Page 164 of Cold Case, Warm Hearts

At the top of the sweeping staircase, she heard the murmur of voices.

“Stay away from my wife.”

Becca hardly recognized her cousin’s voice. The venom in it didn’t sound like Tate. She tiptoed down the steps. The argument seemed to be coming from the drawing room. She slipped into the dining room and stood in the doorway where she could hear. Her hand to her throat, she listened to see who he was talking to.

“I don’t think I’m your problem.” Max’s voice was even and measured. “You might check out your own attitude toward your wife.”

“You’ve got a lot of room to talk,” Tate spat. “Your own wife died trying to escape you.”

“We’re talking about your wife not mine.”

Becca’s heart raced at the stress in Max’s voice and leaned in to hear better.

“Let’s talk about your wife for a change. Everyone in this house has tiptoed around you for four years. You’re no grievingwidower anymore. Maybe we can be honest, man to man, for a change.” Tate’s voice prodded with laser precision.

“I’m going to bed. You’ve had too much to drink.”

“That’s always your way, isn’t it, Max? The strong, silent type draws women like black flies in June. But you couldn’t keep your own wife from straying.”

“You should know.” Max’s voice was tight. “You encouraged her.”

“Is that what this is—payback time? I didn’t think you had such passion in you.” Tate’s voice slurred. “It’s no wonder my sister couldn’t take your coldness.”

“I’m not talking to you when you’re like this.”

Max’s voice grew closer, and Becca looked frantically around for somewhere to hide. Heavy brocade curtains hung at the window, and she slipped behind them. Just in time too, as Max stomped past where she’d stood moments before.

Becca held her breath, then his footsteps faded. She wanted to get back to her room, but she was afraid to move. Tate was still in the drawing room. She waited several minutes then peeked out. The dining room was empty, but she could still hear Tate muttering to himself in the drawing room.

She stepped from behind the curtains and raced up the steps, her inclination for warm milk forgotten. At the top of the steps, she turned to go to her room and encountered someone standing in the hall.

She uttered a shriek that was quickly stifled by a hard hand on her mouth.

“Shhh! You’ll wake the house.” Nick’s breath whispered across her ear.

She relaxed in his grip. “You scared the life out of me,” she whispered.

“Lots of people prowling around tonight.” He took her arm and escorted her toward her room. “I wouldn’t wander at night, if I were you.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” she said. “I wanted some warm milk.”

“Next time you want to wander, come get me and we can look at the moonlight together.”

His voice was as warm as the milk she’d craved earlier, but it made her draw back. She wasn’t used to a fast rush like that. Could he really find her that attractive? He had Max’s good looks with none of the hard edges.

Becca pulled her hand out of his and pushed open the door to her room. “Thanks for making sure I made it back safely.”

He smiled. “Next time we’ll wander together.”

Still smiling, she closed the door. It felt good to be admired like that. She tumbled into her bed and pulled the sheet up around her neck. Laura must have had an affair, with Tate’s blessing. The hostility between Tate and Max seemed to be deep and hard to bridge. Did Gram know?

And did it have anything to do with her parents’ death?

Molly sidledinto Max’s office, but he barely noticed as he glared at the first page of his novel. Bunk, pure hogwash. Panic played at the edge of his mind. What if his four-year hiatus from writing had destroyed his creativity? Maybe the muse had left him for all time. No editor would want this drivel. He shoved the keyboard away from him and ran his hand through his hair.

“Daddy?”

“What, sweetheart?” Maybe he should take up another profession. Carpentry maybe.

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