It’s none of your business who he hires, she tried to tell herself as the party wore on. But the truth was that, however much she’d like to deny it, she was still involved. Even though she was no longer formally employed by Sherwood Cosmetics, she was still a stockholder, and she would always feel a responsibility to her father’s employees. And this, she knew in her heart, was a very bad decision for everyone.
She couldn’t square it with her conscience not to bring her objections to Conner’s attention before it was too late for him to change his mind. Whether it would do any good was another question entirely, but she had to try.
But by the time she was free, Conner was nowhere to be found. She sought out Carol, who said, “I wouldn’t be surprised if he was going to do a little more work. You might try his office.”
The wing of the building that held the executive offices was hushed and only dimly lighted. Synnamon hesitated outside Conner’s closed door. What if he wasn’t alone? She hadn’t seen Nicole at the party in the last half hour, either, and if they’d retreated to his office together…
Until this moment, Synnamon had almost forgotten the rumor that one of the couches in Silas’s office unfolded into a bed. She’d heard the whispers in her first months at Sherwood, but the talk had always been quickly suppressed when she appeared, and she’d never known if there was any truth to the story. She wouldn’t have been surprised to know of a mistress—in fact, she’d have been far more amazed if Silas had continued to be faithful to his marriage vows through the long and miserable years. But somehow a fold-out bed in his office didn’t seem quite like Silas. A cozy little penthouse at the Brown Palace, on the other hand…
But if there had been a bed in the office, it was still there, since Conner hadn’t changed the furniture. And the suite was awfully quiet.
Synnamon knocked, but there was no answer. Almost as an afterthought, she turned the knob and was surprised when the door opened. The office was dark, however, and obviously deserted.
She started to back out, but suddenly nausea overtook her and she rushed toward Conner’s bathroom instead.
She was over the worst when the bathroom lights snapped on. She put up a hand in self-defense against the blinding glare, and Conner said, “Somebody should have warned you that punch Carol makes will get you every time.”
“I didn’t even try the punch.”
“Oh, that’s right. You were drinking champagne. To what do I owe this honor? It isn’t even the closest bathroom.”
Synnamon pulled herself to her feet, ignoring the hand he offered, and reminded herself that much as she’d like to take a swing at him it wouldn’t get her anywhere. And telling him about the baby wouldn’t be a great idea at the moment, either. She had a teal and solid reason to have sought him out, and it would be foolish to let herself be distracted—no matter how annoying he was.
“I’m not trying to interfere, Conner, but…” She paused and patted a tissue across her temple. “Do you mind if I sit down?”
“Oh, please do.” He led the way into the office and snapped on the lights. “Carol said you were anxious to talk to me this afternoon, but then you changed your mind. Have you changed it back again?”
Synnamon glanced from the couch to the love seat. Which one of them would be most likely to hold a mattress, tucked away from casual sight? I don’t care, she reminded herself.
“Believe me,” Conner said, “I’m delighted to know you don’t intend to interfere. So what did you want to talk to me about?”
Synnamon smothered a sigh at the faint irony in his voice. “Nicole Fox. I don’t think you should make her head of research and development.” She sat on the love seat.
“Oh? It was your idea, after all.” Conner perched on the arm of the couch.
“Mine?” Her voice was little more than a squeak.
“Yes. You’re the one who suggested we bring in new blood, all that sort of thing.”
“Well, I didn’t suggest it be hers!”
Conner’s eyebrows soared.
Oh, great, she thought. Now I sound jealous! “I don’t have any idea what her qualifications are—”
“That’s right. You don’t.”
“But it doesn’t matter. Naming her—or any other woman—to that job would be a big mistake.”
“I’m listening.”
Synnamon took a deep breath. She had one chance, and she’d better make it good. “Putting a woman in charge of those right-wing men would be asking for disaster. I don’t have anything against Nicole Fox, in particular—”
“I’ll certainly keep that in mind, Synnamon.”
“In other words,” she said tartly, “you’ve already decided.”
How long had he had this move in mind? Conner hadn’t really said, when Anderson made his announcement last week, that he was going to offer the position to one of the current people. Had he planned even then to hire Nicole Fox?
“What else?” Conner asked.
Synnamon was taken aback. “What do you mean, what else?”
“What else is bothering you? You’ve obviously had something on your mind since this afternoon, and it can’t have been Nick, because you didn’t know about her till the party. And since you don’t seem to be drunk after all…”
If she’d been feeling better, Synnamon might have kept her head. But she was far too irritated to think before she spoke. “Oh, it’s nothing much,” she snapped. “I’m just pregnant, that’s all.”
He drew in a short, harsh breath, and wary silence descended on the room. Synnamon could hear her own heartbeat throbbing unsteadily.
Instantly, she regretted letting her temper get the best of her. What had happened to her resolve to be decent, amicable, civilized—no matter what? Breaking the news to him so harshly was no way to get along.
“I’m sorry, Conner,” she said quietly. “I had no idea that little encounter in Phoenix would end up in such a mess.”
He was so still that she wondered for a moment if he’d even heard her.
“It’s nothing for you to worry about,” she offered finally. “I’ll deal with it.”
“You’ll deal with it how? An abortion?” He sounded perfectly calm, as if—once the moment of shock had passed—he’d had no trouble at all reaching a decision.
Synnamon was stunned. Did he honestly think she was capable of destroying a life? Even though she didn’t want this child any more than he did…
No, she realized, that wasn’t quite the case. It was the pregnancy she didn’t particularly want to deal with, and the complications it represented—complications like Conner’s attitude. But as for the child…
Something she’d never felt before surged through her body—a combination of heat and emotion that threatened to engulf her. Was this, she wondered almost in awe, what it felt like to be a mother? This almost overpowering desire to protect—at any cost—the tiny helpless being inside her?
Thank heaven, she thought, it was really none of Conner’s business what she did. She certainly didn’t need to convince him, or even let herself be drawn into an argument about it.
“Well, it is the perfect answer, don’t you think?” Synnamon said, with a calm that matched his own. She pushed herself to her feet. “Sorry if I’ve upset your evening, Conner—I probably shouldn’t have bothered you with it at all.” She managed a note of solicitousness. “You won’t lie awake tonight worrying about it, will you?”
She didn’t wait for an answer, though. She was out the door before he moved and home before she stopped shaking. She paced the floor in her living room, muttering, cursing him. How dare he accuse her of wanting to destroy a child?
Eventually, however, she calmed enough to see that however unflattering his attitude, there were certain advantages for her. Perhaps it was just as well Conner felt that way. There would be no question of him wanting to be involved, and her life would be a great deal simpler because of his detachment. She could bring up her child in peace, without having to deal with a relu
ctant, part-time second parent. There wouldn’t be any quarrels over schools or methods of discipline, over visitation rights or child support, or even whether the kid should have hockey skates or dancing shoes. Yes, they would be better off this way, all three of them.
Eventually, she started to feel calmer, and after a while she even began to see things from Conner’s point of view. Not about the abortion, of course—there was no understanding that. But she could appreciate his shock— heaven knew she’d felt that herself. She could comprehend the consternation he’d felt, the instant panic over what she might demand from him.
His reaction was partly her fault, anyway, Synnamon admitted. She could have broken the news a great deal more smoothly than she had. She could have reassured him, made it clear that she was telling him only out of a desire for fairness, not because she expected—or wanted—anything from him.
Instead, she’d dumped the facts on him like a load of gold bars. No wonder the man had been stunned. He might even have thought for a moment that she was going to suggest they resume their marriage.
In the silence of the apartment, the click of a key in the front door lock seemed to echo like a gunshot. Synnamon swung around and stared through the small foyer just as one of the double doors swung open.
Conner was standing there, his trench coat draped over his arm, pulling his key from the lock.
She hadn’t thought to ask him to return his key. She hadn’t even considered changing the locks after he’d moved out. She’d never felt physically unsafe with him, and it wasn’t the sort of divorce where one of them would hide assets or make off with personal property in a desire for revenge.
“What are you doing here at this hour?” she managed.
One dark eyebrow tilted and he said evenly, “I couldn’t make it any earlier, I’m afraid. I had a few things to finish up before I could leave.”
“That’s not what I—”
He closed the door with a firm little click. “I must say it’s very thoughtful of you to have waited up, Synnamon, so we could take up our discussion where you so rudely broke it off.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Synnamon had trouble finding her voice. “I was rude? And what, exactly, were you?” She realized that approach was likely to end in nothing but petty squabbling, so she took a deep breath and tried again. “I don’t think we have anything at all to discuss. I’m sorry I bothered you with this, Conner. It’s not your problem, after all—”
Conner shook his trench coat out with a snap and hung it in the hall closet. “It certainly sounds like a problem to me.”
“It’s a complication, yes. But it has nothing to do with you,” Synnamon said stubbornly.
“Because you’re going to end the pregnancy.” It was not a question.
“And you’re obviously worried about it. Why, Conner? Are you afraid I won’t go through with it?” The tremor in her voice was a far cry from the bravado she was trying for. “Well, whether I do or not, it still isn’t any of your concern.” She raised her head proudly. “I lied, you know. I was trying to shake you up.”
“You succeeded,” he said dryly. “Are you going to tell me now that you’re not pregnant after all?”
Synnamon wasn’t listening. “This isn’t your baby. It has nothing to do with what happened in Phoenix. I don’t know why I told you that. Desperation, probably. But—”
He actually smiled, but there was no matching sparkle in his eyes. “Oh, no. It’s a little late to try that approach.” He took two steps toward her, and despite her resolve to stand her ground, Synnamon backed away from him and collided with the edge of the French door between the foyer and the living room. Only halfconscious of the bump, she rubbed her arm and stared uncertainly at him.
“If I had any reason to believe you wanted me back,” Conner went on thoughtfully, “I might be convinced you’d made up a story about being pregnant, or conveniently assumed I was the father of a child who might actually be someone else’s. But the fact is, you don’t have any reason to lie about the baby being mine, because you don’t want me back.”
He stripped off his suit jacket and draped it over the back of the nearest chair.
He might as well be planting a flag of conquest, Synnamon thought bitterly.
“So I’m afraid there’s only one logical conclusion,” Conner went on inexorably, “and that’s to believe you told the truth the first time around—that you are pregnant, and it is my baby. Now, shall we cut out the nonsense and get down to business?”
Synnamon bit her lip. “If you want to be technical,” she conceded, “you’ve got it right. But I was the one who was careless, and I’ll deal with the consequences. All the consequences.”
The silence seemed a living thing. The air positively sizzled. Why, Synnamon wondered, hadn’t her declaration eased the tension as she’d intended it should? Her knees were shaking, and she had to lean against the French door to keep herself upright.
Conner’s forehead wrinkled. “You shouldn’t be standing.” He stepped forward, a hand outstretched. “In fact, you should be in bed.”
“I would have been, if you hadn’t turned up,” Synnamon pointed out. She pushed herself away from the door. “Look, Conner, why don’t you just go away and forget I said anything?”
“And leave the loose ends to you.”
Perhaps she shouldn’t have been so annoyed at the idea that to him the baby was no more than a loose end, a minor annoyance to be destroyed with as little thought as he’d clip a dangling thread. She tried to remind herself that the less interested he was in the child as a person, the less trouble she’d face in the long run. But why couldn’t she seem to convince Conner that she didn’t want anything from him?
Strain and exhaustion and the aftermath of nausea combined to make her head spin, and suddenly she was just too tired to argue any more. Why should it matter what he thought, anyway? Conner’s opinion wasn’t going to change her plans.
“Leave your key on the hall table,” she ordered. “And lock the door behind you.”
Synnamon kept a hand on the wall to steady herself as she walked down the hallway to the master bedroom. She didn’t look over her shoulder, but she knew he had followed her as far as the foyer and that he stood there watching until she reached her bedroom and firmly closed the door.
Her sleep was restless, at best, and Synnamon woke to a gray Denver day with a headache to match. What a way to start out a new year, she thought, and considered pulling the pillow over her head and staying in bed.
But she wasn’t likely to be able to sleep. Her mind was running in circles, and her stomach was churning. Some food might help, unappetizing as the idea of eating was at the moment. Coffee, on the other hand, was positively inviting.
The longing for caffeine pushed her upright. She shoved her feet into the most comfortable old slippers she owned, wrapped herself in a terry robe and started for the kitchen.
It was only her imagination, of course, that made Synnamon think she could smell coffee. Mrs. Ogden had taken the holiday off. But the imaginary scent reminded her of the earliest days of her marriage, when Conner had occasionally brought her coffee in bed. She told herself sternly that she had better things to do than dwell on a few good, sentimental memories.
She was yawning as she walked into the kitchen, and for a moment, with her eyes squeezed almost shut, she didn’t see him. When she did, Synnamon had to blink twice before she could focus.
Conner was standing at the range, the snow-white sleeves of his shirt rolled to the elbow, coating an omelet pan with melted butter. His hands were steady and his gaze was fixed firmly on his task. He looked up at her only briefly before turning to the bowl full of eggs next to the pan.
She stared at him. “I thought I told you to leave your key on the hall table,” she said ominously.
“And I will. When I’m finished with it.”
“Oh, you’re finished, all right.”
Conner shook his head. “We never completed our discus
sion. Besides, you didn’t seem in the best condition to be alone last night, so I thought I’d better stay.” It was no longer his obligation to be concerned about her—but it was an odd mixture of annoyance and comfort that tumbled through her veins. Synnamon thrust her hands into the deep pockets of her terry robe.
“Well, I hope you didn’t have any trouble finding your way around!”
The barb seemed to bounce off him. “Not at all, thank you.” His voice was perfectly calm. “I used the guest room so often in the last few months I lived here that I felt right at home.”
There was no answer to that, of course. Obviously, with her head aching, Synnamon was going to be no match for him this morning. At least she hadn’t been dreaming the coffee. She moved past him and across the narrow kitchen to get a mug. “There’s no cream,” she said, almost defiantly. “I haven’t kept it on hand since you left.”
“I noticed. I had the doorman bring some up.”
“Oh, that’s great. Now the whole building will know.”
“That I spent the night? And why should anyone care? We are still married, you know. Would you care for toast?” Efficiently, he buttered two slices and offered her one.
Synnamon took it. It was her loaf of bread, after all. He wasn’t doing her any enormous favor to have dropped a slice in the toaster.
He bit into his own toast. “Or have you been in the habit of entertaining overnight guests, and now the whole building is watching to see who’s next?”
“Of course not.”
Conner smiled a little. “I didn’t think so.”
Too late, Synnamon wondered if she should have lied. Perhaps it still wasn’t too late to persuade him that the baby wasn’t his. Dreamer, she accused herself.
He tested the pan’s temperature and stirred the eggs once more. His hands were perfectly steady as he poured the mixture into the sizzling butter. “Besides, I asked the doorman if you’d been seeing anyone—and he said you hadn’t.”
The Perfect Divorce! Page 6