From the Heart

Michael.”
    Slade waited until he heard the front door close. “What kind of disagreement did you have with David?”
    “It was nothing to do with this—it was personal.”
    “Nothing’s personal right now.”
    “This was.” Turning, she fixed him with weary eyes, but he saw the stubborn crease between her brows. “I have a right to some privacy, Slade.”
    “I told you not to see either of them alone,” he reminded her.
    “Book me,” she snapped.
    “Don’t tempt me.” He met her angry eyes directly. “And don’t do it again.”
    “Yes, Sergeant.” On a disgusted sigh, Jessica dragged a hand through her hair. “I’m sorry.”
    “Don’t apologize,” he told her briefly. “Just do what you’re told.”
    “I think I will go up. I’m tired,” she added, not looking at Slade.
    “Good.” He didn’t get up, nor did he take his eyes off her. “Get some sleep.”
    “Yes, yes, I will. Good night, Slade.”
    He listened to her go up the steps, then tossed his cigarette into the fire and swore.
    Upstairs, Jessica filled the tub. That was what she needed, she told herself—an aspirin for the headache, a hot tub for the tension. Then she would sleep. She had to sleep—her body was crying for it. For the first time in her life Jessica felt the near weightlessness of true exhaustion. She waited until the bathroom was steamy, then lowered herself into the tub.
    She knew she hadn’t deceived Slade. Jessica wasn’t fool enough to believe that he’d taken her excuse of being tired at face value. He was just as cognizant of what was going on inside her head as she was. The visit from Michael had been the last straw in a day filled with unspoken fears and rippling tension.
    Nothing had happened, she thought in frustration as she let the water lap over her. How much longer would she have to wait? Another day? A week? Two weeks? On a long, quiet sigh she shut her eyes. Jessica understood her own personality too well. She would be lucky to get through the night much less another week of waiting and wondering.
    Take an hour at a time, she advised herself. It was seven o’clock. She’d concentrate on getting through until eight.
     
    At twenty past eight Slade went systematically through the first floor, checking locks. He’d waited, throughout an unbearably long day, for the phone call that would tell him his assignment was over. Silently he cursed Interpol, the FBI, and Dodson. As far as he was concerned, they were all equally to blame. Jessica wouldn’t be able to take much more—that had been made abundantly clear during Michael’s visit.
    Another thing had been made abundantly clear. Slade had found himself entirely too close to stepping over the last boundary. If the doorbell hadn’t rung, he would have said things best left unsaid, asked things he had no right to ask of a vulnerable woman.
    She might have said yes. Would have said yes, he corrected as he stepped past a snoring Ulysses. And would have regretted it, he reflected, when the situation changed and her life was back to normal. What if he had asked her, then they’d been married before she’d had time to readjust? A good way to mess up two lives, Slade, he told himself. It was better to make the break now, draw back until they were just cop and assignment again.
    At least she was upstairs resting, not beside him, tempting him to cross the line again. When she wasn’t there where he could see her, touch her, it was easier to keep things in perspective.
    The servants were settled in their wing. He could hear the low murmur of a television and the settling of boards. After he’d finished checking the locks, he’d go upstairs and write. Slade rubbed a hand over the back of his neck where the tension concentrated. Then he’d sleep in his own bed, alone.
    As he walked toward the kitchen door, Slade saw the knob slowly turn. Muscles tensed, he stepped back into the shadows and waited.
     
    Eight-thirty. Jessica glanced at the clock again as she roamed her bedroom. Neither the bath nor the aspirin had relaxed her enough to bring sleep any closer. If Slade would come up, she thought, then shook her head. She was becoming toodependent, and that wasn’t like her. Still, she felt that her nerves would calm somewhat if she could just hear the sound of his typewriter.
    An hour at a time, she reminded herself, glancing at the clock yet again. Well, she’d made it from seven to eight, but she wasn’t going to make it until nine. Giving