Secret Sisters by Jayne Ann Krentz Page B

closed the door, turned on the light, and sank down on the cold side of the white porcelain tub. She grabbed a fluffy towel off the rack and buried her face in the thick cotton.
    She gave herself up to the tears. It was not the first time she had cried alone since Edith Chase’s death.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN
    Jack waited for the bathroom door to open again. When it didn’t, he systematically ran through the various explanations for the unnatural silence in the next room. He could think of only two or three logical possibilities—illness, an anxiety attack, or tears. He figured he could eliminate illness because there had been no flushing of the toilet and no water running in the sink. That left the anxiety attack theory or tears. Madeline had a right to either or both.
    She wasn’t pacing the floor. He concluded that ruled out the anxiety attack. Tears, then.
    Damn.
    He waited a moment longer. When the bathroom door still failed to reopen, he pushed aside the covers and sat up on the edge of the bed. There was a hotel robe in the bathroom, but he never actually felt dressed in a robe. When you were dealing with a client, it was generally a good idea to keep your clothes on.
    He got to his feet and reached for his trousers. He took his time stepping into them, hoping that the bathroom door would open. It didn’t. He collected the shoulder holster and the gun. Accessories madethe outfit, he reminded himself. Also, he had a policy when it came to weapons—if he was convinced that the job required one, he made sure it was always close at hand.
    Satisfied that he met the minimum sartorial requirements, he pushed the connecting door open and went into the other room. The bed had been turned down but was otherwise undisturbed. There was enough moonlight to reveal the little chocolate on the pillow.
    He paused halfway across the room and listened closely. Still no sound from the bathroom. If Madeline was crying, she was doing it very quietly.
    He braced himself and reluctantly knocked on the door.
    â€œEverything okay in there?” he asked.
    There was a short silence from the other side.
    â€œYes. Fine.”
    Madeline’s voice was tight and hoarse. He tried to figure out where to go next. There was nothing in the Detecting for Dummies manual that covered these situations. It wasn’t the first time he’d dealt with a client who broke down in tears, but such events usually occurred in an office setting. There was a reason he had made the executive decision not to take divorce and missing-person cases; a reason why he had skewed his career toward corporate security since leaving the FBI consulting work.
    â€œDo you want to talk about it?” he asked, for lack of anything more inventive.
    â€œNo.” There were some sniffs. “Please go away. I’m okay. Just tired.”
    He heard water splash in the sink.
    â€œAre you wearing a robe?” he asked.
    There was a pause from the other side of the door.
    â€œWhy?” Deep suspicion underlined the single word.
    â€œBecause I think we should talk, and it’s never a good idea to have conversations with an undressed client.”
    â€œOh, for pity’s sake.” She yanked open the door. Her face was flushed and a little blotchy from the crying jag. Her hair was down around her shoulders and somewhat damp from the hasty cold-water splash. But she was in full command of herself. Irritation sharpened her glare. “I told you, there’s nothing wrong.” She stopped, taking in the sight of him standing in the shadows. “You’re dressed.”
    â€œWell, sure. Like I said, there’s a rule about being dressed while engaging in conversations with clients.”
    She surprised him with a misty but real smile. “We in the hotel industry have similar rules. Sorry. Didn’t mean to make you think there was a major crisis going on over here. You can go back to bed now.”
    She started to take a step