With the paperwork in order, Isabel sized up both sides of Aidan’s neck. “Every happening artist should have a tattoo with some mystery. But we need it out front, up close, where all your fans will see it. What do you think?” Isabel hesitated, looking hard into Aidan’s eyes. “It’s not too late. We can get you a sequined smoking jacket instead.”
“Are you kidding?” Aidan said, unbuttoning his shirt. “Like Orlando said, it’s una idea muy cojonuda.”
STANDING IN FRONT OF THEIR MOTEL ROOM MIRROR, AIDAN HAD TO AGREE WITH Orlando’s observation. It was very ballsy. Leave it to Isabel to make the perfect choice. He often thought his golden-boy looks were a detriment to the image he wanted to convey. Once or twice, he’d thought about shaving his head, just to toughen that pretty-boy shell. Although Aidan knew he lacked the nerve, at least he had a grip on his vanity. This was better and lower maintenance. He ran a hand along the venomous creature that now coiled from his collarbone, up the left side of his neck, the split tongue licking the square bone of his jaw. The snake was edgy and dangerous and only slightly hurt like hell. He’d definitely have no trouble comparing notes with Isabel in ten or fifteen years. And that thought brought him back around to the other thing, the thing that had wandered into the hotel room with them. Aside from an edgy snake, sex seemed to be taking on the unlikely form of a giant pink elephant.
They only had the clothes on their backs when they arrived in Las Vegas. At some point, Aidan suggested they stop and buy a few things. Since then, since the tattoo, Isabel had hardly spoken. Standing on the opposite side of the room, she folded and refolded the clothes. She looked exhausted. She looked like she was sorry she ever left Catswallow. She looked like she was going to cry.
“Hey, you hungry?” She shook her head. Not a good sign. Isabel could eat anywhere, anytime. “Tired?” She shrugged; then she nodded. He crossed the room, pulling a sweatshirt from her arms. It was stamped Property of Las Vegas County Jail. At the time, he thought it was funny. Now it was tough to find humor in a moment that was growing weightier by the second. “Sorry you came with me?” Her forehead crinkled, but her head shook harder. He sighed, relieved. She glanced up. Aidan’s arms slipped around Isabel, pulling her close. She shuffled begrudgingly into his hold. “Sorry you married me?” It still felt strange, to touch her like that, like she was his.
Isabel’s head, resting on his shoulder, shot up like a rocket. “Are you?”
He smiled wide. And in an attempt to be cunning and suave, Aidan Roycroft tripped right over his own ego. “Are you kidding? Not only do I get to marry my best friend, but I get to take the virgin bride. Good thing I’ve had practice.”
The idea was to sweep her into his arms and onto the bed, proving she was a great deal more. But clearly it wasn’t going to go that way. Pushing away, Isabel narrowed her eyes. It was the look he earned whenever he said or did something that met with her disapproval. She stomped around the bed, fishing through the clothes. Screwing up with Isabel, he knew he’d find a way. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that the way it came out. Isabel, listen to—” His cell rang and he glanced at the caller ID. “It’s Fitz.” All day long and now he called. Isabel’s face was angry. She looked like she didn’t give a crap who was on the phone. Aidan had no choice; he had to talk to him. Snatching up the toiletries she’d bought, Isabel headed for the bathroom.
“I’ll give you some privacy. I’m going to take a shower.” The door slammed as she went inside.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Las Vegas
SHE STOOD IN THE SHOWER WAITING FOR THE HOT WATER TO CLEAR HER HEAD. Am I really married to Aidan? “Isabel Roycroft,” she whispered. Damn, if I had a pen, I’d practice it on toilet paper. Isabel held up five seriously pruned fingers. Sure enough, there was a thin gold band on one of them. “And to think what every girl in Catswallow would have done for his class ring.” It didn’t seem real. Any moment she’d wake to discover that this was one of those dreams. “That or Aidan,” she said, mercilessly wringing a washcloth, “will jolt from a sound sleep and thank God his nightmare is over.”
The blunt observation and lack of hot water snapped her into a state of semi-reality. Shutting off the spigot, Isabel reached for a skimpy motel towel, positive she’d felt smoother sandpaper. She didn’t hear anything on the other side of the door, guessing Aidan was off the phone—or he’d simply left. It was a blunt prospect, hitting harder than the insult he’d lobbed at her before she ran away to the bathroom. Isabel pressed her ear to the door. She heard nothing and braced for the worst: jilted on her wedding night in a chintzy Vegas motel room. Isabel was about to fling open the door when she heard the TV turn on.
She needed to stop that. Aidan would not have proposed, much less gone through with it, if marrying her wasn’t what he wanted. Okay, maybe he was scared, freakishly so, like never before in his life. And maybe Isabel was his go-to girl when he was feeling lost or down. What did it matter if, on occasion, Aidan expected her to hold things together for him? This was different. So’s what happened to him in the last twenty-four hours. Maybe being married to her was just a tad safer than the alternative: Catswallow County lockup and a cellmate named Gus.
“Isabel,” he called. “Are you okay? About before, I didn’t mean anything by that. I was a jerk.” She shrugged and nodded. “Can we . . . can we just talk about it?”
Yeah, that’s what I want to do, talk about it. Isabel stalled, saying she’d be right out. Why rush into the immediate future? The one where Aidan would elaborate on the details of every beautiful girl he’d slept with in Catswallow. And in return she could inform him that before last night no guy had ever kissed her like that . . . touched her like that . . . wanted her like . . . Isabel clutched the rough towel tighter. “Oh my God, what am I doing here?”
“Isabel, did you say something? I didn’t hear—”
“No . . . nothing, just hang on a sec.” Leaning against the bathroom door, she thought she might pass out. Just remembering what nearly happened at the farmhouse brought on a wave of heated sensations. Oddly, they still felt as good as they did new and curious. But what happened there, it was more natural than this. There was no discussion; it just grew organically out of the moment. And whatever made Aidan act that way, whatever spell he was under, well, he truly seemed to have wanted her as much as she did him. Now when Isabel went out there it would be like performing a duty—like when Stella made him sweep the mice turds from the kitchen cabinets.
On the other hand, spending the rest of her married life in the bathroom of the Crazy Eights Motel wasn’t a realistic option. Isabel looked in the mirror where the fog had begun to lift, searching for some courage. She’d found enough to marry him. That or she was selfish enough to pounce on a moment of intense vulnerability. In all seriousness, if the last twenty hours hadn’t happened, where would marrying her have fallen on Aidan’s to-do list? Isabel shuddered at the amount of zeros attached to that figure and moved on to the one in the reflection. She grabbed a hand towel and with broad, brave strokes revealed the girl in the mirror. She concentrated on her face. What would Aidan see? There had been prettier girls, she had no illusions. Beautiful girls sprouted like wildflowers in Catswallow, Alabama. She was from New Jersey and it showed. Before last night, Isabel never pictured Aidan having sex with them. It was foolish and naïve, Isabel realizing how clueless she’d been. The moments on the sofa, in the farmhouse, exceeded any book she’d ever read, any dream she’d conjured up.
She sucked in a breath and in one fast motion let the damp towel drop, examining what Aidan would. Tangled wet hair hung like a cape, falling past her shoulders. It was long enough to shroud parts of her, and Isabel thought of Eve—equally tempted. She pushed it back, exposing everything. Like an expired fairy tale, Isabel was restored to her former self—a smattering of freckles and muddy green eyes. They were not striking or even interesting, only accentuating a nose that was definitely a tad too long for her face. As
ide from thick waves of auburn hair that she could attribute to no one, she looked like him, like her father. And for so long that had not been a good thing.
Through those eyes, which registered twenty-twenty vision, Isabel took a fluorescent-lit inventory of what Aidan had seen by candlelight. She sighed. Maybe the Crazy Eights will lose power . . . Unlike the girls in Catswallow, she didn’t boast a belly that could pass for an ironing board. The kind with a navel primed for a ring. Expanding her line of vision, she reflected on the ring she did possess. It set off a wary thump in her chest and Isabel’s eyes panned top to bottom, the mirror capturing just about everything—including hips that had a definite shape. It was all okay; more hourglass than willowy pine, but it wasn’t a Cosmo cover waiting to happen. She stared harder, knowing it wasn’t a one-to-ten scale of physical beauty, not really. It was more about her desirability quotient. Isabel didn’t come across like other girls; sexual allure was not her dominating factor. Even her own mother saw it, unable to believe someone like Aidan would want her. And if Rick Stanton did, what did that prove? She could arouse a middle-aged car salesman with seedy political aspirations. Gee, wouldn’t girls like Shanna O’Rourke be jealous of me. With a hand to her throat, Isabel’s fingertips traced downward, past her breasts, across her stomach, inching lower and pausing where Aidan did. It sent her hurling toward a moment Aidan certainly knew how to induce. Her other hand braced against the cold tile of the sink as his voice penetrated—from the other side of the door.
“Isabel, open the door—now.”
Everything stopped. Isabel gasped for a breath, staring red-faced into the mirror. She was pathetic, more comfortable with the fantasy than the reality of any pending wedding night. But she was also distracted, realizing a different problem. She had no clothes. She left them in the other room. To put the clothes back on that she wore into the bathroom seemed asinine. Of course, wearing the skimpy towel out was ridiculously obvious—like she was looking for it. Wait. Couldn’t she look for it? After all, she was Aidan’s wife. Aidan’s wife. Could anything sound more absurd? He knocked again.
“Isabel, here.” She pinched the door open and through the crack came Aidan’s arm, Isabel’s undergarments, sweatpants, and T-shirt dangling from his fist.
Okay, that answers a few things.
“We have to go.”
“Go? Where are we going?”
“To Caesars Palace. Fitz Landrey is meeting us there.”
“Fitz Landrey . . .” Did he already get Aidan a gig? “Why, what are you talking about?” She shuffled into the underwear and pants, flinging the door open and hooking the bra. A giant gulp slid through his throat. Desire or despair? Ignoring both, she yanked the T-shirt over her sopping-wet head.
“It’s good, Isabel, really good.” He smiled wider than she’d ever seen. And that she could decipher; Aidan was definitely beaming. He’d also changed into the jeans and shirt they bought. Isabel’s gaze traveled from his face to the snake. For some reason, she thought the tattoo would vanish with the tuxedo. But it appeared to be hard at work, adding a layer of recklessness to his Brad Pitt is my ugly brother looks.
“When I more or less explained things, Fitz told me not to worry and to meet him at Caesars. He’s booking a room for us. He said that he gave my demo CD to a bunch of execs at C-Note and they’re all on board, big-time. He was in Reno, so he’ll be there soon.” Aidan rushed around the room, stuffing their few belongings into bags. “Come on, I don’t want to keep him waiting.” He buzzed past her, heading right out the door. He stopped, glancing back. “Isabel, let’s go. What’s the problem?”
And to answer that would clearly stop Aidan’s world from spinning, so, dutifully, she followed.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Las Vegas
THE INSIDE OF CAESARS PALACE WAS A SMALL CITY, ISABEL TRYING TO IGNORE the fact that they were dressed like its resident vagabonds, their worldly possessions tied up in two plastic bags from Joe’s Strip Souvenirs. They didn’t have to meet Fitz for a half hour, though Aidan was anxious, and Isabel told him to go ahead without her. She’d catch up after taking the bags up to the room. As Fitz promised, there was a reservation waiting in Aidan’s name. Aidan left her by the elevators, telling Isabel to meet them in the Seahorse Lounge.
The hotel room was a jaw-dropping improvement over their prior accommodations. A fast glance into a Caesars Palace mirror suggested she make an effort to improve her appearance as well. A head of damp hair, cheap sweatpants, and a tacky T-shirt surely fell short of the famous casino’s dress code. Isabel went into the bathroom and used the hair dryer. The result wasn’t much of an upgrade, her hair resembling a mop that’d stood in a corner for a week. She had no makeup with her, just a tube of lip gloss. Isabel was tempted to go to the shops downstairs. Surely one of the boutiques sold a head-to-toe, five-minute makeover kit. But the only money she had was Aidan’s, and she wasn’t comfortable spending it without telling him. Tucking the handful of twenties away, it occurred to Isabel how dependent on Aidan she was going to be. Yesterday, paying for college was her biggest concern. Now, who knew? Scavenging through her purse, Isabel thought she might have some forgotten cash. She only came up with a lint-covered Life Saver and her cell phone, which she’d purposely ignored.
Isabel tossed the phone back into her purse but seconds later guiltily retrieved it. As expected, there were messages from her mother. The first ones were panicked pleas to tell her where she was. By the third, she’d figured it out—or at least her version. Aidan jumped bail and he’d coerced Isabel into going with him. From what she said, everyone assumed they were driving. Good. They hadn’t found Aidan’s truck at the airport. She’d never guess they were in Las Vegas. Damn, Isabel would have never guessed it twelve hours ago. The fourth message was a recap of how Aidan was going to ruin her life. Couldn’t she see how he was using her? Gosh, Mom, must be a gene I inherited from you . . . Her tone shifted considerably in the fifth message, a tongue-lashing like Isabel had never heard. She was furious, almost rambling. She’d worked so hard, sacrificed so much to make a decent life for the two of them. And, oh, by the way, the Catswallow sheriff was now looking for her, although Isabel guessed not in Las Vegas. Carrie eased up in the next message, saying that this wasn’t how things were supposed to work out, and would Isabel please come home—at least call? “Come home to what?” she muttered, hitting Delete. “Rick’s house? And you can politely ignore it when he suggests I take the bedroom across the hall. Better yet, maybe he can pick up the tab for college. Imagine what I’d owe him for that? No thanks.” There was one more message, a number Isabel didn’t recognize. But the man’s voice sent a wicked jolt through her—heart rattling.
“Is, it’s me . . . It’s your father.”
She hadn’t heard his voice in nearly six years. Not since their last conversation when he told her he’d halted visitation proceedings. He said he wanted to give Isabel time to adjust. That hopefully she’d come to him. The trouble she was in crystallized. Eric Lang could have called only if he’d spoken to her mother. And for that to happen, Isabel thought she’d have to be dead.
“Listen, Is . . .” He was the only person who called her that. “I heard what’s going on. Well, I heard your mother’s side of it. I’d like to hear your side of things, if you’ll let me. This . . . this sounds serious, Isabel. I know you’re a smart girl, but you need to talk to someone. I can help. You know I can, but you have to let me. Call me back, Is—please.”
Tears pooled in reply. For a moment, Isabel wanted to call him. His voice was so genuine, so concerned, so like the dad she knew the day before that night in New Jersey. The phone rang again. It was Aidan.
“Isabel, are you coming? How long does it take to drop two bags in a hotel room?”
“Sorry, I was listening to my messages.” He didn’t say anything right away.
“And?”
“And it’s about what you’d expect. Do you
want me to elaborate?”
“No, not right now. Let’s just talk to Fitz, see what happens.”
“Okay. Aidan?”
“Yeah?”
“My father called. He left a message.”
More silence. “Your father? That’s, um, that’s incredible. Geez, he must have talked to your mother. For that to happen I thought you’d have to be . . .”
“Dead?”
“Pretty much. Are you going to call him back?”
“No, of course not.” She hesitated, twisting a lock of hair around a finger. “Well, it would just be a conversation, right? Maybe. I’d . . . I need to think about it.”
“Oh. That’s, um, that’s surprising.” There was another pause. “I, uh . . . listen, Isabel. I think you should . . . Damn, here comes Fitz. I have to go. Just get down here as quick as you can.”
Her father wanted to help. It was more than Carrie had offered. Isabel stared at the phone, imagining the conversation. Where would it even start? “Hi, Dad. It’s me, Isabel . . . yeah, it’s been a while. How are you? How’s Patrick?” And that’s where it stopped. She’d met Patrick Bourne once. Twice, if she counted the night in New Jersey, but that was more of a frantic blur. To this day she had no idea what her mother walked in on. Although she supposed it left zero room for interpretation. Isabel’s second encounter with Patrick Bourne occurred not long after her father moved out. She was twelve and understandably confused by the turmoil. Other than Carrie doing a lot of crying and the overnight upheaval to their lives, no one had filled in the blanks. Not to Isabel’s satisfaction. On a hunt for answers, she took a public transit bus from the neighborhood where they lived to Princeton University, where Eric worked in admissions. Patrick Bourne was a visiting lecturer at the law school, but she didn’t know that. Isabel managed to find her way to her father’s office. She poked her head inside, seeing Patrick there. The two men were drinking coffee, talking. They didn’t see Isabel as she listened at the door. There was an odd cadence to their conversation. It wasn’t the way Eric Lang spoke to the men in their neighborhood or his golf buddies. It wasn’t even the way he spoke to her mother. It made Isabel think of her older cousin, Jennifer, the warm way she talked about her fiancé. David was in the army, stationed in Afghanistan. They hadn’t seen each other for a year. That’s how Patrick and her father spoke, longingly and unsure about the future. The two men were startled to find her there, Patrick leaving quickly, but not before saying he hoped to see her again. He said he was sorry about her parents, very sorry. She remembered thinking that he was tall. His voice was soothing and at the same time in charge—like a teacher whose manner made you take notice. Still, she was unable to come up with a reason why he was so interested in Isabel or her parents’ divorce.
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