by Mary Campisi
Proposition’s the only word you got right. Tell him no thanks; I’ll stick with what I’ve got.
Her boss had cleared his throat, twice, said in a firm voice, You don’t say no to that kind of man.
Well, I do.
There’d been remorse in those dark eyes. Then I’m sorry, but I don’t have anything for you here.
You mean, I’m fired?
Let’s call it a mutual parting.
And that had been the end of that. Of course, she should have reported him, but she’d been short on cash and her bills were already overdue, so she’d ignored her conscience, packed up her belongings, and headed home. The long drive cleared her head and helped her see what she couldn’t see before: the drivers of the luxury cars were all young, attractive women in need of cash. The clients were wealthy, influential businessmen, and the huge tips were about more than a job well done. They were a teaser for what could be had if a woman were willing to expand her services to include companionship. The thought disgusted her, but the fact that she’d done nothing to try and stop it from happening to other women disgusted her more. Still, with no money and no power, what could she have done? What a cop-out! She vowed that if she were ever in that situation again, she’d stand up and fight.
She’d have to stay in Reunion Gap for a while—to keep an eye on her mother and to earn money. Staying in a town where Tate Alexander breathed the same air was not a welcome thought. Oh, she could tell herself she couldn’t stand him and he didn’t make her feel anything, but who was she kidding? The man still got to her, and not in a way she liked to think about. Why had he gone and started saying things about how he wanted a shot with her, how things could be different, how they belonged together? How many times had he used those words? On how many different women? The thought made her stomach jump and bits of sweet roll worked their way up her throat. Tate Alexander was danger and she’d been a fool to think one night with the man would get him out of her system. She could have one boyfriend or ten boyfriends, and nobody could touch her the way he did.
And that was a very, very big problem
“Charlotte? Are you okay? You don’t look well.” The concern on her mother’s face said she knew something was going on; she just didn’t know what it was. Yet.
“I’m fine.” She shrugged, picked at the sweet roll. “I think I had a little too much wine last night. And I don’t mean to avoid the question about how long I’ll be staying, but I just don’t know. I’d like to stick around a while and help, now that Rogan’s moved out.” She scrunched her nose, frowned. “Why would he and Elizabeth buy that old rattrap down the road when they could have something so much nicer?” Word had it Elizabeth came from money; why not use a little of it and get a decent place? Probably because her oldest brother wouldn’t want the help, which was just plain crazy. Why live with cracked walls and a sketchy heating system when you could have clean and new?
“They’re very excited about that rattrap.” Rose’s voice dipped, softened with memories. “Your father and I loved our first home, even though it was a tiny apartment the size of a bathroom.” A sigh, a flutter of eyelids. “But it was ours, and every day when the mail came, I’d stare at the names on the envelopes. Mr. and Mrs. Jonathan Donovan. It was as close to heaven as I ever felt.”
Charlotte guessed when you found the love of your life, the rest didn’t matter. That had certainly been the case for her mother and father, and it looked like Rogan and Elizabeth felt the same way. “Maybe I’ll see if they need any help once they get back from their honeymoon.” Not that she’d call a “drive to New England to see the leaves” a honeymoon, but they didn’t seem to mind.
“What a thoughtful idea. I know they want to paint a few rooms, and there’s this dreadful yellowed wallpaper in the kitchen they want to replace.” She eyed Charlotte. “Who knows? Maybe Tate Alexander could pitch in and help.”
As if the man knew anything about manual labor. He’d probably never seen a paintbrush in his life. “That’s okay, Mom. I know how to paint a room.” Sort of.
Her mother reached out, squeezed her hand. “It is so good to have you home.” Another squeeze, followed by a gentle pat. “I want you to be happy, Charlotte. No matter what that means or where it takes you, I just want you to be happy.”
Happy? She didn’t even know what that meant. Running from job to job, city to city, relationship to relationship, had all led her back to Reunion Gap. Had it led her back to Tate Alexander, too? Oh, she hoped not, but destiny had a way of playing tricks on people, and it was too soon to tell. Well, she was a fighter, and she was going to fight destiny as long and as hard as she could.
Chapter 4
Camille slipped off her pumps, padded across the hardwood floor to the living room where she sank onto the leather couch and closed her eyes. It had been a long day and the beginnings of a headache pounded around her right temple. Please, not another migraine. She massaged her temple, thought about the afternoon she’d spent helping Nicki Price at her shop. While Camille enjoyed showing women how to dress and coordinate colors and styles, there were times when it proved tiresome. Some women refused to acknowledge that horizontal stripes did not look good on anybody, even if said stripes were a gift. Some refused to acknowledge the fact that not everyone could wear orange, even if it were labeled melon or tangerine. Orange was orange and certain skin tones should avoid it.
Nicki Price had a way about her that made people want to emulate her style. She was a transplanted Chicagoan who’d married one of Reunion Gap’s own and traded her city-girl style for chic businesswoman-wife-mother fashion. Who wouldn’t want to look like the beautiful brunette with two children and the gorgeous husband? Camille rubbed her temples in small circles, willed the headache away. Some people said stress brought on headaches, even if you didn’t know you were under stress. Well, she knew all about stress and she knew she had her share of it. She was middle-aged, worn out, and floundering, too old to start over, too young to give up altogether, and too tired and afraid to admit all the wrong choices she’d made.
If she were honest with herself, she’d acknowledge that the indecision, fear, and wrong choices were the reasons for the headache. And at the root of it all was Carter Montclair Alexander, her husband of twenty-nine years. They’d thumbed their noses at the declaration that Donovans and Alexanders should not mix and were destined for destruction if they tried. It had all been so exciting when she and Carter were young and daring, and he called her his whole world. Was that ever true? Had he truly loved her, or had she been more about distraction and defiance? Who knew? Surely not Camille, maybe not even Carter.
Perhaps she should revisit the sample divorce papers stuffed in the drawer of her nightstand alongside the brochures for cosmetic surgery and marriage counseling. At some point, she’d considered each of these, even thought of closing her eyes and choosing one. What was the difference? She could threaten to divorce Carter. She could have cosmetic surgery. Or she could suggest marriage counseling. Would any of them get her the results she wanted—her husband’s love?
She thought of Rogan and Elizabeth at their wedding, the joy on their faces. Pure and honest—untainted. Had she and Carter ever looked like that? It was hard to remember, almost impossible to push past all the years of pain and lies and betrayal to a moment of pure love and honesty. Could they ever get there again, or was it too late?
Another couple flitted through her brain, settled in her heart. Tate and Charlotte. They might not admit they belonged together, but it was there, between the glances and the words they hadn’t yet spoken. Camille might not have her own love, but she knew what it looked like, what the edges of it sounded like before it became full-blown and understood. Maybe she recognized it because she was so desperate to have it herself, or maybe because she’d always been on the outside, wishing someone looked at her the way Rogan looked at Elizabeth or spoke to her the way she knew Tate would speak to Charlotte soon enough. Love came and went, and it required diligence, work,
and commitment to keep it.
Carter had never fought for anything in his life because it had all just been too easy for him. The medical school, the money, the wife—nothing had ever been a true challenge.
And maybe that was the problem.
How many times had Carter told her she was the one he loved, the only one who mattered, and despite his occasional “wanderings” he would always come back to her because she was his heart? His soul? His breath? If one of her friends told her that, she would laugh and advise her to get the divorce papers in motion. But when she was the one faced with the dilemma and the alternatives that lay ahead—being alone, giving up the title of doctor’s wife, the painful knowledge that they were truly over— it was too much for her. Was she sick because she still wanted his love?
Because she still loved him?
She did still love him.
Didn’t she?
Her desire to remain with him was about more than financial security and status.
Wasn’t it?
The throbbing in her temple increased, spread to her right eye. She groaned, pressed her fingertips against her eyelids. Maybe it was time to take a stand, one way or the other. Choose something. Choose anything, damn it, no matter what it was. Oliver said she was shriveling up one thought at a time and soon she wouldn’t even recognize herself. He was wrong. She stood for something, didn’t she? Camille blinked her eyes open, snatched her handbag, and pulled out a pen and scrap of paper. She tore the paper into three pieces, jotted down the words divorce on one piece, cosmetic surgery on the second piece, and counseling on the third. Then she shuffled them and turned them over. She picked one, brought it to her chest and held it tight. Whatever was on the other side of this paper would be her journey. Her destiny. She flipped the scrap of paper over, inched her gaze to the scribbled writing.
Counseling.
Camille let out a long breath. Was that relief that destiny had not chosen to end her marriage? Yes, that’s what it was. She would not give up on her husband. They would attend marriage counseling, he would give up that mousy little creature at the Cherry Top Diner, and he would devote himself to Camille. They would get another chance. A new beginning.
Their marriage would not end.
But Mindy at the Cherry Top Diner and all the other Mindys would.
Camille stuffed the scraps of paper into the pocket of her tailored sweater, exhilarated that she’d come to a decision. In all their years of marriage, she’d never committed to stay or leave; she’d simply let circumstances decide for her. Well, no more. She was staying, and Carter was dumping his under-twenty-five-year-old playmate, and that was that. He should be home in an hour and then she’d deliver the news over roasted duck and mushroom risotto—his favorites. Camille stood, gathered her pumps, and made her way to the winding staircase.
Life could indeed be good again.
She sucked in a breath, took in her surroundings: the crystal chandelier, the walls of artwork, the marble floor. Perhaps she’d add another painting in Carter’s library. A hunting picture with dogs; he favored those. As she climbed the staircase, she considered booking them a Mediterranean cruise, or a trip to Rome. A new beginning for them.
Why not?
Why not indeed?
Maybe she’d convince him to take her to his next medical conference. Wasn’t it in London this year? She ran a hand along the mahogany railing, considered the many possibilities awaiting them. All they had to do was grab on and hold tight. Tomorrow, she’d contact the travel agent…
She and Carter would find what Rogan and Elizabeth shared, even if their relationship was a bit worn and tattered. Better that than a sad, pitiful ending. Camille smiled as she anticipated her husband’s return home this evening. It had been a very long time since she’d looked forward to seeing him at the dinner table.
But tonight, everything would be different, because Camille Alexander had chosen to keep her marriage and a counselor was the first step. Carter would agree because while he didn’t always keep his marriage vows, he did like the protection those vows afforded him, as in, his current hussy couldn’t demand a ring. What did it matter if he swore he’d get a divorce? They were only words, like all the other meaningless ones he’d uttered to women over the years. None of them mattered because there was only one Mrs. Carter Alexander.
She sighed, her footsteps silenced by the plush carpeting in the hallway leading to the master bedroom. Perhaps she’d enjoy a soak in the tub before dinner and a short nap. That should help her headache, though it had all but disappeared. Interesting how removing a little stress could improve a person’s health.
Camille clutched the handle of the master bedroom door, prepared to open it when she heard the sounds. Muffled groans? Grunts? Grunts? She leaned closer, ear against the paneled wood of the door. Moans? If Marta’s nephew and his new wife were enjoying one of their employer’s beds again, Camille would have to do something about it. No matter how much she adored the man’s gardening abilities, she would not be taken advantage of by him.
Did no one have honor or a sense of decency? The thought of the young couple rolling around in her Egyptian cotton sheets did not sit well, not at all. And if Marta knew about the goings-on behind this door…well, she didn’t want to think about it, but it wouldn’t be good. She eased the door open, spotted a man’s tanned shoulders, listened to the groans intensify.
Sex sounds. Lustful. Needy.
The couple began to move together in the king-size bed Camille purchased two years ago. The man tossed back the sheets and surged into the woman at the exact moment Camille recognized him. Carter! His movements grew slow, methodical, eliciting a breathy moan from the woman beneath him with each pump.
“Yes! Yes! More,” the woman begged.
Even in the throes of passion, Camille knew that voice: Mindy from the Cherry Top Diner.
The thrusts increased, turned frantic and choppy.
“Don’t stop.” More moaning. “Don’t ever stop.”
Don’t ever stop. Indeed. Camille set her pumps on the carpeting with great deliberation, picked up the vase Carter bought her in New York last year. A collectible, he’d said. Beautiful. Like you. What he should have said was, It’s a guilt offering for what I’ve been doing in New York. She approached the bed, lifted the vase over her head, and heaved it at him.
“Argh!” he cried out as it landed between his shoulder blades and collapsed him on top of Mindy. “What the hell…” He winced, turned to his side and spotted Camille.
The face women called movie-star handsome turned pale beneath his tan, the blue eyes widened, and the mouth? Oh, yes, the mouth that had been grunting and groaning moments before pulled into a frown. And then he had the audacity to open the darn thing and try to worm his way out of what she’d just witnessed.
“Camille, I can explain.” He reached for the silk robe she’d bought him last Christmas, stuffed one arm through the opening, then the other, ignoring the naked young woman beside him. “I think I overdid it on the muscle relaxers.” Carter winced again, said in a voice filled with guilt and remorse, “Everything’s a haze. I…I’m having a hard time remembering how we got here.” He eyed his bedmate. “Why she’s here. It’s all so foggy.” He shook his head, dragged both hands through his hair. “I wouldn’t be surprised if somebody drugged me.” Another wince. “It happens…” His words drifted off and he inched his blue gaze toward Camille.
“Muscle relaxers, Carter?” She stood beside the bed, hands thrust on her hips. “That’s the best you’ve got?” Really? Did he think she was a complete idiot?
The man with the twenty-dollar words and the sunshine smile lifted a shoulder and said, “You know my back’s been bothering me.”
Camille laughed. “Your back wasn’t bothering you a few minutes ago.” Images of him thrusting into Miss Sex Toy scorched her brain. “Or were you grunting and groaning because of your back pain?”
The tiniest smile slipped out. “Actually….”
; “Oh, for heaven’s sake, I was being sarcastic.” She huffed, sliced her gaze to his bed partner. The girl clutched the sheets to her neck, eyes wide, hair a tangled mop, mouth clamped shut…like she wanted to disappear. Well, good luck with that one. Unless she were a magician, she was stuck in that bed—naked—until Camille chose to release her. She turned back to her husband, scowled. “Your back was not the problem this afternoon, Carter. It was your lack of morals when you decided to take this…this…person to our bed.”
His eyes turned bluer than the Caribbean ocean, his voice a symphony of remorse. “You’re right.” Those eyes glittered. “You’re always right, Cammie. I need help, I see that now.” He held out both hands, open palmed. “Just tell me what you want. Anything.”
Was that desperation buried in those words? She’d heard it all before, too many times, and yet this was the first time he’d admitted to needing help. Camille tried to see past the pitiful face and the desperate words to the man who’d never understood consequences—or had to pay for them. He’d always been able to talk his way out of it, as though the deeds had been committed by someone else, as though he were merely an observer instead of the culprit.
But now, she’d stripped him of his charade and done it in front of his sex toy. And it felt damn good. Whatever path she decided to take would not be one she’d discuss with her husband’s ex-lover listening in—naked, in Camille’s bed. She homed in on the woman, burned her with a threat in a tone that might have been mistaken for nonchalance if one weren’t privy to the words. “Get out. Now. And if I see you near my husband again, I will make it my personal mission to drive you out of town.” She raised a brow, tilted her head to the side. “Are we clear?”
“Yes, Mrs. Alexander.”
Indeed. Camille dismissed her with a wave of her hand. “Now pick up your clothes and get out of here.” The girl hesitated, sheet pulled around her small breasts.