EXPECTANT BRIDE-TO-BE
Page 5
He had been so damned determined to take care of his wants and needs that he hadn't even begun to consider the possible consequences Abby would have to face. And here he was, running away like a callous bastard, leaving her to fend for herself.
The alternative scared him half out of his wits, though.
Which made him a cowardly callous bastard…
Jack had never thought of himself as being perfect—far from it, in fact. He had his faults just like everyone else. Yet he had always considered himself to be one of the good guys.
Driving away from Abby Summers' mother's house that cold December morning, however, he felt anything but good about himself. And he knew, in his heart, that it was going to be a very long time before he ever would again.
* * *
Chapter 7
« ^ »
When Abby first awoke, she knew at once that she'd slept much longer than she should have. Sunlight teased around the edges of the blinds on the window above her bed, a sure sign that the day was already well underway. And even before she shifted from her side to her back, she also knew that she was alone.
Gazing longingly at the empty place beside her that Jack had filled with his gloriously masculine presence during the night, she suffered a pang of regret.
Not for what she had done. Making love with Jack Randall had been truly wondrous, a magical experience unlike any she'd had in the past, or would have with anyone but him in the future. His passion for her had freed her own carefully controlled, long-concealed emotions, revealing the true depth of intimacy a man and woman in love could share.
How she would have treasured greeting this glorious morning in his arms—the first of many they'd have together, she was sure.
But she was being greedy, not to mention wholly self-centered.
According to the clock on the nightstand, it was already after seven. Hadn't Jack told her that his flight back to Houston left early today? He had probably wanted to shower, dress and drink a cup of coffee before he returned to his parents' house to pack.
Sure that he must be in the kitchen, Abby scrambled out of bed and crossed to the closet to retrieve her cozy, white terry-cloth robe. Bundling into it, she went to join him. They wouldn't have much of a chance to talk before he would have to leave, but words weren't really necessary after last night.
She'd settle for a hug and one, maybe two, of his thoroughly luscious kisses to tide her over until they could be together again. And they could decide when that would be over the phone once they were both home again that evening. They'd have more than enough time then, to plan—
As Abby halted in the kitchen doorway, she saw immediately that the room was empty. Frowning, she turned back the way she had come, noting that the bare Christmas tree still stood in the living room. She hadn't heard any sounds coming from the bathroom, but that was the only other place Jack could be.
Unless he'd gone outside for some reason…
She quickly discovered that Jack wasn't in the bathroom. With a glance out the front door, she saw that his rental car wasn't parked in the driveway any longer, either.
Abby was disappointed by the fact that he'd gone, but not drastically so. His flight to Houston must have been scheduled to leave Las Vegas much earlier than she had thought, and kind soul that he was, he had chosen to slip away without disturbing her.
Obviously, she had been sleeping soundly, so soundly she hadn't heard him rustling around the house, and he hadn't had the heart to wake her.
Much as she wished he had, she could understand. His intentions had been good, after all. And surely he'd left a note for her…
Abby returned to her bedroom, but didn't find one there. The kitchen, then, she thought as she crossed the living room again, her steps light and quick.
With a heart-skip of relief, she saw the single piece of paper on the table, propped up against her mother's palm tree salt-and-pepper shakers. For just a moment, she had been afraid that Jack had left without a word. She should have known he would never do that to her—not after last night.
Standing beside the table, Abby picked up Jack's note and began to read it. Then, very slowly, very carefully, she sat down on one of the chairs.
A wave of heat washed over her, followed by a feeling that made her think of a cold fist squeezing hard around her heart. Her head spun dizzily, she couldn't quite catch her breath, and the way her stomach roiled and tumbled, she thought she was going to vomit.
As one minute ticked into another on the teapot clock above the refrigerator, Abby gripped the paper in her hand and stared at nothing while she forced herself to take deep, steadying breaths. After what seemed like a very long time, she finally calmed down enough to read the note again. Just to be sure she had correctly understood Jack's meaning the first time.
Jack had written in his surprisingly legible handwriting:
Just so you know, I noticed a small tear in the condom we used the second time around. Odds are, nothing will come of it, but I wanted to warn you just in case. Please call me if a problem should develop. I will help you any way I can. It was good seeing you again. Take care.
He had signed his name and included a couple of telephone numbers, one for his apartment in Houston and another for his parents' house in Promise. Just in case a problem should develop.
"And what problem would that be, Jack Randall? A baby on the way?" Abby muttered, the hurt she felt at his casual dismissal of her and all she had thought they'd shared turning to anger. "Like I would ever go to you for any kind of help ever in my life, you … you … jerk."
It wasn't the tear in the condom that upset her so much. Odds were against a pregnancy resulting, considering her cycle was fairly regular and she should still be within her safe period.
What had her wanting to hurl crockery against the wall was realizing that she had never really known Jack Randall at all. And because she hadn't really known him, all the sharing and caring she'd read into the time they'd spent together last night had been nothing more than a figment of her imagination.
She might have thought they were making love, but to Jack they were simply having a couple of rounds of sex—no strings attached.
And, oh, by the way, good seeing you again this one time. Unless, of course, a problem develops.
Abby didn't even want to begin to think about what his solution to that would be. She was already disillusioned enough about Jack Randall to last a lifetime. There was no sense making herself really depressed.
Wadding his note into a ball, she stuffed it into the pocket of her robe, pushed away from the table and went to take a shower. Her anger stayed with her until she stood under the pounding spray of hot water. Then, despite her best intentions, she started to cry.
How could she have been so wrong about him? What cues to his true character had she missed, especially last night? She had been needy, yes, but not desperately so. She'd certainly had all her wits about her. So much so that she'd never expected the evening to end the way it had. And she couldn't remember anything off-hand about Jack's manner during the hours they'd spent together, either.
There had been several times when they could have gone their separate ways, but he had let those moments pass. He had seemed to truly want her company, and his passion for her had seemed to be both honest and intense.
Trusting in his basic decency and honor, Abby had savored every moment of their lovemaking. Foolishly, it now appeared, because there was nothing decent or honorable about the man who had written the note she'd found on her mother's kitchen table.
"So get over it," she chided herself as she dried her hair.
She'd had a very nice life before she had sex with Jack Randall, and she would continue to have a very nice life, whether or not she ever saw him again.
The telephone rang as Abby set aside her blow dryer, and she was proud of the fact that she swiftly dismissed the possibility that it could be Jack. As she fully expected when she lifted the receiver, it was her grandmother, calling to ask if
she still planned to top by for breakfast.
"Of course, I do," Abby assured her. "I'm just running a little later than I anticipated."
"Late night last night?" Judith asked, sounding quite pleased by the possibility.
"Not too late," Abby answered truthfully.
She and Jack had gone to bed well before midnight, but she wasn't about to share that particular detail with her grandmother.
"Did you have a nice time with your young man?"
"Dinner at the café on the square was delicious, Gran. But Jack Randall isn't my young man. He's just someone I knew years ago. I doubt we'll ever cross paths again." At least not as long as she had anything to say about it, Abby thought, then added briskly, "I'd better let you go so I can finish packing. I shouldn't be more than thirty minutes, forty-five at the most."
"I've got the pancake batter all ready. Your favorite, with fresh blueberries. I'll go ahead and start the bacon, too."
"Sounds good, Gran. See you in a little while."
All Abby really wanted to do was slink back to San Francisco without seeing or speaking to anyone. She couldn't disappoint her grandparents, though. Even if it meant she had to paste a cheery smile on her face and pretend that nothing out of the ordinary had happened with her old friend, Jack Randall.
She wasn't about to burden Judith and Hank with her heartache. Not when she had so carelessly brought it upon herself. They would stand by her, of course, just as they had always stood by Larissa. But unless she found herself in a situation where that would prove necessary—a situation, she reminded herself, that seemed highly unlikely—she planned to keep silent about how she and Jack had spent last night.
Determined to banish him from her thoughts, Abby dressed in gray wool slacks and the pale yellow cashmere sweater set Judith had given her for Christmas, then gathered her hair into a tortoiseshell clip at the base of her neck. She tucked her robe into her suitcase and shut it, made a quick survey of her bedroom, and headed for the living room.
There she once again saw the Christmas tree standing forlornly in the corner. She would have to ask Hank to stop by later and put it out on the curb for the trash pickup.
After making sure everything else was in order, she put on her coat, grabbed her purse and suitcase, and walked out to her rental car.
As she loaded the suitcase into the trunk, she saw her mother's neighbor, Constance Beckworth, lurking in the shadows on the tiny front porch of her house, her little poodle clutched in her arms.
The woman had never once spared Abby a friendly word, not even after news of Larissa's death had appeared in the local paper. Normally, Abby would have ignored her presence altogether. But that morning she was feeling just perverse enough to smile widely and wave to the woman.
"Hello, Mrs. Beckworth. Nice day, isn't it?" she called out.
Abby could almost hear Constance's dismissive snort as the old woman turned on her heel and stalked into her house, her head held high.
Just one more thing that would never change in the small town she had once called home, Abby thought as she climbed into the car.
Which was not only why she had left Promise, Nevada, in the first place, but also one of many reasons why she couldn't get back to San Francisco fast enough now.
* * *
Chapter 8
« ^ »
Jack had been in San Francisco two days—two long, miserably cold, damp, rainy March days, most of which he'd spent in the quiet, upscale neighborhood where Abby lived, driving past her town house.
He'd had no trouble finding her. She had talked freely about where she worked and how close it was to where she lived, and her name and address were listed in the telephone book. All he had needed was a street map of the city, and there he had been yesterday afternoon, rolling slowly past her house. Since it had been Friday, he'd figured she was at work, so he had felt safe enough making his first foray there.
The first of what had turned out to be many attempts to work up the nerve to actually walk up to her front door, Jack thought as he sat in his rental car, parked half a block away on the gently sloping street. He knew she was home. He had seen her pull into her ground floor garage almost an hour earlier, and there were lights on in several of the front windows of the tall, narrow town house. Still, he hesitated.
He was running out of time to see her, face-to-face, to apologize for the way he'd walked out on her in December, and to ask her if maybe, just maybe, she could find it in her heart to give him a chance to make things right between them. But he was having the damnedest time convincing himself that she would open her door to him, much less listen to anything he had to tell her.
To say that he had behaved badly toward her was an understatement. None of the excuses he had made to himself since he'd walked out on her over two months ago changed that. And all of his attempts to put her out of his mind, as well as his heart, had failed, as well.
He had fallen asleep every night missing Abby terribly, and he had awakened all too many mornings from dreams so vivid that his first instinct had been to reach out for her across the empty expanse of his lonely bed.
Jack hadn't wanted to feel so deeply for any woman ever again in his life. He hadn't realized until too late that despite his best efforts to remain cool and detached, his wants and needs had gotten the better of him.
And, oh, how he had found himself wanting, needing, Abby Summers…
Not just for sex, but for sharing the smallest, most mundane things like buying a sack of groceries at the neighborhood market, chopping vegetables for a salad, watching a sitcom on television, drinking a glass of wine in front of a roaring fire, or taking a long walk in the early evening.
And talking … talking about everything and anything the way they'd done at dinner that night.
It was the companionship they had shared that Jack longed for as much as anything. Though he would give just about anything he possessed to make love to her again.
But he had been afraid that he had ruined whatever chance he'd had to have a deep and meaningful relationship with her when he'd treated her so callously.
Only the hope that he might somehow be able to redeem himself in her eyes had brought him to San Francisco. Unfortunately, that hope had been growing fainter and fainter as the hours passed.
He wanted to believe that Abby would at least hear him out. But he also knew that wouldn't guarantee him anything. She could still want nothing more to do with him on principle alone. Or she could have met someone else in the months they'd been apart, and nothing he said would matter to her now.
The knot that had been twisting in Jack's gut for two days tightened even more. He had been such a fool in December—such a cowardly fool. He had run from the best thing that had happened to him in years, and he had regretted it ever since.
Working up the courage to fly to San Francisco had taken him several weeks. And now, working up the courage to talk to Abby had him all but paralyzed.
"Enough," he muttered angrily, thrusting open the car door.
For two days, he hadn't been able to eat and he hadn't been able to sleep. If he went back to Promise without resolving this situation, one way or another, for better or worse, there was no telling when he'd be good for anything again, and he simply couldn't afford that.
Not when he had yet to start pulling his weight at the clinic he'd joined a month ago.
With the cold rain pelting down on him, Jack walked purposefully to Abby's town house. He climbed the short flight of steps, stood on the small front porch and pressed the doorbell once, then again. Several moments passed during which he was grateful for the slight overhang that kept him from getting even wetter than he already was.
Finally, he heard the lock turn and the door, still on its safety chain, opened just a few inches. In the entryway light, Jack saw Abby peering out at him. She was wearing a long, wooly, hunter-green robe and his first impression was that she looked exhausted.
"Hi," he said for lack of anything better.
"Well, well, well…" she said at last, her voice frosty. "If it isn't Jack Randall. What brings you here? Looking for another sexual go around? Or are you just checking to see if a problem has developed?"
"Abby, please, I just want—" he began, appalled by just how crude the words he'd written in his note sounded now that he heard them spoken aloud.
"Sorry, Jack. Either way, you're out of luck," she continued, cutting him off in a matter-of-fact tone. "We've had all the sexual go arounds we're ever going to have. And you are the last person on the face of the earth I'd go to with a problem, even one of your making."
Before he could put out a hand to hold the door open, Abby closed it in his face. As the lock clicked into place, he beat a fist on the wood.
"Abby, wait, I have to talk to you," he shouted. "I made a big mistake and I'm sorry, so very, very sorry."
"We both made a big mistake, and believe me, I'm just as sorry as you are. As for talking, the time for that is long past."
"But, Abby, you don't understand. When I said I made a mistake I didn't mean—"
"Go away, Jack." Again she cut him off decisively. "Go away right now or I'm calling the police."
He stood on the porch for a few moments more, too stunned by her flat refusal to listen to anything he had to say to move away. He had factored in such a possibility, but he hadn't really thought he'd have to deal with it.
He had told himself over and over that she would hear him out—for old times' sake, if nothing else. Once again, he had misjudged her, and in doing so, he'd blown the one chance he had to make things right between them.
Finally, Jack made himself turn and walk down the steps. He couldn't force her to listen to him, and he certainly didn't want to cause her any further distress. He'd obviously hurt her badly, and he couldn't blame her for not wanting anything more to do with him.