Page 23 of Beat of Love
“I am not happy with you, Rafferty Lawson,”she’d say in her prim accent when he had done something to disappoint her.
“My beautiful English rose,” he whispered.
She’d personified grace and beauty.
He’d done nothing to deserve her love.
She should’ve gotten rid of his sorry, ungrateful ass the first time he abused her trust.
But she had stuck by him. Time and again.
First as a friend, then lover. And wife for a few days.
He’d known keeping her in his life was wrong, yet he’d never been able to sever that tie. Charlotte Carlson had been a light in his dark world. A reminder that the work he did in the corrupt underbelly of society made a difference. Drugs taken off the streets; illegal weapons smuggling routes shut down; countless humans saved from trafficking. Criminals brought to justice.
She had been proud of him.Proud.
Damn him to hell.
In the end, he’d killed her.
Literally. Giving the medical staff permission to switch off the machines that breathed life into her had been the hardest decision of his life.
He’d been a person of interest right from the moment he reported her missing to the Klamath ranger’s office. And when she had been found two days later, unconscious, viciously beaten, the police had arrested him.
Diabetic wife left for dead in a remote national forest mere days after a hasty Vegas wedding …
Sole beneficiary of a substantial life policy …
Criminal record …
The police questioned him for two days before releasing him. He’d rushed to her bedside, hoping for a miracle. Instead, he’d signed the consent forms to pull the plug on her life, snuffing out the sunshine of his world.
He’d stood at the back of the chapel during her memorial service, vowing to hunt and destroy the persons responsible for her death. It had taken him a year to finally pinpoint the culprit, and then another to hunt and end the man.
And here he was, three years after her death, finally home.
Finally able to pay tribute to the woman who had stood by him despite his many shortcomings.
“I am so fucking sorry,” he said, stepping into the stream, his voice thick with emotion. Cool water gushed by his calves, and he lifted the flowers to his face, breathing in the heady scent. The highly fragrant red, old English rose variety had been Charlie’s favorite bloom. They’d been hard to source but thank goodness the florist in town had come through for him. With reverence, he leaned down, laid the flowers on the surface, and released his grip. The rough current separated the crimson blooms, spreading the love they represented across the surface as theyflowed away. He lifted his hand to his mouth and blew a kiss, blinking rapidly.
Blowing kisses had been her thing.
He’d never see her do it again.
Straightening, he thought back to the first time they had met …
He was too slow and too far to prevent it from happening. Rafferty cringed as the sound of crunching metal reached his ears, already on his feet racing toward the diner door.
“Are you blind?” he yelled, bursting out onto the sidewalk, stalking toward his crumpled Road King as the driver of the yellow Volkswagen campervan rushed around to view the damage she caused.
“Oh, my gosh. I am so, so sorry,” the wrecker of his prized possession gushed, her out-of-place English accent halting the angry retort on his lips.
She was the prettiest girl he’d ever seen.
Tall and willowy with shiny blonde hair scraped back off her face. Delicate pink tipped fingers pressed against her mouth as she stared at his downed Harley half under the back of the van.
She turned her stricken stare on him, mesmerizing him with her wide pretty eyes, the palest of pale blue. She placed a hand on his arm. Soft and delicate, he thought, moving his gaze from her horrified expression to the slender fingers resting on his forearm, and back up again. “I am so sorry,” she repeated, her eyes blinking rapidly.
