A Convenient Proposal(16)
“Why were you crying?”
She jumped at the sound of his voice in the quiet car. “I wasn’t. I mean…”
Griff was shaking his head. “I was speeding because I was watching tears roll down your cheeks, and wondering what was wrong.”
Arden squeezed her eyes shut and clasped her hands together in her lap. “I—I must have been dreaming.”
“Yeah, I figured that out. Must’ve been a sad dream. Or scary.”
“I don’t remember.”
“I don’t believe you.”
She glared at him. “My dreams are none of your business.”
He shrugged. “As your fiancé, I disagree.”
“You’re not really my fiancé.”
“For the time being, I’m considering this a real engagement. Especially given what you expect as, um, payment for services rendered. So I’d like to know what sort of dream makes you cry.”
Maybe he wasn’t as easygoing as she’d thought. “I really don’t remember much. Just an overwhelming sorrow.” She added truthfully, “I didn’t want to be left.”
“Someone was leaving you?”
Arden shrugged. “That’s what it felt like.”
“I guess you’ve lost people in your life. Your parents?”
Damn his insight. “My father, actually. He left my mother and me when I was five.” Funny how this had become the least vulnerable of her wounds.
Griff used a vulgar word to characterize the man. “But your mother stayed. She’s still with you?”
“We’re estranged,” Arden snapped. “So I was crying about my parents in the dream. Will you let it go now?”
He didn’t react to her peevishness. “I doubt it. But I’ll give you a break.” The next moment, he punched the radio on, then turned the dial. A Bach fugue, played on the harpsichord, flowed into the car, filling every crevice like ocean waves swirling around each shell and pebble on the beach.
Arden could hardly breathe. “Turn it off,” she choked out. “Please.”
The sound stopped. “Sorry,” Griff said. “I thought you would like classical.”
Swallowing hard, she shook her head. “I don’t need music. I’m good with silence, if you are. Or…or the bluegrass.” She didn’t feel at all connected to such a foreign style of playing, which made it bearable. “Whatever you want.”
He gave her a sideways glance. “Let’s go with silence.” Just as she started to relax, he said, “We can tell each other our life histories. That’s what engaged people do, right?”
Arden reached for the radio. “I’d prefer bluegrass.”
Chapter Four
The whining vocals and jangling instruments created an excellent barrier between the two halves of the front seat. Arden sat with her eyes closed and her head back, hoping to relax and dull the knives stabbing through her skull. By the time they’d reached Daytona Beach, however, she could only surrender.
She turned the radio off. “Could we stop for the night? I really don’t think I can ride much farther without being sick.”
Griff flashed her an assessing glance. “No problem. There’s a good place to stay just two exits from here. Give me ten minutes and we’ll have a room.”
“No speeding,” she reminded him.
“Strictly under the limit,” he agreed. “And it’ll still be ten minutes.”
She stumbled across the grass beside the parking lot with Igor while Griff registered, then followed the Jag on foot as he drove around the building to the space nearest a door.
“I’ll bring the bags in,” he said, when she stopped beside the trunk. “I want you inside and lying down.”
“But—”
“No arguments.” He clasped her arm with one big, warm hand and drew her toward the door. “My ten minutes are almost up.”
Arden abandoned the argument because the afternoon sunlight jabbed viciously at her eyes. Even the elevator lighting seemed too bright. In the room, she unclipped Igor’s leash, then headed for the double bed nearest the air-conditioning unit.
“I’m sorry,” she mumbled, crawling to the center of the mattress. “I would help…” The pillow muffled her voice as she buried her face in its softness and succumbed to agony.