The Other Man. Karen Van Der Zee

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СКАЧАТЬ she managed on a furious tone, finding a frightening well of anger. Anger at herself for feeling the way she did now. Anger because he had no right to do this.

      Anger because she was terrified. Nothing but heartache and disaster lay ahead if she allowed this to affect her.

      He shrugged, a mocking slant to his mouth. “For old times’ sake.”

      “Bastard,” she whispered fiercely.

      The sounds of a car driving up. A door slamming. She gulped in more air, clasping the edge of the table for support, struggling for composure.

      The door swung open and his wife walked in, clutching a bag of groceries to her chest.

      “I’m back,” she said unnecessarily, and dumped the bag on the counter. She wore a topaz blue shirt and white shorts that showed long, lean legs. She glanced at Gwen. “Hi,” she said, and frowned. “Haven’t I seen you before? Oh, yes, the restaurant! Last night.” She glanced questioningly at Aidan, obviously waiting for an introduction.

      “I’ve got to go.” Gwen didn’t know where her voice came from. Somehow she made her legs move, forced them to take her out the door and into her car.

      Next thing she knew she was out on the road, driving on automatic, going too fast.

      He’d had no right to kiss her, to touch her—no right at all. Anger burned inside her. And deep, hot humiliation. He had seen the emotion in her face, sensed the effect he was having on her and he’d taken advantage of it, humiliated her.

      “Damn you, Aidan!” she shouted out loud, but the wind whipped away her words.

      

      The sangria was delicious. Alice’s daughter, just back from a college semester in Spain, had made it according to a genuine, unadulterated Spanish recipe, which included generous amounts of cognac.

      It was getting late, but the party was still going strong and Gwen was having a wonderful time. Her friends had outdone themselves. Flowers every-where, a pile of birthday presents, wonderful food, a huge, homemade birthday cake.

      It was good to have so many friends, to have people care about her and take her seriously. When Marc had died, they’d gathered around her, helping, comforting. And now this. She smiled as she glanced around her garden where they’d all gathered to help her celebrate her thirtieth birthday.

      Thirty! It sounded wonderful, as if now she really had grown up and truly was a mature woman. It wasn’t what a lot of women thought when they left their twenties, but she didn’t mind in the least. She liked it.

      It was good to feel independent and secure in yourself and to know what you wanted. It was wonderful to be able to make decisions on your own and to feel confident about your choices and abilities.

      She was going to sell this house. She didn’t have to ask anyone for permission. She could do it be-cause she wanted to. Because this was no longer her house. It was a place where she had spent a part of her life, a very important part, but that part was over now. Marc was dead and she was no longer a married woman.

      She’d sell the Porsche, too, and buy something a little more modest and practical. She grinned to herself. It was wonderful to feel in charge of your own life, to feel so in control.

      She had Marc to thank for it all. He had helped her become the person she was now. She closed her eyes for a moment as a wave of guilt washed over her. With an effort she pushed the feeling away and opened her eyes.

      Aidan, entering the room from the terrace.

      Her heart slammed against her ribs. Oh, God, why was he always showing up when she wasn’t expecting him? What was he doing here now? She didn’t want him here, in her house. She drew in a long breath of air, fighting for control. He’s not going to ruin the evening for me, she thought grimly. I won’t allow it.

      He was coming toward her, moving with lazy grace, wearing casual trousers and an open-necked shirt. His chin was smoothly shaven, different than it had been when he had kissed her. She could feel again the roughness against her face, feel again his mouth on hers. Her heart turned over and a sense of humiliation flooded her again. Get out of my house! she wanted to call out, but the words stayed frozen in her head as she watched him approach, feeling again the old, familiar pull on her senses, and the frightening sense of having no control over them at all.

      Don’t let him see how you feel! said a little voice inside her. Be cool. She straightened her spine, pulled back her shoulders, gathering strength.

      “Happy birthday,” he said when he reached her. As if nothing had happened. As if he were a friendly neighbor just dropping by.

      She cocked a cool brow. “How did you know?” Her voice was steady. She took a careful sip from her sangria and tried to look relaxed. It took a ter-rible effort.

      He shrugged lightly. “It’s the last day of June. I happened to remember, so I thought I’d stop by to congratulate you. After all, thirty years is a milestone. Are you depressed?”

      “Heavens, no,” she said breezily. “As a matter of fact, I’m delighted.”

      He surveyed her face for a moment, as if to verify the truth of what she said. “My sister had a nervous breakdown,” he said then. “Thought her life was over.” A hint of humor, barely perceptible, colored his voice. His eyes did not leave her face.

      “Mine’s just beginning.” She smiled brightly.

      His brows rose in question. “How’s that?”

      “Well, let’s say I’ve finally come into my own. I feel good about myself.” She felt a surge of new courage and looked at him squarely. She knew a yearning for him to understand, to know. “I’m standing on my own two feet and I like the feeling.” She twirled on her toes as if to demonstrate, her long silky skirt swirling around her ankles. She would not let him spoil her mood. She felt happy surrounded by friends and good cheer.

      “Admirable,” he said evenly.

      “Have a drink,” she offered. “We have sangria. The genuine article, straight from Spain. The recipe, that is.”

      He put his hands in his pockets. “No thanks, too sweet for me.”

      She gestured at the terrace outside. “The bar is over there, get what you want.”

      “An impressive spread,” he commented, looking at the tableful of food—marinated shrimp, French country pate, a selection of exotic cheeses.

      “I have lots of friends.” She smiled brightly. “They did most of it.”

      Surprise flitted across his features. Gwen knew what he was thinking. Lots of friends. She hadn’t had lots of friends when she was younger. She’d been a loner then, shy and insecure, living with her mother in a ramshackle little house at the edge of town. All of that had changed.

      He glanced around. “Quite a place,” he com-mented. “You did well for yourself.” Just a comment, a simple statement of fact, yet she sensed more than heard the contempt behind the words. Was she imagining it?

      There was no reason to feel on the defensive, yet she СКАЧАТЬ