After That Night

by Ann Evans

  To say that she’d been pleased was an understatement. Going to bed with Mark Bishop so soon after his breakup with Shelby Winston had made her feel slightly uneasy, but he’d seemed so sincere at the bar when he’d told her there was no way to salvage that relationship.

  She’d wanted to see him again. Orlando, his home base, was only eight hours by car from Atlanta. His apparent eagerness to talk to her had seemed like a good sign. She’d been about to pick up the phone and return his call when it had rung under her hand.

  Mark.

  Jenna had known almost immediately that the conversation wouldn’t go well. His voice had sounded too cautious, his words too rehearsed. He’d asked why she’d left him that morning—not with scorching anger in his tone, but something far worse. Vague, sterile disinterest. She’d started to explain, then stopped. She’d found his tense silence oppressive and known that nothing she said would make it better.

  And then, he had made it worse. Unforgivable.

  Dear God, how could she have misjudged him so badly? she’d thought.

  He’d implied that the details of the previous night’s interlude would somehow make it to the pages of gossip tabloid. For a long, horrible moment she’d been frozen in shock. He’d gone on, asking her to remember that his company employed a lot of people, people who depended on him for their living. Scandal that touched him also affected them, and he didn’t really believe she wanted that, did she?

  She’d responded by hanging up on him.

  He’d called back. She’d cut off his apology and told him what he could do with it, told him he didn’t need to worry and that she had every intention of forgetting she’d ever met him, much less slept with him. Then she’d banged the receiver down in his ear.

  He’d made a few more attempts to call over the next two days. She’d made a science of ignoring them. On the third day, he’d stopped calling.

  Now a week had gone by, and it appeared he’d truly given up.

  Jenna stared down at the numbers on her accounting report, seeing nothing but blurry columns of black ink.

  Lauren had been wrong about Mark. Sex hadn’t been a problem at all. In fact, it had been fantastic. “Great in bed. Not lousy,” Jenna muttered quietly to the four walls of her office. “Just lousy in life.”

  ORLANDO WAS NOT New York City, not by a long shot. But if you could get past the summer heat and the tie-ups on the interstate and the fact that tourists never seemed to bring their brains with them on vacation, it had a certain picture-postcard splendor. A clean, bright lushness that made a person glad to live there.

  Most days.

  Not today.

  Mark Bishop stood at the window of his twenty-sixth-floor office in downtown Orlando and wondered where the day had gone. It had been a week since he’d left Manhattan, and he’d done nothing but go from one pointless meeting to the next, field a bunch of complaints from Human Resources about new employee policies and fight with his accountants over their never-ending suspicions about the books in the Atlanta office.

  Now he just wanted to go home. Relax. Watch a game on television.

  Check the answering machine. See if maybe, just maybe, Jenna Rawlins had finally responded to any of the voice messages he’d left on her phone.

  Grimly recalling their last conversation, that seemed unlikely. He knew that whatever magic they’d shared that night, it was definitely long gone. He’d blown it.

  Years ago Mark had learned how to separate desire from need, and the truth was, all women looked the same to him now, indistinguishable versions of eligibility. There had been more lovers in his life than he cared to think about, but not one of them had left him so hungry for more. Not even Shelby.

  Poor Shel. For a while he’d thought her the perfect woman—beautiful, smart, accomplished. Hypocrisy was not one of his vices, and when things had finally heated up between them, he’d made no bones about what he wanted in a wife.

  With her own agenda in mind, Shelby hadn’t objected. She’d been completely focused on her career goals. She’d wanted a husband as a helpmate, someone who could open doors for her own political ambitions. As for children, they were a nuisance better enjoyed at a distance.

  When Mark had finally popped the question, there had been no giddy laughter, no breathless excitement, no tears of joy. Just the safe, satisfying belief that marriage between them nicely fit both their agendas.

  But as their engagement moved forward, Mark began to suspect that Shelby wanted more, and worse, that she thought she could actually change him to accomplish it. The prenuptial agreement had cleared up any misconceptions she’d had on that score, and however painful the end turned out to be, it had been better to see it happen before they actually went through with the ceremony.

  In a few days he’d contact Shelby in Texas. He’d start the conversation with the very real need to find out how she wanted to handle dissolving some of the joint business ventures they’d agreed upon. But he’d make sure she was all right. He’d never had a relationship with a woman end in ugliness, and he didn’t intend for this one to, either.

  Maybe he was losing his touch. Those few golden hours with Jenna Rawlins hadn’t ended any better. For the thousandth time he asked himself why he hadn’t been able to manage a better outcome.

  When he’d walked into the Belasco’s penthouse suite that afternoon and come face-to-face with her, his reaction had been purely visceral.

  God, he could still remember every tiny detail of that interview. Watching the pale satin of her cheeks turn pink with every question or answer. Enjoying the long curve of her neck as she’d pored over her notes. The sight of her pulse pounding at the base of her throat had fascinated him. He’d wanted to place his fingertips against it, just to see what effect his touch would have. But it was her lips that captivated and intrigued him, hinting, in an entirely artless way, at any number of possibilities. Even now, just thinking about her sent an odd twist of pleasure through him.

  Bright. Funny. Sexy. And he knew she felt it, too, that sizzling awareness. By the time Shelby had walked into the penthouse, he’d caught himself indulging in erotic fantasies that an engaged man would have to be extremely foolish to pursue.

  Of course later, after everything with Shelby had gone to dust…

  He’d spent an hour alternately indulging in self-pity and giving himself hell for creating such a mess with Shelby, for turning her world upside down. He was glad that she’d be the one on record for calling off the engagement. If there was any face-saving to be had from the fiasco, it was only fair it be hers. But he’d turned thirty-three that day, too, and the thick, heavy hopelessness that seemed to be his life lately had settled on his heart, making him feel more like ninety-three.

  To say he was sorry he’d come upon Jenna Rawlins alone in that bar would stick in his throat like the lie it was. That evening spent with her had been like stolen treasure.

  No sly, feminine tactics. No harsh judgments. She was so…alive. So completely herself. Jenna made him laugh and think and question. But most of all, she made him feel as though his whole world wasn’t unraveling.

  And no doubt about it, by the time midnight had rolled around, the thrill of desire, the expectation of things to come, was as crisp as pain within him, and blatantly reflected back from her own eyes.

  The sex had been some of the best he’d ever known. They’d made love more than once that night in the dark luxury of the penthouse bedroom. The summer storm had raged outside the windows, but every tremble of thunder, every strobe of lightning felt as though it was happening between them in that bed.

  By four in the morning, they’d lain exhausted, satisfied, their energy spent. He’d pulled her close, wanting that feeling of completeness never to end, savoring the idea that, for now, they were beyond the touch of time or change. He’d fallen asleep stroking the soft curve of her cheek, wondering how he could persuade her to lengthen her stay in New York. A dozen different arguments had played in his head, but he’d never gotten
to use them.

  When morning had come and he’d awoken squinting into the sunlight, she was gone. For the first time in his life, a woman he’d made love to had left his bed before he’d wanted her to go….

  A clatter of noise pulled Mark out of his reverie and made him turn from the window. Debra Lee was fussing at his desk, clearing away the remnants of the unsatisfying day—empty coffee cups, balled-up pieces of paper, stacks of computer reports that had proved to be outdated and useless. He was surprised that she hadn’t gone home already.

  “Deb,” he said sternly, “what are you still doing here? Don’t we have a cleaning crew who can do some of that?”

  “You’ll feel better if you leave tonight with a clean office and clean desk.”

  Debra Lee was the best administrative assistant he’d ever had, but he still hated it when she puttered. “Leave it,” he said. “Go home.”

  She ignored that. Instead, she lifted the jar of macadamia nuts off his desk and favored him with a frown. “Are you eating these?”

  “No.” He still wasn’t sure why he’d stuffed them in the bottom of his garment bag. I’ll treasure them always, he’d joked to Jenna. But now all they did was remind him of how wrong everything had gone.

  “Shall I trash them?”

  “No,” he said more harshly than he intended. “Don’t you know how expensive they are?”

  She gave him a sour look that said the obvious—if it was nuts he wanted, he could afford to buy a truckload.

  Feeling annoyed, he jammed his hands into his pockets and stared back out the window. What was the matter with her? She knew him as well as she knew her own husband. Couldn’t she tell he wanted to be left alone?

  The office windows were floor-to-ceiling, and he looked down. The street traffic below offered little interest.

  Women! he thought. Could a guy ever completely understand them? If Jenna Rawlins didn’t want to see him again, why should he chase after her? His ego was healthy enough to handle the occasional rejection. When he got home tonight, if there was no message from her on his phone, that would be the end of it. He didn’t need to be hit on the head. Lots of fish in the sea, and he knew how to offer some pretty attractive bait.

  He didn’t know how long he’d been standing there, lost in thought, when he heard a harshly indrawn breath and became aware of the subtle sound of weeping.

  He turned to find Deb hunched over his desk. One hand covered her face. In all the years he’d known her, he’d never seen her cry, not once. He was flabbergasted, completely at a loss. And ashamed that his first thought before he crossed the distance between them was Oh, hell, what’s this?

  “Deb?” he said quickly. “I’m sorry if I snapped at you. Throw the damned nuts away if you want.”

  She shook her head, holding one hand out to ward off his approach. “It’s not that. I’m sorry. It’s been a long day. I’m fine. Really.”

  She wasn’t fine. He could see it in her eyes—a bleak, cold misery that said something was definitely wrong. He hated getting involved in people’s lives, really hated it. But this was Deb. Tough. Efficient. His right arm. He couldn’t just wave her off and pretend he hadn’t noticed.

  He took her elbow and steered her toward the leather couch that sat against one wall. She looked as if she might refuse to cooperate, but he said in his most authoritative voice, “Sit.” And when she did, “Don’t move.”

  From a decanter on the mini-bar he splashed a couple of fingers of whiskey into a glass. He placed it in her hand, then took the chair across from her. She looked completely undone.

  When she didn’t make a move, he leaned forward and touched her hand. “Drink it.”

  She complied. Her hand shook visibly, rattling the ice in her glass.

  “Tell me what’s wrong. Is it Scott? If that son of a bitch has done something inappropriate, I’ll get Human Resources on his sorry ass first thing in the morning.”

  “It’s not Scott.”

  If it wasn’t the office Lothario, what was it? Oh, damn! “It’s not me, is it, Deb? Am I pushing you too hard? Do you want me to get a temp—”

  “It’s not you,” she said with a watery smile. “When it is, don’t I always tell you?”

  “Always,” he agreed. He was relieved to see her rally this way. Women and tears made his gut ache. “So, what is it?”

  “It’s Alan.”

  Oh, damn. Not a husband-and-wife thing.

  “What about Alan?” he asked cautiously.

  Alan and Debra Lee’s marriage had always had one of the few happy ones he knew of. If she’d caught the jerk cheating… Why the hell didn’t I go home earlier, when I had the chance?

  She swiped her hand across her wet cheek. He offered her the box of tissues that sat on the side table. She gave him a tiny smile filled with regret and embarrassment. She was a pretty woman, not beautiful, but with a certain regal way of carrying her few extra pounds that could make a man feel privileged to have her all the same. Right now her face was blotchy.

  “I shouldn’t be discussing this with you,” she said, her lips pressed into a pale line. “I know how you hate to get involved in people’s personal lives.”

  “I don’t hate it,” he lied. “I’m just not very good at it.”

  “That’s true,” she said in a matter-of-fact way that irritated the heck out of him.

  “So what’s Alan done?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t know? If you don’t know, then why are you crying?”

  “I’ve been married for twelve years, Mark. There isn’t a thing I don’t know about Alan Goodson. I can tell you things about his childhood that even his mother doesn’t know.”

  He grimaced. “You’re not going to, are you?”

  Debra Lee looked at him as if he were a half-witted child. “My point is, I know my husband inside and out. And yet suddenly he’s keeping secrets. He’s not talking to me. He’s angry sometimes for no reason. He wasn’t at work yesterday. On my lunch break I was at the mall and saw him sitting in the food court. He lied to me about it.”

  It seemed pretty clear to Mark what the problem was. God, members of his gender could be such asses sometimes. He reached to place his hand over hers. “Jeez, Deb,” he said gently. “You know what that sounds like, don’t you?”

  “He’s not cheating on me.”

  “How can you be so sure? Sometimes men—”

  She sat up straighter, emphatic disagreement etched in every bone and muscle. “I told you. I know Alan. But there is something wrong, and he won’t tell me. I’ve been trying to find some way to ask you, but I didn’t have the courage.”

  “Ask me what?”

  “To talk to him. Find out what’s wrong.”

  It was Mark’s turn to sit up straight. In fact, he almost came out of his chair. “What? No. Hell, no. No way am I getting involved in this.”

  “He trusts you. He likes you.”

  “Doesn’t he have any buddies?”

  “His closest friends are my brothers, and he might be afraid they’d tell me. Or maybe he’d be ashamed for them to know. It could be anything. Problems at work. Maybe he’s developed a gambling thing. Or he’s sick or…or dying.”

  Screwing around, more like it. But it was clear she wasn’t willing to entertain such a notion.

  Mark sighed heavily. He really didn’t know what to say.

  She stood up. Patting a tissue to her eyes, she sniffed and brushed imaginary lint from her skirt. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I shouldn’t impose on you this way. You’ve had a tough time of it yourself lately, haven’t you.”

  He’d risen as well, and now she looked up at him. Her smile was weak, but determined. “What I’m asking is way beyond what an employee should ask of an employer. I’m not using reverse psychology here. It’s true. It’s too much to ask. Sorry. Please forget about it.”

  He watched her head for the door, relieved she’d changed her mind. He felt like a heel, but he was
n’t comfortable traipsing around in other people’s lives. He never had been. Tomorrow they’d go on as if this unpleasant conversation had never taken place. In a few days he might ask her if she’d ever learned Alan’s secret. But only if she looked as if she wasn’t on the verge of tears. Only if it felt safe.

  “Deb,” he called to her. Keep your chin up, kid, he’d say. You’re tough. You can do it. Nothing wrong with offering a little encouragement.

  Her hand on the office door, she turned. Waiting.

  “What time does Alan get off work tomorrow?”

  CHAPTER SIX

  FIVE WEEKS LATER, feeling resentful and fuzzy-minded, Jenna stared down at the article headlines she’d been working on for the next issue of FTW.

  When a Lassie Comes Home—Planning Your Scottish Wedding. Haunted Honeymoons—Where the Dead Were Wed.

  No. Definitely not right.

  Mollie Baxter, in charge of the magazine’s layout, was home with strep throat. Production of each issue being a team effort, Vic had asked everyone in the project meeting this morning to try to come up with some catchy headlines for the articles they planned to run. Jenna had told Vic she wasn’t any good at that sort of thing. Besides, she felt sick and might be coming down with something herself.

  No luck. Vic was always ruthless where the magazine was concerned.

  Sighing, Jenna pulled the next article in front of her—a humorous piece on ten wedding gifts that could be made out of cardboard.

  Nothing came to her. She was dead from the neck up, it seemed.

  The next article was about a new wedding trend—brides and grooms getting matching tattoos. She didn’t even know where to start with that one.

  Her stomach rolled unpleasantly, and for one horrible moment, Jenna thought she might throw up. If it wasn’t Mollie and her darned strep infection—Deadly Plague Kills Entire Office—then it was probably the horrible new barbecue restaurant her father had dragged them to last night. Now there was a headline waiting to be written: Board of Health Shuts Down Greasy Spoon after Diners Poisoned.