The Other Man. Karen Van Der Zee

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СКАЧАТЬ silence throbbed, and suddenly, deep inside that still gray of his eyes she glimpsed something deeper—a dark shadow trying to hide—not anger, not contempt, something else.

      He took one of his hands out of his pocket and absently stroked the back of the leather sofa. “I’ve wondered at times,” he said casually, “if you had what you wanted.”

      Pain. Deep and sharp. She fought not to show him, taking a slow drink from her glass. Her eyes met with his as if drawn together like magnets. Her tongue wouldn’t move.

      “Did you?” he insisted. “Did you have what you wanted?”

      “I was very lucky,” she managed, her voice husky. “And I understand you did very well for yourself, too, according to what I’ve read,” she added in a desperate attempt to get away from his line of questioning. “You’re doing wonderful work, important work. It’s what you always wanted to do, isn’t it?”

      “Right.” His tone was cool, clipped, businesslike.

      Something else had changed about him, she realized. There was a stillness about him—in the way he spoke, in the way he moved. Once there had been a restless energy in him, an enthusiasm that caused bright silver sparks in his eyes when he spoke.

      From the corner of her eye, she noticed Joe sauntering up to them, his sleek black hair tied back in its usual ponytail. Smiling his warm smile, he draped a protective arm around her. Joe to the rescue, she thought, feeling warm with gratitude and relief. She glanced back at Aidan, seeing his eyes narrowing a fraction.

      “Aidan, this is Joe Martinez. Joe, Aidan Carmichael.” They shook hands, Aidan’s face pol-itely bland, Joe’s brown eyes darkly suspicious. He wore his standard garb of jeans and a loose, torrid silk shirt. His cowboy boots were well-worn and well-polished. Next to Aidan in his conservatively casual clothes, he looked rather eccentric.

      She slipped out from under Joe’s arm. “Excuse me,” she murmured, and escaped to her other guests. It was getting late and they were beginning to leave, giving her hugs and smiles and thank-yous which she returned with warmth.

      Half an hour later, Joe came up to her. “He’s still here. Do you want me to stay?”

      She’d been watching Aidan as he’d moved around, exploring the room, not mingling much. He’d studied the Mexican paintings in the living room, stared at the sky outside and he’d perused the books on the shelves.

      “He’s been looking bored. He’ll leave soon.” She smiled. “You worry too much about me, Joe.” Joe had been Marc’s best friend and he was looking after her.

      “I don’t like the looks of the guy.” He frowned. “Who is he?”

      She waved her hand casually. “Somebody I knew, a long time ago.”

      He looked at her searchingly. “I think there’s more to it than that.”

      She bit her lip. “He wanted to marry me, before I met Marc.”

      “And you didn’t want to marry him?”

      She hesitated. Her light, frothy mood was de-serting her. “I was scared.” Just the memory of that primitive, ancient fear made her hands clammy even now, twelve years later. She remembered the nightmares, felt again the dark sense of foreboding she had not been able to shake. I can’t go. Some-thing terrible is going to happen.

      Something terrible had.

      Joe frowned at her. “Scared? Were you scared of him?”

      “No, no. Please, Joe, I can’t go into this now.”

      He took her hand. “You know, Gwen, I’m here for you. If you need me, let me know, will you?”

      She felt a lump in her throat. “I will, Joe. You know I will.”

      A while later she found herself alone in the silent house. Everyone had gone home and there was no sign of Aidan. He’d left without saying goodnight. She shrugged, feeling relieved that he was gone.

      Kicking off her shoes, she sank down on the large Italian sofa and gave a deep, contented sigh. She didn’t even have to clean up—it had all been done. All she needed to do was lock up, peek in on Churi, and crawl into bed. She closed her eyes, feeling for the first time how tired she was.

      She heard the wind rustle in the trees outside, the cacophony of insects thrilling in the cool night air. Very peaceful. Then she heard footsteps out on the terrace and she froze.

      “Gwen?” Aidan’s voice.

      She bolted upright. “What are you doing here?” Her voice was sharp, out of control.

      He shrugged, hands in his pockets. He advanced into the room. “I took a walk—it was a little longer than I intended. Everybody gone?”

      She came to her feet. “Yes.”

      “Your bodyguard, too?” A faint note of amusement. She didn’t like it, but she couldn’t think of a good retort, so she said nothing and just gave him a cool look.

      He glanced down at the small table at the end of the sofa and studied the grouping of photographs arranged on it. She and Marc on a sailing boat, laughing, the wind in their hair. She and Marc sitting on a picnic bench, heads together conspir-atorially, his arm around her shoulders. Their wedding picture, both of them smiling. Joe had taken every one of them—beautiful photos, catching just the right expressions, just the right moods.

      The air throbbed with tension. Her stomach churned with anxiety as she looked at Aidan’s rigid posture.

      “You were happy,” he stated, a harsh edge to his voice, as if it were an accusation.

      She swallowed painfully, her eyes on the photos, fighting a confusion of feelings—a struggle that knotted her stomach and made her chest hurt. The photos blurred in front of her and she clenched her hands into fists. She blinked her eyes, trying to focus on Marc’s face, but it was useless. Then she lifted her face to Aidan and met his eyes.

      “Yes,” she said.

      He studied her for a tense moment, taking in the red party dress, his eyes coolly disdainful. “You don’t look like a grieving widow to me.”

      The words hit her like a fist in her chest, then fury flooded her. How dare he? How dare he judge her? She wanted to say something back, something sharp and damaging, but words failed her. The silence echoed with his voice, and the fury mixed itself with guilt, a toxic mixture that lodged itself in her throat, making her wild with a need to lash out.

      Then a cry, a frightened cry coming from up-stairs. All thought of Aidan, of anger and revenge evaporated. Her body moved instantly, racing up the curving stairs to Churi’s room. She lifted the baby out of her crib and hugged her. “It’s all right,” she whispered. “It’s all right, sweetheart. Let’s go have some milk.”

      Holding the whimpering baby against her shoulder, she went down the stairs, stepping more carefully now, afraid to trip over the long skirt of her dress.

      Hands in his pockets, Aidan was standing in the middle of the living room, his face expressionless, his eyes the color of old pewter. He said СКАЧАТЬ