the others as they stared after Jordan. Ramon’s mouth quirked slightly in an amused smile that did not erase the uneasiness in his eyes.

June appeared perturbed, but her eyes seemed glued to Jordan’s compact butt, hugged by his dress trousers. A pang of something that could have been jealousy caromed through Sara. That was her husband’s behind that June so obviously admired.

But there was nothing at all appreciative of Jordan Dawes in Carroll Heumann’s snide grimace.

“I’M SORRY I left you with that cheery crowd,” Jordan said to Sara a while later. He shot an ironic glance toward her from the driver’s seat of his white Mustang. The arch expression went wonderfully with Jordan’s masculine features, turning them roguish and utterly appealing.

No wonder Sara had fallen in love with him…hadn’t she?

She was beginning to believe so, more and more. But if she could now remember a little of her police training, why couldn’t she recall how she felt about her brand-new husband?

Jordan continued, “I knew Heumann had ordered an investigation of what happened to you, but I wanted to start one of my own.”

“Did you learn anything?” Sara asked.

“Only that our perpetrator is pretty damned cunning. I believe I spoke with everyone at the funeral, though briefly. Most had milled around, talking to one another, speculating on who killed your father. Though only one person planned it that way, they generally provided great alibis for one another. No one paid a lot of attention as to those who might have wandered off by themselves.”

Sara felt shocked. “You’re really pushing it, aren’t you? You weren’t just trying to rule out suspects before. You really think that one of my father’s friends attacked me—someone on the Santa Gregoria force?”

Jordan’s tone was gentle as he answered, though he did not move his eyes from the road in front of them. “Yes, Sara, I do.”

“But—”

“We’ll talk about it one day when you’re stronger. For now, take a look in front of us. Does this street seem familiar?”

She peered through the windshield toward a wide avenue lined on both sides with pleasant-looking stucco houses, most with at least some expanse of green lawn. There were eucalyptus trees and a few oaks, and cars of fairly current vintages sat by the curbs or in driveways. It seemed a pretty neighborhood, welcoming, a nice enough place to live. But did anything look familiar? She strained her memory and came up with…nothing.

“Not really. Is it supposed to?”

Jordan nodded, then pulled the car to the curb and looked toward her. A thatch of his light brown hair had slipped from where he had brushed it back from his face to curl winsomely over his broad forehead. He had deposited his jacket and tie onto the back seat, and his white shirt was open at the neck, revealing a hint of chest hair a few shades darker than that on his head. “Don’t worry about it. You’ll remember everything, one of these days.”

It would have been a perfect opportunity to tell Jordan about how she had fought off her attacker earlier—how her training had come back to her.

But she didn’t tell him. Not yet.

Though her mind had helped her in a crisis, the knowledge of a few self-defense techniques seemed like such a minor matter, compared with how she felt about the man beside her.

She wanted to be able to fling herself into his arms and tell him she remembered how they had met. How they had fallen in love. What their wedding had been like.

Until those memories had returned, nothing else was important.

He had come around to the passenger side of the car and opened the door. He helped her out.

She glanced toward the house before them. It was a pretty dwelling, a two-story gray stucco with white trim at the doors and windows, small white wrought-iron balconies outside the two upstairs windows, and a riot of flowers in beds on either side of the walkway to the front porch.

A tiny pang of recollection seemed to jolt Sara. “It does look familiar!” she exclaimed. She turned excitedly toward Jordan, unconsciously holding out her hands. He took them as she said, “Jordan, tell me about the house. Did we pick it out together before we got married?”

The pleased expression seemed to vanish from his face, and his deep blue eyes grew fathomless once more. “No, Sara.” His voice was soft, as though he were talking with a child. Didn’t he understand that only made her feel worse? “It’s your house. You lived here with your father. Stu grew up here, too. Now it’ll belong to you.”