Read The Perfect Husband for Free Online Page B

lush lashes.
    “Jesus Christ,” he murmured. “Jesus H. Christ.”
    He started pacing. Even then he felt the tension curling up inside his belly.
    “It's… it's a start.” Angela sounded a little stunned by the transformation herself as she gazed into the hand mirror.
    Rosalita bustled away with the basin of soapy water, leaving them alone in the living room. A taut silence descended. Angela's fingers began to fidget on her lap.
    “Want a piece of advice?” J.T. said all of a sudden. “It's free.”
    “Doesn't that make two good deeds in one day? I thought you'd already met quota for the year.”
    “You caught me at a weak moment. Now, do you want the advice or what?”
    “Okay.”
    “Dye your hair,” he said flatly. “It's the trick of a disguise — come up with something that looks even more you than the real you. I'd recommend a dark brown or auburn, something that fits your natural coloring. Then you'll have a new look that's subtle. Right now you're too obvious.”
    “Oh.”
    “So there you go. Visit a pharmacy, buy some hair dye, and thirty minutes later you'll be all set.”
    “Thank you.”
    He grimaced. “Advice wasn't that good.”
    “J.T., about yesterday. I need to talk to you, will you—”
    “Hungry?” He turned to face her. “You need to eat more. I can make oatmeal.”
    She hesitated, clearly wanting to return to the original topic. “That makes three good deeds,” she pointed out.
    “Blame it on my upbringing. I certainly do.”
    “Breakfast would be nice, I guess.” She nodded toward the nearly empty beer bottle dangling from his fingertips. “Looks like you've already had yours.”
    “Yep.”
    “Do you always drink so much?”
    “Only to excess.”
    “Vince didn't say you were an alcoholic.”
    “I am
not
an alcoholic. Prissy teetotaler.” He thumped the bottle against his thigh. She had an accent. A northern accent. Well educated. What had brought a well-educated northern woman all the way to the Mexican border, exhausted, malnourished, and obviously terrified?
    His gaze fell to her thighs.
    Shit.
    He took a step toward her. She stiffened. It didn't matter.
    He walked right up to her even as she leaned way back, sinking into the chair. Her eyes were wide and fearful. He ignored her distress, reaching out and swiping a finger down the vicious scar marring her pale thigh. Broad. Shiny. Many snaking tributaries, the kind that would be made by a bone snapping and tearing through flesh.
    “He do that?”
    She didn't answer.
    “Dammit, did he do that?”
    She opened her mouth, then gave up and simply stared at him.
    “Who the hell are you, Angela?”
    “A woman who needs help.”
    “Your husband was that bad?”
    “No,” she said bluntly. “He was worse.”
    J.T. turned away. He was angry again. That was always his problem. He was too good at getting angry and not good enough at fixing anything.
Control, control. It's not your problem, it's not your business
.
    But he hated the sight of the scar on her thigh. It made him think of things he'd dedicated the last few years to forgetting. And it made him want to find her ex-husband and slam his fist through his face.
    He forced himself to relax and took a swallow from his beer. He didn't speak again until he trusted himself completely.
    “I'll make oatmeal.”
    “Thank you.”
    “Honey, you haven't tasted it yet.”
     
     
    ANGELA FOLLOWED HIM into the kitchen. He was proud of the kitchen — Rachel had designed it. He knew a lot about pools, and in the last couple of years he'd become a good landscaper. He didn't know much about decorating though. In the marines you stuck a girlie poster above your bed and that was considered the finishing touch.
    Rachel had had a natural flair, so she'd designed the house they were going to build in Montana, where the sky was endless and they would always feel free. He was going to learn about horses. She was going to study interior decorating. Maybe they would have a second kid,