“Colin?”
He’d been so preoccupied with his self-loathing that he hadn’t noticed the attractive redhead approaching. Carolyn Bradmond was one of those high-powered, low-maintenance women whose company he should most enjoy. She was intelligent, sophisticated, and too involved in her career to be emotionally demanding. Colin Byrne’s ideal woman . . . So why hadn’t she crossed his mind since he’d last seen her five months ago?
He rose to greet her. “Hello, Carolyn. How are you?”
“Couldn’t be better. How’s the new book coming along?”
It was one of the two questions people most frequently asked writers, and if he invited her to join him, it wouldn’t take her long to get around to the other one. “I’ve always wanted to know, Colin. Where do you authors get your ideas?”
We steal them.
From extraterrestrials.
There’s a warehouse outside Tulsa . . .
He had no energy for such a conversation, so he stayed on his feet and chatted with her until she took the hint and left. As the pianist at the bar’s baby grand switched to Gershwin, he finished his third whiskey and ordered a fourth. Before Sugar Beth had come banging on his front door, he’d taken pride in the way he’d confined his romantic inclinations to the printed page. But how did a man distance himself from a woman like her?
He couldn’t let her leave Parrish. Not yet. Not until they’d had a chance to work through this bloody train wreck of a relationship. They needed time, but she didn’t want to give it to them. Instead, she’d made up her mind to run as soon as she got the chance. And it was wrong.
He remembered her wistful expression as she’d gazed around at the depot and talked about making it into a children’s bookstore. She belonged in Parrish. She was part of this town. Part of him.
His guilt settled in deeper. The pianist abandoned Gershwin for Hoagy Carmichael. Colin finished his drink, but the alcohol didn’t offer the absolution he craved.
Today, he’d found Sugar Beth’s painting, and he hadn’t said a word.
Ryan had never been more attentive. He asked Winnie a dozen questions about the shop and seemed genuinely interested in her responses. He complimented her on her hair, on her posture, on her jewelry, on her teeth, for goodness’ sakes. He didn’t compliment her on her clothes, which interested her, since she was wearing Sugar Beth’s trashy black stretch lace crisscross top and a midnight blue skirt that—in a moment of madness—she’d chopped off and hemmed to midthigh. There was a certain novelty in looking like a hooker, but she didn’t necessarily want to look like this again, and she was glad he seemed just the slightest bit displeased with her plunging neckline and short skirt.
Considering his attentiveness, she should probably have been happier with the evening, but she wasn’t, because the elephant still sat at the table between them, that beast created by her deceit and his resentment. Ryan ignored the animal, acting as if the angry, pent-up words he’d assaulted her with last week at the shop had never been spoken. And she was tired of always being their emotional archaeologist, so she didn’t bring it up.
“Are your scallops good?” he asked.
“Delicious.”
After what he’d said to Sugar Beth last night, she wanted emotion from him, passion, but he chatted with the waiter, waved to Bob Vorhees across the room, remarked on the wine, and talked to her about everything that didn’t matter. Even worse, he didn’t seem to be struck by any of those stunning little volts of sexual electricity that had begun plaguing her at the most unexpected times—when she heard his voice on the phone or caught sight of him behind the wheel of his car, or at church this morning when his arm had brushed hers during the doxology. And what should she make of that shocking, limb-melting rush of desire that had overcome her last night when he’d rejected Sugar Beth’s enticement?
All you ever think about is sex!
They finished their dinner and ordered coffee. Someday she’d have to tell him that Sugar Beth had set him up, but not just yet.
He paid the bill, and the elephant followed them to his car. She’d known the patterns of their marriage were too deeply etched for easy changes, and she shouldn’t have pinned so many hopes on tonight. She was always to be the pursuer, Ryan the pursued. She the adorer, Ryan the object of her adoration. But she’d lost the will to play her part.
He took a corner too sharply, and she realized they were headed toward the southern edge of town instead of Mockingbird Lane. “I want to go back to the carriage house.”
He responded by hitting the automatic door locks.
She couldn’t have been much more shocked if he’d slapped her. “What are you doing?”
He didn’t reply.
His gesture was symbolic. She would hardly jump out of a moving car. She started to ask him what he hoped to accomplish with his theatrics, but something about the tough set of his jaw made her decide to wait.
As they reached the highway, a blade of light thrown by the headlights of a passing car slicked across his face, and another jolt of lust shot through her. “I want to go back,” she said, not meaning it.
He didn’t reply. Courteous, accommodating Ryan Galantine ignored her, just as if she hadn’t spoken.
They were heading toward the lake, but it was only March, and the season hadn’t kicked in yet. She clasped her hands in her lap and waited to see what would happen. It felt odd to be so passive.
He drove past the road that led to Amy and Clint’s cottage, then passed the entrance to Spruce Beach, where they all swam and picnicked. The bait shops were still closed for the winter. He ignored the boat launch and the Lakehouse. Ten minutes ticked by. They were approaching the less-populated southern side of the lake. She seldom came this far, but he seemed to know the road by heart.
She didn’t see the narrow, unmarked lane until he’d begun to turn into it. She couldn’t imagine where they were—
Allister’s Point. This was the place where the Seawillows used to go with their boyfriends during high school to drink beer and make out.
“Oh, my God,” she whispered.
She’d driven out here by herself not long after she’d gotten her driver’s license, just to see what it looked like, but she’d never been here with a boy. She could hardly breathe.
The lane ended at a small promontory, which was protected on three sides by trees, with the open end overlooking the lake. At some point, the county had thrown down a little gravel, but not much of it was left. He turned off the ignition. She swallowed and gazed straight ahead. Moonlight dripped down the center of the lake like spilled milk.
“I tripped the safety locks,” he reminded her.
She licked her dry lips and looked over at him. “I’m gonna tell my mom.”
“No, you won’t,” he replied, leaning back into the seat and regarding her with cocky, half-lidded eyes. “She’ll ask you what you were doing out here. How are you going to tell her you were lettin’ Ryan Galantine feel you up?”
“Is that what I’m going to do?”
“I guess we’ll just have to see, won’t we?” He slipped his finger under the plunging stretchy black lace neckline. “Don’t wear Sugar Beth’s clothes again.”