Ella Williams nodded, acknowledging the words of sympathy expressed by yet another mourner. How long could she keep this up for? Everyone knew and respected her husband. They had come from all over the country to the small town of Andover, Kansas, as a mark of respect. Her husband had many real friends who’d happily given up the time to come to his funeral. For the last four hours she’d listened to their heartfelt and polite condolences. She knew they had no understanding of how she felt, totally bereft.
Didn’t they know her world had fallen apart five days ago? It had fractured beyond repair. Her life lay shattered all around her. Just what was she going to do now? How could she cope? Every fiber of her being wanted to scream out, It’s not true. He’s not dead. He’s going to come walking through that door any minute now. You’ll see. Ella breathed in, taking the air deep into her lungs. She had to hold it together. What would the good people of Andover say if she screamed with sorrow at the top of her voice? Would the doctors feed her full of drugs until she forgot every terrifying minute of that awful day? The idea that she could erase those memories seemed very tempting.
What had Kirk been thinking of? She knew he hadn’t been well. That was why she’d stayed with him these past few months, trying to help him come to terms with life outside the armed forces. Their marriage had been over long before he’d even gone to Afghanistan on his last tour of duty. He’d known it at the time, and they’d discussed it in a civilized manner. Yet, when he returned, he’d altered. He’d become paranoid and agitated, aggressive even. He frightened her.
Without thinking, Ella lifted a hand to her neck, and smoothed her fingertips over the velvet choker. Even through the thick material she could still feel the painful bruising beneath. What on earth had possessed Kirk? Thank God she’d been able to hide the unsightly blackened marks from view. The choker hid most of the bruising, and wearing her hair long hid the rest. It was not the lasting memory she wished for her husband. Whatever he’d done, he hadn’t been himself.
A man cleared his throat, and she looked up to see Max standing in front of her. “Ella, my deepest sympathies, but I’ve gotta go.”
Max cut an imposing figure whatever he was wearing, but today, sporting an expensive, hand-tailored suit, he looked especially impressive. Standing about six-three, and weighing over two hundred pounds, he was an imposing sight. Her husband had always joked that Max was just one step away from the Mafia, and often implied that you wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of him. His parents, both Sicilian immigrants, meant he certainly had the connections, and the looks. Thick, dark hair fell about his face in unruly waves. A typical Roman nose gave way to surprisingly sensual lips. But it was his eyes that stood out most from his olive complexion. A striking silver-gray, they commanded respect and attention. He’d never hidden his BDSM lifestyle from herself and Kirk, and she could only imagine how his slaves felt as he dominated them into submission.
She made her excuses to the guests sitting beside her, and walked him to the door. All the time aware that something had altered between them. He seemed distant, and reluctant to meet her gaze. This wasn’t the Max she’d come to rely on when her husband was on tour with the Marines. Max had always looked out for her. Made sure she was okay while Kirk was away. Now he could barely utter two words to her without her feeling his anger? Why? She guessed he was grieving over the death of Kirk, just like herself. She had to make allowances. He needed time to come to terms with the death of his lifelong friend, too.
“Max, we need to talk.” There were things she had to tell him.
“There’s nothing to talk about, Ella.”
“Please. For Kirk’s sake.” Max was a good ten inches taller than her, and she stared up into his eyes, feeling small and vulnerable in his presence.
“What do you want to talk about?” he eventually said.
“I can’t say here,” she whispered, her voice croaking and hoarse, “not with everyone around.”
He studied her, anger flaring in his eyes. “I’ll call you when I get the time.”
“Please, Max.” For whatever reason, she felt he wouldn’t. She squeezed his hand. “I don’t know what’s happening anymore. You seem…” She shrugged, trying to contain her grief. “So angry, and I don’t know why.”
He stared at her for what seemed a long time. Then so no one could hear, he leaned in and whispered in her ear, “Of course I’m f*ck
ing angry. My best friend shot himself. I need answers, Ella. Why would he do that?”
“There are things you don’t know, Max. That’s why we need to talk.”
His silver-gray eyes seemed to control her, calming her. “Like I just said, I’ll call you when I get the time.” He then pushed open the double doors before walking through the reception area and continuing outside.
She watched him stride across to his car, his demeanor stiff as he opened the door. The moment he removed his jacket and tossed it angrily onto the back seat, she knew he had no intention of calling her. Well, there was no way she’d let this drop. Max needed to know everything. Then maybe he’d understand.
Chapter Two
One week later