Die Before I Wake. Laurie Breton

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      I was wrapped in my fluffy white chenille robe, yanking a brush through my wet hair, when Tom came back. He closed the bedroom door quietly behind him. Brush in hand, I paused between strokes. Our eyes met: his uncertain, mine accusing. “Hi,” he said.

      “I heard you,” I said bluntly. “In the kitchen. Arguing.”

      He grimaced. “How much did you hear?”

      “Enough.”

      “Jules,” he said, “I’m so sorry.”

      “That makes two of us. I don’t understand, Tom. Make me understand.”

      “I don’t know what to say. My mother’s overprotective. She’s always been that way.”

      Overprotective? Was that what he called it? If so, we might as well be speaking different languages. “I can think of a few other adjectives that fit even better,” I said. “How about mean? Spiteful? Vicious? Just for starters.”

      “I don’t have a response for you, Jules, because you’re right.” He raked slender, pale fingers through his dark hair. “I knew things would be a little awkward. I knew she wouldn’t be happy about our marriage. But I never thought she’d be insulting to you.”

      “She called me a gold digger! And my father a wastrel!”

      “And if you were paying attention, you know that I stood up for you.”

      “Yes. You did. And I’m grateful. But if this is the way she’s going to treat me, I’m not sure how long I can refrain from giving her a large piece of my mind.”

      “Aw, honey.” He took a step toward me. “She’ll adjust. Just give her a little time.”

      “That’s not everything, Tom. There’s more.” I told him what Taylor had said to me, the terrible things his mother had taught her, and he winced as if in pain.

      “Christ, Mom,” he muttered, rubbing his face with his hands. “What the hell are you thinking?”

      I hated to see him this way. Hated even worse knowing I was the one who’d put that look on his face. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t want to tell you, but I thought you should know.”

      “I swear to God, Jules, I had no idea I was bringing you into this kind of nightmare. I wouldn’t blame you if you walked away. It would kill me, but I wouldn’t blame you.”

      “I’m not going anywhere. I take my marriage vows seriously. For better or for worse, remember? I’ll do whatever it takes to win her over. If that doesn’t work, then I’ll just have to learn to live with her. Somehow.” The picture that painted in my mind was bleak enough that I had to shove it aside.

      “I’m not sure it could get much worse. This isn’t fair to you. It’s unacceptable. If Mom keeps this up, she’ll have to live somewhere else.”

      Aghast, I said, “You can’t throw her out, Tom. She’s your mother.”

      “And you’re my wife! There’s another vow you should remember: forsaking all others. Yes, she’s my mother. But you’re my family now. You and the girls. If she’s determined to come between us—” he scowled “—or between you and my daughters, I won’t allow it.”

      I wasn’t sure if I felt better or worse. It was a comfort to know that Tom was solidly in my corner. On the other hand, I didn’t want to be responsible for the dissolution of his family. Wishing I could avoid asking, but knowing I couldn’t, I said, “Tom? What did your mother mean when she told Taylor I wouldn’t last any longer than any of the others?”

      My husband rolled his eyes. “All those others,” he said. “All the screaming, swooning hordes of women I’ve dated since Elizabeth died.”

      This was one thing we hadn’t talked about, not in detail. His sexual history. Mine. We’d been too busy falling for each other to get around to the topic of our collective romantic past. At first, we hadn’t thought much about it. Once we were married, it didn’t seem to matter.

      But now, suddenly, it did. “Have there been screaming, swooning hordes?” I asked.

      “Come on, Jules. Do I look like Jon Bon Jovi to you?”

      In my book, he looked far better than Jon. Which was saying a lot. But he was deliberately missing the point. “I’m serious, Tom. How many were there?”

      He crossed the room to me and took my hand. “Elizabeth’s been dead for two years.” He tucked a strand of wet hair behind my ear. “I haven’t lived like a monk. I’ve dated a few women. None of them stuck around. None of them stuck around because I wasn’t serious about any of them. I swear, Jules, you’re the only one who ever screamed or swooned.”

      Coyly, I said, “I don’t seem to recall any swooning.”

      He leaned over me and buried his nose in my hair. “You smell so good. What’s that scent you’re wearing?”

      “Strawberry. It’s my shampoo.”

      “Don’t ever stop using it.” His chin brushed my temple, his five o’clock shadow grazing my skin. His breath warm on my ear, he crooned softly: “Julie, Julie, Julie, do you love me?”

      “Stop,” I said weakly. It was a private joke between us, that hokey old Bobby Sherman song. “Please stop.”

      “You know you love it. So tell me, Jules, is the honeymoon over yet?”

      I toyed with a strand of his hair and said, “Not quite yet.”

      “Then why are we wasting time? Hand over your weapon.”

      I gaped at him stupidly until he pried the hairbrush I’d been brandishing from my fingers. “You could do a lot of harm with that thing,” he said, “depending on where you’re aiming it.”

      “Ouch.”

      “Exactly. So what do you say, Mrs. Larkin? Time to end the foreplay and cut right to the main event?”

      I flashed him a huge grin and said, “I thought you’d never ask.”

      

      It was hours later and inky dark when his cell phone rang. Peeling his naked body away from mine, Tom fumbled on the nightstand until he located the offending object. He cleared his throat and said, “Dr. Larkin.” Listened a moment, then said, “Yes, of course. Not a problem.”

      I raised my head and looked at the clock, then hooked an arm around him and pressed my cheek against his sleek, broad back. Leaning into me, he said, “How far apart are the pains?” A pause. Then, “All right. I’ll meet you at the hospital.”

      He hung up the phone and turned to me. “Sorry, Jules. Gotta go.”

      Sleepily, I said, “It’s two-thirty in the morning.”

      “Might as well get used to it. Life would be a lot easier if СКАЧАТЬ