But Nick hadn't finished with her, she soon discovered. And while he still never talked about his job or the future, he did return to SBI headquarters and began working long, irregular hours. Often he made short business trips. There was one to New York, a couple of day-hops to Charlotte. Delia traveled a lot, too. And so real life started to interject itself into their sweet, sensual idyll.
Delia, half heartbroken, kept expecting him to end their fling, or let it dwindle to nothing. But he didn't, and she couldn't find the strength to break it off, even though it was supposed to be "just an affair."
Nick continued to call two or three times a week, inviting her over for evenings that inevitably ended in wild, crazy sex. The weather grew cool, but they did not. Sometimes Nick was a dark, dominant lover, plunging her into that murky chasm of passion and need, then leaving her gasping. Other times he was sweet, almost quaint, in his attentions. The worst of it was, no matter how she got it, the sex just kept getting better. And more satisfying. And more seductive. And Delia kept slipping deeper and deeper into desperation, into the awful fear that soon, in the throes of one of her many multiple orgasms, she was going to fling herself at Nick's feet and beg him for some sort of commitment.
But Nick's only in this for sex, Delia kept warning herself.
Only that thought wasn't working anymore. Delia was falling in love, the head-over-heels kind, even though her head kept telling her heart that she barely knew Nick. She was beginning to feel like some desperate sorority girl, sneaking about, looking for some kind of sign that he might be serious about her. What such a sign might be, Delia did not know. A plane ticket down to Georgia to meet Daddy and the sisters? A jewelry box from Bailey, Banks, and Biddle stuck in his sock drawer? Hearts and arrows doodled on his grocery list? For a woman screwing a man who didn't want a relationship, she was pathetic and she was stupid.
Thanksgiving came, almost without Delia's realizing it. Out of duty, she flew to Pennsylvania to see her parents, who were as dour, conservative, and humorless as ever. They asked probing questions about Neville's new wife, frowning at the news of Alicia's pregnancy as if it had been Delia's fault her marriage had ended childless. She missed Nick more with each passing day, and by the time she got back to Durham, Delia was losing patience with herself.
Her house had been cleaned from top to bottom, Neville had finally hauled away all his junk, and on November first a shiny new FOR SALE sign had been staked on her front lawn. The real estate market was hot, and she'd already refused two low-ball offers for the house. Her realtor was now salivating over an almost-done deal from a retired neurosurgeon--and he was paying cash.
Yep, Delia was moving on, quite literally. And it was pretty obvious Nick Woodruff wasn't going with her, no matter how much she might wish otherwise. Still, it was another week before Delia steeled herself to tell him. And even then it took a coronary bypass to do it. Not Nick's, thank God--though the way he went at sex some nights made her fear he might end up with one.
No, this coronary belonged to her colleague, Dr. Enrique Despiza. And it came at a most inopportune time, just as Enrique had been packing for a ten-day conference in Paris, a gathering of the world's most preeminent researchers in the field of human sexual behavior. He was to have been one of the key lecturers.
Delia, one of us must go, he pleaded. A huge speaker's honorarium had already been paid, the money all but spent. Besides, the school had to be represented. And for Delia, he kept saying, it would be an unprecedented opportunity for worldwide exposure. But the only worldwide exposure Delia was worried about was the one she'd had on the hood of Nick's Triumph. Yep, that made career satisfaction pale, all right.
Still, the sight of her colleague struggling for breath, with one hand encircling her wrist and the other holding his oxygen tube, finally wore her down. Well, that, and the fact that she needed an excuse to leave Nick and Hidden Lakes behind, before she broke down into a blithering idiot. So, after calling her realtor, Delia beeped Becky Jo and told her to start looking for someone to sub on Let's Talk About Sex, then she went straight home from the hospital and dragged her suitcase from beneath the bed.
But all the while, she was really just bracing herself to go next door and do the hardest thing she'd ever done in the whole of her thirty-one years. Dump Nick Woodruff and get on with her life.
Besides, she told herself as she went foot-dragging across her backyard, it was just sex. Sex was all Nick had ever asked for. She could not possibly be in love with him. Certainly, he was not in love with her. A couple of candlelit dinners, a dip in the hot tub, and a few good bounces on Nick's bed did not a grand romance make. She had been insecure after her divorce. She had fallen right out of Neville's bed and into Nick's--the dumbest, most emotionally confusing thing a woman on the rebound could do.
It was the first time she'd dropped in on Nick without calling. Through the bay window of his office, she could see him seated at his desk, intently studying something in his top drawer. She rang the bell, and Nick's head jerked up, his eyes wide with surprise. At once he slammed shut the drawer and circled through the kitchen to let her in.
"Hey, darlin'," he said, opening his arms and dragging her hard against him. "I wasn't expecting you."
The last words were said softly, his lips pressed to her hair, but his voice sounded strained. In fact, now that she considered it, he'd been tense for the last several days. Delia looked up at him. "I'm sorry I didn't call. Should I have?"
Nick smiled. "No reason," he said, setting her away to look at her. "Hey, everything okay?"
"No, not okay." Delia shook her head, and he urged her toward the table. "Enrique had a heart attack," she began as Nick popped open a couple of beers. Then she told him about the conference, and her unexpected trip to Paris.
Nick's eyes went dark with emotion. "So just like that, you have to go? Tomorrow?"
Delia nodded. "It's my job."
Nick got up and began to pace the kitchen floor, one big hand set at the back of his neck. "How long?" he demanded, his voice gruff.
Delia felt her frustration spike. "Jeez, it's my job, Nick," she said again. "I'll be gone ten days, and it's the career opportunity of a lifetime."
Nick turned to stare at her. "Ten days?" he said. "You'll barely make it home for Christmas. Can't someone else go?"
Delia had never heard his voice so cool. "Hey, look, I'm sorry if this is putting a crimp in your sex life," she said. "So it's almost Christmas! What were you expecting? That I'd dress up like an elf and play sit-on-Saint-Nick's-lap?"
Nick's expression darkened. "Damn it, Delia, I don't appreciate your cynicism right now."
Delia stared up at him. "Hey, Nick, I'm sorry," she said, softening her tone. "I shouldn't be so sarcastic. But I came to tell you something else, too. I came to tell you..." She closed her eyes and shook her head. "I came to tell you that I can't keep doing this."
His tread was heavy as he approached the table. "Doing what?"
Delia opened her eyes. He was bent over the table now, his hands spread wide on the wooden surface. "Doing what, Delia?" he demanded. "Being with me? Is that what this is about?"
"Fucking you, Nick," she said, feeling something inside her wither and die. "Having meaningless, mindless sex with you. I mean, it's good, but I have obligations. I have to think rationally."
Nick lifted both hands, slammed them on the table, then turned his back on her. "Maybe, Delia--just maybe--if you didn't think so damned much, if you didn't have your nose shoved in so many friggin' textbooks, if you didn't pick apart and analyze every goddamn thing a man does or doesn't do--then maybe our sex wouldn't be so fucking meaningless and mindless. Did you ever think of that, Delia? Did you?"
Delia drew back an inch. "Whoa, where'd that come from?" she asked. "Look, Nick, we knew this had to end eventually. I mean--didn't we? So maybe eventually should be now? I have to go to Paris, and as soon as I get back, I'm moving."
"So you sold the house?" His voice was cold. Dead.
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"I think so." Delia bit her lip. "My realtor says I may have to move fast, so she's arranging for the bank to give me a loan against the equity for a condo in Chapel Hill."
"In Chapel Hill," echoed Nick, as if it were the backside of the moon instead of a ten-minute drive.
"Yes." Delia tried to smile. "So I guess now I can even afford that new car," she added a little sadly.
"So while you're gone, I should just shit-can the old one along with our relationship, Delia?" he asked. "Is that what you're saying?"
"God, no, Nick! You don't know how deeply I appre--"
"Delia, just don't fucking start with that gratitude crap, okay?"
"Yes. Okay. But I appreciate you, Nick. I really do. This has been special. A precious, wonderful time for me. I...I thank you for that. Don't say I can't, Nick."
"Yeah, special," he repeated. "Well, I'm glad I showed you a good time, darlin'."
Delia just sat there, watching her beer fizz. "Look, Nick, I don't know what I'm supposed to say here," she whispered. "This feels like a game with no rules. What do you want? What am I doing wrong?"
He was silent for a long moment, and when he spoke, his voice was calmer, his tone softer. "Nothing, Doc," he finally said. "You're right. And I know you've got obligations. I do, too. But it was good while it lasted, wasn't it? At least tell me that much."
"Yes, Nick," she said softly. "It was good."
Nick shrugged and turned away again. "So, have a nice trip, Doc," he said, bracing his hands on the kitchen counter. "A nice life, too. I'm sorry I'm being a jerk. And I'm sorry this is so easy for you to walk away from. But hey, I wish you well."
Delia stood a little unsteadily and braced her hand on the back of her chair. "I never said it was easy, Nick," she whispered. "I never said that."
But Nick kept his back to her. And finally, not knowing what else to do, Delia walked out of Nick's kitchen, and out of Nick's life. Then she walked on home, blinking back tears, and started packing.
A REAL CLOSE CALL.
Nick listened to Delia's departing footsteps and decided that that was what he'd just had. And it was as close as he'd ever come to making a complete fool of himself, too. Good God, he should have seen this coming.
For a long moment he simply stood with his hands clenched tight on the kitchen counter, willing himself not to do something unutterably stupid--like chase Delia down and drag her back inside the house. Instead, Nick tried to steady his breathing and focus on his brush with disaster. He had been kidding himself. He wasn't commitment material, and Delia had sense enough to know it. Besides, it was just sex. Not a relationship. Hadn't he once said as much to Delia?
Yes, and he'd never un-said it, either.
Okay, so maybe--just maybe--that was a part of the problem? Nick felt as if his fingers were digging into the damned Formica. Maybe there had been too much sex and not enough romance? Hell, men didn't know the difference. Maybe he should have wined and dined her a bit? Or taken her to Georgia for Thanksgiving? Or told her how he felt. Yeah, that one. Door Number Three, dumb shit.
But the truth was, he hadn't been ready to share Delia, and it had taken him weeks to figure out how he felt. And when he had, it had scared the hell out of him. They had known each other less than two months. Everything had felt so fragile. So tenuous. So it had seemed better--safer--to just keep Delia to himself, to try to maintain what they had, and avoid the ravages of day-to-day life that could sometimes rip the heart out of even a strong, deep-rooted relationship.
And she was right, they both had obligations. Big ones. Demanding careers and a hard daily grind. And all they'd had together so far had been a time out of place, a fantasy. But he wasn't stupid. He'd known that was going to have to change. That eventually he'd need to brave the world and all its dangers with Delia. Still, he hadn't moved fast enough, had he?
Jesus! Nick bent down and picked up Click, who was rubbing his way around his ankles. He had to stop thinking of ifs and maybes. That way lay madness. It always did when you tried to figure women out. And it didn't matter anyhow, because Delia had been way too determined to get rid of him.
Nick pressed his cheek against Click's and considered it. Yep, she'd been calm, cool, and pretty damned collected. A woman on a mission. Dump Nick Woodruff. The words were probably penciled in her Day-Timer, right between take out the trash and pick up the dry cleaning. It felt like a blow coming out of nowhere. But it wasn't. A blind man could have seen it.
An idiot. He was a goddamned idiot. Still carrying the cat, Nick went back into his office, jerked open the drawer he'd just closed, dropped the plane ticket into the trash, then picked up the phone and dialed his dad.
Chapter Seven
Delia's ten days in the city of romance were anything but romantic. Paris in December was bleak, and her heart felt much the same. She spent her evenings alone in her room instead of networking, in the halfhearted hope that Nick would call. Which was ridiculous, since he had absolutely no way of finding her. Still, she was plagued by a gnawing sense of having made a dreadful misjudgment. Of having moved too quickly. Given up too soon. Something.
She was a psychology professor, for God's sake! But where Nick was concerned, she was acting like...well, like a woman. A once-bitten, twice-shy kind of woman. Making assumptions. Thinking the worst. Giving up without talking. Jeez, she was turning into the kind of female that drove family therapists insane. There was probably even a diagnostic code for her sort of neurotic behavior.
But Nick hadn't put up much of a fight, had he? Only his pride had seemed wounded. She hoped he at least missed the sex. Delia missed it; missed a lot more than just that. Nick wouldn't have much trouble finding another woman to warm his bed, and she knew it.
So one day, out of sheer boredom and sexual frustration, Delia did something she'd never done before. She played hooky. She skipped her afternoon meetings, and went strolling through the rue du Faubourg St.-Honore, with the vague notion of buying herself some sexy lingerie. Just in case. And, she boldly decided, some dark chocolates. Maybe a big old pink vibrator, too, while she was at it. Yeah, just in case...
Delia found everything she wanted in one decadent little shop and returned to her hotel with two red shopping bags and a four-hundred-dollar Visa bill she couldn't afford. She only hoped they didn't search her luggage at the airport. For the rest of the conference, she tried to stay focused on her career, dragging on one of her business suits every morning and trotting downstairs to sip dark, bitter coffee and do the old grip-and-grin routine with her colleagues.
At least her lecture went well. So well that on the final day of the conference, Delia was asked to collaborate on a new research project at the University of Copenhagen. An invitation to attend the European Congress of Psychology in Vienna followed, a serious honor for both herself and the school.
So Delia should have headed for the airport that Friday feeling quite pleased with herself, but she didn't. The flight was long, the landing rough, and Delia's mood was not improved when her plane was grounded at Dulles. Her need to get home was reaching a feverish pitch. But snow and ice was pummeling its way toward the East Coast, taking a toll on the airports. Pittsburgh and Chicago had already closed. Up and down Concourse C, flight delays were flashing as frantic gate agents announced re-routings and cancellations. Hard-bitten business travelers already lined the corridors, bellowing into their cell phones like lunatics. The college kids had given up hope and lay scattered about the terminal using backpacks for pillows. Yep, it was going to be a long night.
Feeling tired and grubby, Delia scrubbed herself from head to toe in the Red Carpet Club and put on fresh clothes. Then she bought a frozen yogurt, propped her feet up on her briefcase, and started checking her office voice mail. Three hours, two yogurts, and a dead cell phone later, United performed a miracle. The club attendant announced her plane was boarding.
The flight was mercifully uneventful, and after circling Raleigh for thirty minutes while a runway was plowed, they
touched down in a ferocious shudder, the last flight in before RDU shut completely down. Unfortunately, when they inched up to the gate, the plane hit a patch of ice and slid into the jetway, jamming up its hydraulics. Delia wanted to rip out her hair by the roots.
An hour later the passengers finally disembarked, made their way through baggage claim, then strolled out into a winter wonderland. Delia dragged her suitcases through the chemical slush and wished she'd had sense enough to change out of her pumps. They were Nick's favorites, she knew, because he always stared at her feet when she wore them.
In the parking garage she hefted her bags into the car, slid inside, and cranked the engine. The Volvo purred out of the garage like a tamed tiger. Delia thought of Nick, and wished she could kiss him. Traffic on westbound I-40 was nonexistent save for SUVs and snowplows. Unlike her native Pennsylvania, the Carolinas could be paralyzed by three inches of snow. Along the highway, silvery trees bowed low, beautiful but treacherous. The power lines, too, were sagging, and the precipitation was now peppering off her windshield, pure ice. The snow deepened and the sky darkened the closer she got to Durham. It was then that Delia began to notice the downed power lines.
By the time she reached Hidden Lakes, the Volvo was fishtailing. She spun her way through the security gate and skated sideways, trying to make it up her driveway. Deftly she cut into the skid, tapped the gas, and slid home, the front bumper just six inches from the garage door. Cold, starving, and glad to be alive, Delia dragged her bags into the kitchen, which felt like the inside of a meat locker. It made her remember her Parisian hotel's cramped rooms and bitter coffee with newfound affection.
After fumbling through her junk drawer, she found a stub of a candle, then felt her way toward the pitch-black dining room. There were some matches in the buffet, she hoped. But when she turned into the living room, a bright light flicked around the opposite corner, catching her squarely in the eyes. Blinded, Delia screamed, and her candle went clattering across the marble floor.
"Hey, it's just me," said a rough, deep voice. "It's okay."
"Nick?" The word was edged with hysteria.
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