by Nora Roberts
She had never had her own—or had had him so briefly she couldn't remember him. Her mother had always been so closemouthed about the man she had married and lost that Margo had been afraid to ask questions. Afraid, she realized, that there had been nothing there, for any of them.
No love, she mused. Certainly no passion.
One more tepid marriage in the world hardly made a difference to anyone. Even those, she thought, involved in it. A good Irish Catholic girl married and had children, as was expected of her. Then accepted God's will with a bowed head. Ann Sullivan wouldn't have mourned and tossed herself, cursing God, into the sea as Seraphina had done. Ann Sullivan had picked herself up, moved on, and forgotten.
And so easily, Margo mused, that there had likely been little to remember. It was as if she had never had a father at all.
And hadn't she sought to fill that lifetime gap with men? Often older men, like Alain, men who were successful and established and always safely beyond commitment. Married men, or oft-married men, or loosely married men with wives who turned a blind eye to an affair as long as their husbands turned a blind eye to theirs.
There had always been a cozy cushion with men who looked at her as a lovely prize to be pampered and fussed over. Displayed. Men who would never stay, which of course only made them more attractive, only more forbidden.
Her stomach shuddered, and she gulped wine to steady it. What a horrible realization, she thought. What a pathetic one.
"Are you all right?" Concerned, Laura laid a hand on her arm. "You've gone pale."
"It's nothing. Just a little headache. I'm going to take some thing." She rose and used every ounce of control she had to walk up the stairs rather than run.
In the bathroom she riffled through the medicine bottles. Her fingers rested on tranquilizers before she shifted them firmly to aspirin. Too easy, she told herself as she ran the water cold. Too easy to pop a pill and make it all go away.
"Margo." Josh came up behind her, took hold of her shoulders. "What's got you?"
"Demon dreams." She shook her head, swallowed aspirin. "It's nothing, just a nasty little epiphany."
She would have turned, but he held her firm so that their faces reflected back at them. "Nervous about opening the shop next week?"
"Terrified."
"Whatever happens, you've already accomplished something important. You've taken this place and made it shine. It's beautiful and elegant and unique. Very much like you."
"And filled with pretenses, priced to sell?"
"So what?"
She closed her eyes. "So what. Be a friend, Josh, and hold on to me for a minute."
He turned her, gathered her close. He heard her loose a long, shuddering breath, and he stroked her hair. "Do you remember that winter when you went on a search for Seraphina's dowry?"
"Umm. I dug up the rose garden and part of the south lawn. Mum was furious and mortified and threatened to ship me off to my aunt Bridgett in Cork." She sighed a little, comforted by the feel of him, the scent of him. "But your father laughed and laughed. He thought it was a great joke and that I showed an adventurous spirit."
"You were looking for something you wanted, and you went after it." His lips brushed her hair to soothe. "That's what you've always done."
"And I've always wanted the unattainable?"
"No." He eased back, tipped up her chin. "The interesting. I'd hate to think you'd stop digging up rosebushes, duchess."
Sighing again, she snuggled her head on his shoulder. "I really hate to admit this, but you're good for me, Josh."
"I know." And he thought it was long past time that she figured that out.
She hadn't expected to be nervous. There'd been so much to do in the past three months—appointments, meetings, decisions to make, stock to sort through. The decorating, the planning. Even the choice of shopping bags and boxes had prompted hours of debate.
There'd been so much to learn. Inventory, profit-and-loss ratios, tax forms. Sales tax, business tax, property tax.
Interviews to give. The spread in People had just hit the stands, and Entertainment Weekly had run a blurb on her and her shop. A snide blurb, but it was print.
It was all falling into place, so she had expected the actual opening to be rather anticlimactic. The attack of nerves twenty-four hours before Pretenses' grand opening was both unexpected and unwelcome.
Over the years, Margo had taken various courses to deal with nerves. A glass of wine, shopping, a pill, sex. None of those seemed a viable option now, nor did they fit in with the new direction her life was taking.
She was giving sweat a try instead.
The exercise facilities at the country club were, she supposed, top of the line. She had through her career played with free weights and pranced through a few aerobic classes. But she'd been blessed with a killer metabolism, long legs, long torso, and generous breasts that weren't echoed in hips, and she had smugly scorned the fitness craze.
Now she struggled through the programming of a Stair Master, wondering how anyone could get excited about climbing steps to nowhere. She could only hope it would turn her busy mind to mush—and keep the weight she'd put back on properly distributed.
The huge room was ringed with windows that offered views of the golf course or the pool. For those who weren't interested in the great outdoors, there were individual television sets affixed above treadmills, so one could walk or trot to health while watching Katie and Bryant or CNN. Various pieces of what she considered rather terrifying equipment were placed here and there.
Beside her, a woman in red Spandex doggedly climbed flight after flight while reading the latest Danielle Steele. Margo struggled to get her rhythm and focus on the bobbing print of the business section of the Los Angeles Times.
But she couldn't concentrate. This was a whole new world, she realized. One that had been bumping, jogging, and grunting along while she'd been wrapped up in her own. A man with a gorgeous body and biceps like bricks watched himself carefully in a mirror while lifting brutal-looking weights. A bevy of women, trim or pudgy, pumped on stationary bikes. Some of them chattered together, others rode to the tune on headsets.
People crunched, twisted, bent, and punished their bodies, mopped sweat from their faces, glugged down mineral water, then went back for more.
It was, to her, amazing.
For her, this was a lark, a momentary diversion. But for them, all these damp, straining bodies, it was a serious lifestyle choice.
Perhaps they were all slightly insane.
Still… weren't these the very people she would need to appeal to? The businesspeople, the clever rich. The women who worked out in hundred-dollar bike shorts and two hundred-dollar shoes. After straining and stretching their bodies, wouldn't they enjoy a bit of pampering? Beyond the Swedish massages, the Turkish baths, the whirlpools, surely they would enjoy strolling into a classy shop to browse, be offered a cup of cappuccino, a glass of chilled champagne, while an attractive woman helped them select the perfect bauble or a tasteful gift.
Of course, the challenge would be to convince them that the fact that the bauble or gift was secondhand only made it more interesting and unique.
Calculating, she slanted a look at the woman beside her. "Do you do this every day?"
"Hmm?"
"I was wondering if you do this every day." With a friendly smile, Margo sized up her companion. Mid-thirties, carefully groomed. The channel-set diamonds on her wedding band were excellent quality and weighed in at about three carats. "I've just started."
"Three days a week. It's really all you need to maintain." Obviously willing to be distracted, she skimmed a glance over Margo. "Losing weight isn't your goal."
"I've gained seven pounds in the last three months."
With a laugh, the woman lifted the towel she'd slung over the bar and blotted her throat. Margo noted the watch was a slim Rolex. "We should all be able to say that and look like you. I've lost thirty-three over the last year."
&nb
sp; "You're kidding."
"If I put it back on, I'll kill myself. So now I'm on maintenance. I'm back to a size eight, and by God, I'm staying there."
"You look wonderful." Size eight, she thought. Perfect. "Do you like working out?"
The woman smiled grimly as her stepper pumped up the pace. "I hate every fucking minute of it."
"Thank God," Margo said sincerely as her calves began to burn. "Sanity. I'm Margo Sullivan. I'd offer my hand, but I'm afraid I'd fall off."
"Judy Prentice. Margo Sullivan," she repeated. "I thought you looked familiar. I used to hate you."
"Oh?"
"When I was cruising toward a size sixteen, and I'd flip through a magazine. There'd you'd be, curvy and perfect. I'd head straight for the Godivas." She offered a quick grin. "It's rewarding to know you sweat just like a human being."
Deciding Judy was likable as well as a potential customer, Margo grinned back. "Isn't there supposed to be something about endorphins?"
"Oh, that's a lie. I think Jane Fonda started it. You grew up here, didn't you?"
"Big Sur," Margo confirmed, puffing now. "I'm back. I have a shop in Monterey. Pretenses, on Cannery Row. We're having our grand opening tomorrow. You should drop in, look around." She gritted her teeth. "I'll make sure we have Godivas."
"Bitch," Judy said with a quick laugh. "I might just do that. Well, that's my twenty minutes of hell. Fifteen with the free weights and a short session on the Nautilus torture chamber and I'm out of here." She grabbed her towel, glanced toward the entrance. "Oh, here comes the diva."
"Candy Litchfield," Margo muttered as she spotted the redhead in a floral unitard.
"Know her?"
"Too well."
"Hmm. If you have the good taste to loathe her, I might just check out that shop of yours. Oops, she's heading this way, and she's all yours."
"Listen, don't—" But it was too late. Candy let out a squeal that had every head swiveling.
"Margo! Margo Sullivan! I just can't believe it."
"Hello, Candy." To Margo's despair, Candy bounced up to the stepper.
Candy bounced everywhere. It was just one of the many reasons to despise her. She was bandbox pretty, all perky features and tumbling red hair. In their high school days, Candy had been head cheerleader, and head pain in the ass. She'd married well—twice—had two perfect children, one from each marriage, and spent her days, as far as Margo knew, planning perfect tea parties and indulging in discreet affairs.
Under the surface, past the perky face and well-toned body, was the heart of a viper. To Candy, other women weren't simply members of the same sex and species. They were the enemy.
"I heard you were back, of course." With a perfect pink nail she tapped in her choice of time and program on the machine Judy had vacated. "I've been meaning to call, but I've been so busy." The diamond studs in her ears winked as she smiled at Margo. "How are you, Margo? You look wonderful. No one would ever know."
"Wouldn't they?"
"All those terrible stories." Delighted malice flitted around her Kewpie-doll lips. "Why it must have been just dreadful for you. I just can't imagine the terror of being arrested—and in a foreign country, too." Her voice was just loud enough to catch the interest of several morning athletes.
"Neither can I." Margo struggled not to puff and wished violently for a cigarette. "I wasn't arrested. I was questioned."
"Well, I was sure the stories were exaggerated." Her tone was a bright brew of sympathy laced with doubt. "All those horrible things they said about you. Why, when I heard, I told several of the girls over lunch that it was just nonsense. But the stories just kept coming. The press is so heartless. You were wise to get out of Europe until the scandal dies down. It's so like Laura to overlook all the talk and take you in."
There was nothing to say to that but "Yes."
"It's such a shame about Bella Donna. I'm sure your replacement won't be nearly as effective. You're so much more photogenic than Tessa Cesare." Bouncing perkily, Candy sharpened her lance. "Of course, she's younger, but she doesn't have your… experience."
It was a shaft to the heart, well aimed and well honed. Margo's fingers tightened on the bar, but she kept her voice easy. "Tessa's a beautiful woman."
"Oh, of course. And very exotic. That golden skin, those wonderful black eyes. I'm sure the company felt they had to go with a contrast." Her smile was calculatedly tinged with amused disdain. "You'll make a comeback, Margo. Don't you worry."
"Not if I'm serving time for murder," she said under her breath.
"So, tell me everything. I heard the most hilarious story about you going into retail."
"I laugh about it all the time. We open tomorrow."
"No! Really?" Her eyes popped wide on a titter. "Then poor Laura Ridgeway did buy you a building. That's so touching."
"Laura, Kate Powell, and I bought the building together."
"The three of you always did stick together." Candy's smile turned sharp. She'd always detested them for their unshakable friendship. "I'm sure it'll be great fun for you, and poor Laura certainly needs a distraction just now. There can't be anything more painful and distressing than seeing your marriage fail."
"Unless it's seeing your second marriage fail," Margo returned with a cheery smile. "Is the divorce final, Candy?"
"Next month. You never did marry any of those… men, did you, Margo?"
"No, I just had sex with them. Most of them were already married anyway."
"You've always had such a European attitude. I suppose I'm just too American. I don't think I could ever be comfortable being a mistress."
Temper shot little lights of red in front of Margo's eyes. "Darling," she drawled, "it's blissfully comfortable. Believe me. But then, you're probably right. You're not suited for it. No alimony."
She stepped off the machine, grateful that her session with Candy had taken her mind off nerves and screaming muscles. Maybe her legs felt like limp strings of linguini, but she wouldn't give Candy the satisfaction of seeing them buckle. Instead, she carefully wiped off the machine as she had seen Judy do.
"Do come by the shop, Candy. We're having our grand opening tomorrow. You've always wanted what I had. This is your chance to get it. For a price."
As Margo flounced out, Candy drew a breath up her pert, tip-tilted nose and turned to the interested woman puffing behind her. "Margo Sullivan always pretended to be something she wasn't. Why, if it wasn't for the Templetons, she wouldn't be allowed through the front gates of this club."
The woman blinked the sweat out of her eyes. She'd admired Margo's style. And her sapphire tennis bracelet. "What was the name of her shop?"
Chapter Twelve
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Nine-forty-five, July twenty-eighth. Fifteen minutes to zero hour and Margo was sitting on the bed in the ladies' boudoir. The bed she had once slept in, made love in. Dreamed in. Now she was perched on the edge of it, holding her stomach and praying for the nausea to pass.
What if no one came? What if absolutely no one so much as stepped through those freshly washed glass doors? She would spend the next eight hours trembling, staring out the display window now so painstakingly arranged with her charcoal silk taffeta St. Laurent—worn only last year to the Cannes film festival—its skirts draped over a Louis XIV hall chair. That flowing skirt was surrounded by once prized possessions. A Baccarat perfume bottle, rhinestone-studded evening slippers, sapphire drop earrings, a black satin purse with a jeweled clasp in the shape of a panther. The Meissen candlestick, the
Waterford champagne flute, a display of her favorite trinket boxes, and the silver-backed dresser set that had been a gift from an old lover.
She'd placed every piece personally, as a kind of ritual, and now she feared that those things she had once owned and loved would draw no more than scorn from passersby.
What had she done?
Stripped herself. Stripped herself raw, and in public. She thought she could handle that, live throug
h that. But she had dragged the people she cared about most into the morass with her.
Wasn't Laura downstairs right now waiting for that first customer? And Kate would dash over on her lunch hour, eager to see a sale rung up on the vintage cash register she'd hauled in from an antique shop in Carmel.
And Josh would probably swing by toward evening, strolling in with a smile on his face to congratulate them on their first day's success.
How could she possibly face them with failure? When the failure was all hers?
What she wanted most at that moment was to bolt downstairs and out the door. And just keep running.
"Stage fright."
With one arm still wrapped around her queasy stomach, she glanced up. Josh was in the doorway. "You talked me into this. If I could stand up right now, I'd kill you."
"Lucky for me those gorgeous legs of yours aren't steady." He gave her a quick, appraising look. She'd chosen a simple and perfectly tailored suit in power red with a short, snug skirt that gave those stunning, unsteady legs plenty of exposure to do their work. Her hair was braided, with just a few tendrils calculatingly free to frame her face. Pale as marble now, eyes glassy with fear.
"You disappoint me, duchess. I figured to find you down stairs revved up to kick ass. Instead you're up here shaking like a virgin on her wedding night."
"I want to go back to Milan."
"Well, you can't, can you?" His tone was hard as he crossed the room, took her by the arm. "Stand up, get a grip on yourself." Those big blue eyes were swimming, and he was afraid that if the first tear fell, he would break and carry her off anywhere she wanted to go. "It's a damn store, for Christ's sake, not a capital trial. It's just like you to blow it out of proportion."
"It's not just a store." Her voice hitched, mortifying her. "It's all I've got."
"Then go down and do something about it."
"I don't want to go down. What if no one conies? Or if they only come to stare and snicker."