by Renee Roszel
Throwing back the covers, she went to the bathroom and flung the door wide only to be confronted by David’s glistening nudity. With the storm raging outside, she hadn’t realized he was even up, let alone just stepping from the shower. They both seemed riveted by the unexpectedly intimate encounter. David—captured in the process of drying his broad chest—stared at her, and she couldn’t bring herself to do more than stare back at his tawny perfection.
After a tense minute, impatience showed in his cool gray eyes as he taunted, “To what do I owe this visit? More offers of charity sex?”
She blanched at his severe tone. “I—I had no idea you weren’t in bed.”
Draping his towel modestly about his waist, he made a sweeping gesture with his arm. “I was just leaving. Be my guest.”
“I—will,” she murmured tightly. “I—uh—Would you mind telling Paul I’ll only be a few minutes. Then the bathroom is his.”
David’s slow grin was singularly unpleasant as he inquired, “Are you sure you don’t want me to go get him now?”
His insult stung, and she retorted coldly, “If you must repay me for humiliating you by humiliating me, then go ahead.”
A flash of self-contempt marred his features, and he mouthed a curse. Raking his hand through his damp hair, he wheeled away and slammed the door. The earsplitting noise it made was cloaked by the crash of nearby thunder.
David Baron, Gina’s calm, reasonable professor-scholar-husband, had just hurled a door shut. And he’d done it hard enough to open the medicine chest, dislodge a bottle of aspirin and send it flying to the floor. The lid, not on solidly, bounced across the room to land at Gina’s feet, and what seemed like thousands of little white pellets began dancing and skidding across the white tiles. Miserable, Gina lowered herself to sit on the edge of the tub and watched as the aspirins spun and hopped to a gradual halt. When the tablets had finally stilled, a tottering bottle of cologne crashed into the sink and shattered, permeating the tiny room with an overpowering, spicy scent.
She shook her head. David was really angry—violent enough to have killed a bottle of aspirin and a jug of Concealed Weapon. Sighing, she grabbed a towel and began to clean up the mess. As she wiped the swampy mess into a pile, she began to wonder at her solid, unruffable husband. He had a savage, unguarded side she’d never seen before. Where had it come from? Not even when a drunk had slammed into the side of his new BMW coupe had David even raised his voice.
With a concerned quirk of her brows, she realized she must be driving him right to the edge of sanity with this divorce business. But to violence? There was something frightening about this new fierceness he was revealing. But even more, there was something intriguing about knowing just how imperfectly human David could be. It was bewildering to discover so late in their marriage that she had the power to bring out such raw honesty in him. And, God help her, she didn’t believe that could be all bad. If David had allowed her a glimpse of this fragile, mortal side earlier, then maybe, just maybe, their marriage might have been salvageable. But it was too late, now. She wiped away a futile tear, mumbling, “Far too late…”
THE DAY WAS PROGRESSING in a sodden, bleak fashion as far as David was concerned. He’d begun the morning with a fit of uncharacteristic jealous anger, and he was ashamed of himself. Anger and jealousy were such self-destructive emotions. He hated himself for wallowing in either. But he was equally ashamed of the way he was reacting to Gina’s casual conversation with Paul. Casting them a furtive glance over the rims of his spectacles, he watched as Paul helped Gina organize her research papers.
Though he turned away, determined to ignore them, every so often he was drawn away from his physics journal by Gina’s lilting laughter. He had to fight the urge to crumple the periodical in his fists. Gina was not being very professional—at least, not to his way of thinking. Giggling was not a prerequisite for writing a book. He’d written three, and he hadn’t let out a chortle during the whole damned process.
And was batting her lashes at that—that blushing, inept Casanova at her side really necessary? It wasn’t David’s idea of the best method of shooting a literary project through to completion. On the contrary, it was more a way to titillate a man into throwing a brazen little tease on her back and smothering her with hot, moist—
He cleared his throat and irritably flipped to the next page, but chanced to look askance at his wife and find her moistening her lips—very slowly. He didn’t know if she meant to be seductive with her tongue or if her lips were merely dry. Whatever the case, David was not a happy physicist.
“Oh, did I mention that the Maryvale Players are gearing up for our annual musical?” Paul asked as he straightened a stack of yellowing pages.
“I think you did. Tryouts are next Tuesday, aren’t they?” Gina turned to face him.
“Tuesday night at seven in the community center.”
“What musical are they going to do?”
“I don’t know yet. We did South Pacific last year. So I can only guess it won’t be that again.” He handed her the stack. “Now, what do you want me to do?”
She gave him a handful of newspaper clippings. “Could you sort these by date—the most recent, last.”
“Sure.” He began to go through them. “Some of these are dated before the turn of the century.”
Gina nodded, but didn’t look up from her bulging file folder. “I know. I really must get them copied. There are a few that are in fragile shape.”
“Gina?”
Paul’s lovesick tone drew David’s reluctant attention, but he pretended to read.
“Yes?” Gina looked up from her sorting.
“You’re beautiful enough to play the lead—whatever musical they choose.”
Gina blushed prettily. “You’re such a flatterer, Paul.”
She had the impertinence to slide a stealthy glance toward David, who immediately averted his gaze to stare stonily, unseeing at his periodical.
“No, I really mean it,” Paul insisted.
“I don’t know what to say,” she demurred.
David pushed up from his chair, having had enough. “What about lunch?” he suggested a bit gruffly. “Anyone for a bowl of my leek-and-spinach soup?”
“David—give me a break,” Gina began, her face pinched with distaste. “Leaky spinach?”
“Leek and spinach,” David corrected from the kitchen door. “You know. Vegetables.”
“Oh, those.” She shook her head in mock distress. “I’ve heard they cause warts. I’d be careful.”
He gave up and turned away.
“I am a little hungry, Paul. What do you say to a pastrami sandwich and a batch of fries on the side?”
“Uh—anything sounds good,” Paul offered diplomatically. “Whatever you’ve got plenty of. I don’t want to put you out.”
Gina laid her work aside. “Don’t be silly. We’ve got food enough for a couple of weeks of being stranded. Besides, it’s not your fault the bridge washed out.”
“Well, at least I can help.”
“Slice up some pastrami, will you?” Gina asked as she began to rummage around in the refrigerator. David was already there, leaving her little space. “David, hand me that pastrami.”
“You’d be better off with the spinach and leek—”
“Never mind,” she retorted through a tired sigh. “Move over and I’ll get it myself.”
He retrieved the processed meat and handed it to her. “And fries?” he asked, sounding weary.
She eyed him irritably. “It’s a vegetable.”
“So are the potatoes growing on the abandoned plants near Chernobyl. Would you eat them?” Without waiting for an answer, he gathered up the bunch of fresh spinach, a tomato, and two large leeks, and moved away to drop them on his countertop.
He’d left so quickly, she didn’t have time to think of an appropriate retort. How dare he compare indulging in a few French fries to a nuclear disaster! Instead, she vented her anger by plucking up the ingred
ients and retreating to her side of the kitchen. “Here.” She thrust the pastrami at Paul and heard his pained exhale.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Paul,” she declared, aghast. “My mind was on—something else.”
With a feeble smile, he began to slice the meat.
David didn’t bother to look over at her. Though he continued to chop his leeks, he was aware of exactly whom Gina had been wanting to hit when Paul suffered the pastrami to his solar plexus. It seemed a shame, but David wasn’t cheered to know that young, blond and blushing Paul had suffered pain that had been meant for him.
THE RAIN RELINQUISHED its hold over the lighthouse just after darkness fell. The silence was almost deafening after so many hours of window-rattling squalls.
“Maybe they can start repairing Mason’s Bridge tomorrow,” Gina remarked as she looked up from her mail-order book, The Dominating Male And How to Rid Yourself of Him.
“Maybe,” Paul echoed, dropping the paperback Gina had loaned him—a self-improvement manual that didn’t appear to be his favorite kind of reading material. “Say,” he inquired, “what are you reading, Gina?”
David glanced over from his easy chair where Lumper was sprawled in his lap. He announced impatiently, “It’s one twisted woman’s idea of how to emasculate men.”
“Ha! Ha! Very droll, Dr. Baron,” Gina countered before turning to Paul to explain. “Dr. Bella Von Bakker is an eminent psychiatrist, and her book has sold millions of copies—”
“And killed off a number of good marriages.”
“David,” Gina retorted, shifting to pin him with a stem stare. “Do you mind? I’m trying to have a conversation over here.”
Watching her solemnly, David didn’t shrink from her haughty regard. A bitter smile fleetingly twisted his mouth. “Paul, the eminent Dr. Bella Von Bakker has been dubbed ‘Dr. B. Breaker’ by the American Psychiatrists’ Association. She’s a plague upon confused, discontented women.” He shrugged and turned away. “Just thought you ought to know the other side of the story.”
“She is not!” Gina groused. “I’ve never heard that—that B. Breaker thing. That’s awful!”
He grunted. It sounded like sardonic laughter.
Gina slid closer to Paul and opened her book so that he could see. “Anyway, Paul, take chapter three, for instance—’Ladies, sharpen your machetes.’” She stopped and frowned. Somehow it did have a rather emasculating ring to it.
“I rest my case,” David muttered, but he didn’t look up from his reading material.
“Well,” Gina defended, “take chapter four, then—’I’m gonna wash that jackass right outta my hair.’”
“Charming. A real healing message there,” David countered, glancing over at them, one eyebrow lifted in an all-too-knowing expression.
Gina had had enough. She snapped the book closed and leaped up from the couch. “You think you know so damned much!” She started to rant on and then realized Paul would suffer. Instead, she suggested more quietly, “I think I’ll fix myself a little snack. What about you, Paul? Chocolate sundaes sound good?” She took satisfaction in David’s low groan.
The next morning the sun shone brightly, as though the twenty-four hours of scouring storms had polished it to a gleaming gold. Its warmth was invigorating, and at ten o’clock Gina decided to take a morning swim, Coming out of the bathroom, she tugged on the stretchy fabric of her bathing suit, remarking to herself, “This thing seems a little tight.”
David came around from his side of the bed, wearing his jogging shorts. His eyes raked her body with bothersome thoroughness before he queried, “Could it be the chocolate sundaes?”
Her gaze snapped up to his face, both accusation and horror in her look. “No, it could not!” she denied vehemently. “This thing just shrank or something.”
He inclined his head, looking doubtful. “Of course. Swimsuits are notorious for shrinking. My mistake.”
She lifted her chin in a weak show of defiance, fearing he might be right. “I—I’m not gaining weight.” She bit the inside of her cheek, but was forced to ask the dreaded question. “Am I?”
He seemed to take pity on her. Shaking his head, he murmured, “You look fine, but for your health’s sake, you’d better—”
“Don’t lecture me! Besides, I forgot. Now that I’m no longer The Dean’s Wife—or soon won’t be—I don’t have to be a glowing example for young womanhood anymore!” she cried, whirling away. “Paul and I are going swimming. Enjoy your run!”
She hadn’t sounded as though she cared if he went running or if he fed himself to sharks. When she’d slammed out of the bedroom, he looked down at the brown carpet and cursed his stupid need to remind her about her foolish life-style. Damn! All he wanted in the world was to love her the way she wanted to be loved. What in hell was the matter with him? Why couldn’t he just have said, “Gina, get as chubby as you please. Just come back home with me. Be my wife. Love me the way you used to.” Why couldn’t he say that? Wasn’t it in him to love her, no matter what? Was he so hidebound and health-conscious that he couldn’t love her except in the image he’d fashioned for his mate—The Dean’s Wife? And what exactly was his definition of The Dean’s Wife, anyway? He began to mentally calculate: a spirited, intelligent woman with drive, wit, compassion…
He frowned, trying not to think about the fact that Gina was still all those things. Yet, she was far from his concept of what The Dean’s Wife should be. So, what was the crucial difference—complete and total subservience? Is that what he wanted? Had he been selfish all these years, deluded into thinking he wasn’t controlling like his father, when in reality, he was exactly like him? David felt himself physically shudder at the thought and shook his head. It couldn’t be true. He’d fought so hard to be completely unlike the man.
Hell on earth was being caught in the vise of two opposing wills. Curse it! He wasn’t like his father. He wanted only the best for Gina. He loved her. For her own good, he would persist until his will won out. Some nagging inner voice kept repeating, “For your own good, too. You need her as much as she needs you.”
He winced at the bald truth. He did need her. He needed her sweetness, her tenderness, her wit—but dammit! She really didn’t want to gain weight. He’d seen it in her face. He would persist. Their staying together was the best thing for her—for them both—in the long run. Surely he could make her see that.
He just hoped to hell that Paul wouldn’t be their houseguest for much longer. He didn’t know how much longer he could take the man’s fawning attentions to his wife! He would hate to be driven to smashing the guy in the solar plexus with a batch of leeks, or clouting him in the nose with a hunk of tofu. He’d resorted to violence only once, and he would never get over the gnawing guilt. Even so, he had been feeling barbarous urges of late. He didn’t like to think he might follow through on one! Not again. He’d made a promise to himself long ago.
ONCE OUT ON THE BEACH, Gina kept one eye on the lighthouse, expecting to see David follow her out, dogging her heels. But he wasn’t anywhere to be seen. Paul was coaxing her into the water, and she was hesitant. “Paul, I’m not much of a swimmer.”
“I’ll teach you,” he offered cheerily, obviously delighted to be separated from the scowling David.
“I don’t know,” Gina replied cautiously. “I’m—afraid of things under the water.”
Paul laughed, looking stocky in David’s borrowed trunks. “There’s nothing here that would hurt you,” he assured.
She smiled faintly. “Promise? ’Cause, I really would like to be able to enjoy the beach.”
He nodded and spread his arms in invitation. “I promise. Come on.”
With a little squeal at the coolness of the water, she ventured out to Paul. They were thigh deep when he began to instruct her on the finer points of dealing with ocean tides and swells.
He took her hand, and they waded out deeper, until the surging sea was lapping below Gina’s breasts. “Let’s try the back float first. That way, you w
on’t get your eyes in the salt water,” Paul suggested. “But you probably ought to get some goggles and a snorkel to really enjoy the ocean.”
“I’ll think about it,” she said, reluctance ripe in her tone.
“Lie back into my arms,” he coaxed. “I won’t let you go under.”
After a brief deliberation, she pushed off the bottom and found herself bobbing around on the surface, with Paul’s arms gently supporting her shoulders and thighs. She was a little embarrassed that he was touching her so intimately, but she tried to remember he was just teaching her to float on her back.
“Now what?” she rasped through clenched jaws.
“Relax,” he cajoled with a grin. “You’re doing fine.”
She tried, but it was like trying to relax after being tossed from an airplane at twenty thousand feet. She remained stiff, and began to flounder.
Paul grabbed her to him as her mouth and nose went below the surface and, panicked, she began to choke. “You’re okay, Gina,” he assured softly. “I have you.”
Frightened, she threw her arms about his neck, sputtering and coughing. When she’d regained her ability to breathe normally, she focused on Paul’s face. He looked concerned. “Don’t worry,” she declared. “I’m going to live. I just don’t know if I’ll ever be able to relax, lying on my back in water. It doesn’t seem like a very natural thing to do.”
His face opened in a slow, relieved grin, and he confessed softly, “Gina—you know I’m crazy about you.”
Before she had a chance to absorb his impulsive remark, he was lowering his lips to hers, kissing her with more heat than she would ever have imagined he could muster—especially since he was a guest in her own husband’s house, or at least half her husband’s house.