His Sugar Baby(74)
Michael eased himself to a sitting position. His eyes never wavered from hers, and she saw guilt reflected in their pale depths. “I need to be honest with you. There are—things you need to know.” A muscle ticked in his jaw. “You obviously want a relationship. There’s no possibility of that.” She heard the regret in his voice, which only served to crush her further. He slid an arm around her shoulders, and she tensed. He lifted his other hand to gently caress her face with his fingers. “Winter. I’m sorry.” When she started to move away from him, he tightened his arm. She resisted, so he reluctantly let her go.
She slipped out of the bed and started across the bedroom toward the bathroom. Coming to him, falling into bed with him, had been a monumental mistake. “I’ll get cleaned up and go.”
“I have a wife.”
The words hung stark on the air. They hit her with all the force of lethal throwing knives. She stumbled and slowly swung around. She stared disbelievingly at him. Something shriveled, and died, inside her. Her pulse beat heavily in her body, in her belly.
His face was still shuttered, but there was an uneasy flicker in his eyes. There was an almost-imperceptible working of his throat before he spoke again. “We were separated for a long time before I met you, but we aren’t divorced.”
Cathy struggled to make sense of what exactly he was telling her. “You were married? While we were…” She waved her hands in the air.
“Yes.” Michael’s head inclined in the barest nod. His ice-blue gaze never left her face. A tight, white line bracketed his mouth. “That’s right! The whole time.”
After all that had happened, it seemed the worst possible betrayal. His talk of it being better not to be in a relationship, the relief she had felt when she took that to mean he was not married. She had been the bit on the side. She had gotten knocked up by a married man. She was the “other woman.” She was nothing but a tawdry cliché.
This was the man she had fallen in love with.
“You bastard,” she breathed.
He left the bed and slowly approached her. He was totally unselfconscious of his nudity. He spread his hands in a placating gesture. “Listen to me. Please.”
She recoiled. “Do not touch me!” She whirled and darted into the bathroom, slamming the door and locking it. The click sounded loudly.
In the bathroom, Cathy stared at herself in the mirror. The wild mass of flaming corkscrews framed her huge, darkened eyes and waxen face. Her lips were still puffed and reddened from Michael’s kisses.
“I have a wife.”
The world tilted. She clutched the vanity. Something crashed through her mind, breaking and shattering, leaving in its wake cold, crystal clarity. The hope-fantasy was over. There would be no happy ending. Not for her. Not with Michael.
Nausea suddenly caught her. She staggered over to the toilet and bent over, retching. When she was done, she went back to the sink to splash water on her face and rinse out her mouth. She straightened and stared again at her reflection.
Cathy watched huge tears well up in her eyes and spill over. Furious with herself, she rubbed her eyes clear. She whirled and ran out of the bathroom. She scooped up her clothing from off the bedroom floor. In the morning light shining through the French doors, she dressed swiftly, pulling on the skirt, the sweater over it, and the belt. She shoved her feet into her ankle boots. Grabbing her coat and her purse, she ran to the bedroom door.
Cathy paused in the doorway. She surveyed the masculine navy-blue-and-tan bedroom, sparing a long glance for the tumbled bed. Her nostrils flared. The heavy musk of sex was redolent on the air. Nausea welled again, and she swallowed reflexively. She spun away and fled.
From the kitchen, Michael heard the swift running steps on the granite tile in the entry then the crash of the front door. He froze in the process of flipping the omelet he was preparing. In the distance he heard an engine roar and the squeal of tires.
His thoughts darted back to the incredible night they had just shared and then how ugly things had turned out. Whatever had brought her to him, whatever issues had lain between them, had been unimportant. He hadn’t cared about anything except for the fact that she was in his bed. After making love to her, he had shut his eyes and fallen into a dreamless sleep.
He had been an idiot. When she had shown up, instead of taking her to bed, he should have demanded to know what was going on. He could have avoided the whole ugly business. He grimaced again over his gross stupidity. He had handled it so brilliantly. He had just blurted it out.
He had reasoned that he needed to give her some space. Some time to pull herself out of the understandable shock. They would talk. He would explain. She would understand.
So he had pulled on a pair of jeans and gone downstairs. But Michael had left the bedroom seriously worried. She had been so pissed. He had had a feeling it wasn’t going to be easy. He’d decided to make her breakfast. There was nothing like sharing a meal together to encourage polite, reasonable communication.
He became aware of a burning odor. He glanced down and jerked the skillet off of the burner. The smoking omelet was crisped and blackened. He flipped off the heat.
So. They weren’t going to talk about it. Well, then, he thought he’d get drunk.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Michael didn’t want to answer the door. But it was Darryl standing on the front porch. He knew that his business partner wouldn’t be satisfied if he just yelled for him to beat it. Michael opened the door and turned away, letting his friend find his own way in.