Blame It on the Blackout (7 page)

With a sigh, she placed the glass on the tray in front of her, then sat back in her seat and turned to face him more fully.

“I'm sorry,” she said, the wind going out of her sails. “It's just…Don't you ever think about the future? About having more than the flavor of the month to warm your bed?”

Eyes widening, Peter shifted uncomfortably but didn't break the visual hold he had on her. With a nervous chuckle, he wanted to know, “What brought this on?”

She shook her head, unwilling to answer, since the first thing that flashed across her mind was an image of the two of them, on the floor of a hotel elevator, making love.

“I guess I'd have to say no,” Peter murmured, his lips thinning. “I try very hard not to think about the future, except where business is concerned.”

“Why not?”

If possible, his mouth compressed more tightly, the sides sliding down into a frown. “It's better not to spend too much time contemplating things that can never be.”

A ripple of sadness flowed outward from the region of her heart at such a grim declaration.

“I'm not sure I understand what you mean,” she said carefully. “Are you suffering from some dread disease I don't know about and only have a few months left to live? Or maybe you're sterile and can't have children, so there's no point in contemplating marriage.”

Peter whipped his head around to see if anyone was listening in on their conversation. “Jeez, Luce, talk a little louder, why don't you. I don't think the people in row twenty-three heard you.” Then he grew serious. “I'm not sterile and I'm not dying. At least not that I know of. But let's face it, there's no such thing as happily-ever-after, and I'd be a terrible husband and father even if there were.”

Lucy stared at him, incredulous, so many thoughts whirling around in her brain, she could barely make sense of them.
Bad husband, no happily-ever-after, things that can never be. What
was he talking about? And how had he come up with such outlandish notions?

Granted, they'd only known each other for two
years, but if he'd ever been married, she thought she'd have heard about it by now. Some brief mention of an ex-wife or whispered rumors about why the marriage hadn't worked out.

“I'm sorry,” she managed once she'd blinked and regained some of the moisture in her suddenly dry mouth, “but you're going to have to elaborate. Why in heaven's name would you think you'd make a bad husband and father?”

“Genetics don't lie.”

“Genetics,” she repeated, still not understanding. She felt as though he was speaking another language, with none of the words finding definitions in her limited vocabulary.

“I take it you've never heard me talk about my father.”

She searched her memory, but couldn't recall a single time he'd spoken to her about his parents, and only now began to think that fact odd.

Not waiting for an answer, he continued. “My father was a real son of a bitch. A shark in the business world, and well respected for it, but as a husband and father, he stank. I don't know why he bothered getting married at all, and I think I must have been conceived either by immaculate conception or in a moment of extreme weakness.

“Throughout my entire childhood, I don't think I ever heard him say a kind word to my mother or saw her smile when he was around. We didn't go on outings
or spend quality time together. We didn't even have meals as a family, or if we did, they were eaten in relative silence, with my father hurrying through so he could rush off to another business meeting or lock himself in his study to work.”

Peter held himself rigid, as though barring against any hint of emotion that might seep past the bitterness and resentment. Her heart ached for him, for the little boy he'd been, starving for his father's affection and getting none.

“What about your mother?” she inquired softly. “Was she good to you?”

He responded with a careless shrug. “She did her best, tried to compensate for my father's absence. But she was distracted by it herself, always trying to keep him home, give him reasons to spend time with us.”

Lucy wanted to wrap her arms around him and offer comfort, hug him tight for all the times in his childhood when he'd been ignored or pushed aside or made to feel like less than the most important thing in the world to the two people who should have loved him above everyone and everything else in their lives.

“And because your father wasn't very good at marriage and family, you've automatically decided you won't be, either. Is that right?”

“Does an apple fall far from the tree?” His mouth twisted, the question dripping with cynicism.

“Peter.” She stopped, worrying the inside of her lip, unsure how to go on. There was so much she wanted to
say to him, so many fallacies she wanted to lay to rest. But her mind was a jumble of facts and feelings. She knew if she said the wrong thing, Peter would clam up, curling in on himself to once again hide the little boy who had been hurt and disillusioned at such a young age.

“You can't believe that,” she whispered. “Not really.”

The expression on his face, though, told her he did—unequivocally.

The engines of the plane turned over then, making it harder to be heard over the loud, humming whir. Crossing her legs in his direction, she leaned closer so she wouldn't have to raise her voice, laying a hand on his arm. Beneath her fingers, the muscles bunched and tensed as he clutched the metal armrest.

“Peter, your father was distant and uncaring, and I'm sorry for that. I don't think anyone would argue the fact that neither of your parents did right by you. But you're not a clone of your father, you're your own man. That's the beauty of children; they can grow up wiser than their parents and learn not to make the same mistakes as previous generations.”

She squeezed his arm and brushed the back of her hand lovingly along the line of his jaw. She knew she should play it safe and walk away. Accept his reasoning and count herself fortunate not to have gotten too heavily involved with his personal demons.

But she was already emotionally invested in this
man. Her heart had been engaged soon after she started working for him, and she was only more soundly entrenched now that he'd shared a part of his past with her.

“I happen to think you'd make a wonderful husband and father,” she told him earnestly. “You're kind and generous and patient, and have a great sense of humor. Any woman would be lucky to have you, and your children—if you ever have them—will think you hung the moon and the stars.”

L
ucy's words penetrated deep into his soul, warming a place he'd thought long dead. He only wished he could believe them.

A part of him wanted to…so badly, he felt a burning sensation at the backs of his eyes. He turned his head and blinked quickly, taking a moment to catch his breath and steady his out of control emotions.

But you couldn't rewrite history, and he knew what happened when a man tried to have a wife and family while also trying to build and maintain a thriving business. One would suffer, and if his own upbringing was any indication, it would likely be the family. That was a risk he couldn't—
wouldn't
—take.

“I wish I could believe that,” he rasped, turning his arm over and twining her fingers with his own when they slid into his palm. “But I've had too much experience with the other side of the coin. I learned early on that a person can either concentrate on his job, his corporate image, or he can concentrate on his family—he can't have both. And I'm sorry, Lucy, but Reyware is too important to me to let anything interfere. My entire focus right now is on getting the company off the ground and well into the black. Maybe later, when I'm older and Reyware is stable enough to put others in charge…maybe then I'll take a chance on a wife and kids. For now, though, I can't put someone—adult or child—through what my father put my mom and me through.”

“You only think that way because it's all you've ever known,” Lucy pointed out gently. “If you'd grown up differently, you might have a dozen kids by now.”

He wrinkled his nose at her wild supposition. “I'm only thirty-two, Luce. How is that even possible?”

She shot him a cheeky grin. “Well, maybe not a full dozen, but if you'd gotten started early, you could be close.”

His expression must have still looked doubtful because she adjusted her weight until her shoulder and the full length of her arm rested firmly against his.

“Let me tell you about my family,” she said, a wealth of warmth and affection clear in her affectionate tone.

“My father is a civil engineer. He's been at the same
company for twenty-five years, beginning as a low-level assistant and working his way up to Vice President. My mother has worked as an elementary teacher all her life. They met in college, got married right after graduation, and had my brother, Adam, before their first anniversary. I came next, and then Jessica. Both of my parents worked full-time through all of our childhoods, but I don't ever remember a time when they weren't there for us. We sat at the dining-room table every night for dinner, shared the day's events. We went on picnics and took vacations, played checkers and board games and Frisbee, went to the beach and the community pool. Some of the best times of my life were spent with Mom, Dad, Adam, and Jess. I can't wait to get married and start a family of my own so I can recapture some of that early happiness and show my own children how it feels to be loved and adored, unconditionally.”

With the hand he wasn't holding in a near-death grip, she patted his knee. “Now, do you want to tell me again that a man can't be a successful entrepreneur and doting father at the same time? My father certainly managed well enough, and my brother is following firmly in his footsteps.”

He understood what she was trying to say and envied her blissful, storybook upbringing. But it still sounded like a fairy tale to him. And in his life, was every bit as fictional.

“I'm glad you have happy memories of your childhood,” he told her judiciously, “and that your parents
were able to find time for the three of you, given their busy schedules. But your father and brother obviously come from different stock than the men in my family. For me, it's just not possible, the same as it wasn't possible for my father or his father.”

When Peter cocked his head and met her gaze, he saw the sadness and sympathy in her eyes, and almost resented it. With a sigh, she loosened her fingers from his grasp and uncrossed her legs, moving back to her own side of the roomy, first-class leather seats.

Retrieving her glass of wine, she took a healthy sip and then said, “I hope you're wrong, Peter. I truly, truly do. Because you deserve to be a husband and father, and to prove yourself wrong.”

 

They arrived at the downtown Manhattan hotel a few hours later, tired and uncomfortable from the tack their conversation had taken on the plane. After that, they'd barely spoken unless necessary.

For her part, Lucy found herself distracted by Peter's confession and the picture he'd painted of his childhood. It explained so much about him.

Why he dated beautiful but vacuous women with no thought past the night they'd spend in his bed. Or the ones obviously interested in little more than his money, whom he seemed to use and discard as easily as yesterday's newspaper.

It suddenly all made perfect sense. He surrounded himself with people who wouldn't expect too much of
him, wouldn't pressure him to make promises. Because the idea of committing to anything more permanent than a goldfish scared Peter straight down to his boxer shorts.

Which might also be why, up until that Friday night in the elevator at the Four Seasons, he'd never made a single move on her. Never seemed to notice her feminine existence, let alone the hints she dropped to let him know she wouldn't turn him down if he did.

And now, she wasn't sure how to feel. She'd spent so long being half in love with him, and then getting to experience the long-awaited, earth-shattering sensation of making love with him, that she found it hard to let go of the fantasy she'd built in her mind.

Given his strong aversion to marriage and family, however, she would probably be better off setting her sights on someone a bit more attainable. Like Mel Gibson or Brad Pitt.

Peter desperately wanted to avoid the ties and responsibilities of marriage and children, and though Lucy thought a few stern arguments or hours on a therapist's couch would go a long way toward relieving him of his adolescent burden, the fact was she
did
want those things.

She'd grown up in a happy home, with two loving parents, and someday she hoped to create those same qualities for her own kids. For a time, she'd even let herself imagine she would have that life and those children with Peter. Now she knew she would have better luck teaching Cocoa to bark like a guard dog.

Watching him from the corner of her eye as he checked them in at the front desk, she had the sudden urge to put her head down on the countertop and weep. It was such a waste. Like many women, she'd often joked that all the good men were either gay or married. Now she realized the best of those men was highly allergic to any sign of a serious relationship.

Sliding the key cards into his jacket pocket, Peter picked up both their carry-on bags and started toward the bank of elevators on the far side of the elegant lobby. Lucy followed at a more sedate pace, swallowing the mild nausea that threatened from the day's keen disappointments.

The ride to the tenth floor passed in relative silence, soft instrumental music filling the small space and spurring the start of a headache just behind her eyes. She remembered the last time they'd been alone together in a hotel elevator…

Her inner muscles clenched at the very thought as heat rushed over her, and for a moment she wished for another city-wide power outage. Ten minutes when the rest of the world would disappear and they could once again find complete, satisfied abandon in each other's arms.

But then the doors slid open and reality returned. The lights stayed on, Peter's breathing remained steady, and there was no repeat performance of the wild lovemaking they'd shared before.

Lucy couldn't decide whether to be happy or sad
about that, but she let Peter open the door to her suite and usher her inside. She crossed the room, flipping on lights as she went and opening the heavy drapes to reveal a panoramic view of the city. Tall gray buildings obscured the skyline while cars filled the streets below like ants trailing away from a picnic buffet.

Behind her, Peter set her overnight bag on the bed and moved toward the door that connected their two rooms. “We're meeting Dawson for dinner in the hotel restaurant at seven,” he reminded her.

She checked the watch at her wrist, then turned her head a fraction, taking in his sandy blond hair and suit, both slightly rumpled from the trip. It took every ounce of will in her body not to offer to iron his jacket and slacks or otherwise help him get ready for his meeting. But with only half an hour until they were supposed to get together with William Dawson, she needed every spare moment to freshen up.

“I'll be ready,” she said.

He stood there a second longer, looking like he might say something. Then he stepped through the connecting door and closed it quietly behind him.

This was good, she thought. Getting back to business, putting their relationship back on a professional footing. It might not be what she'd been hoping for, for the past two years, but now that she knew about his deep-rooted aversion to anything permanent, it was better for her to wrap her mind around the fact that Peter was not the marrying kind.

And since she wasn't in the market for a man to simply warm her bed or fill her life on a temporary basis, she needed to get it through her head that Peter Reynolds was off her short list.

It wasn't the end of the world. There were other men out there, ones who wouldn't be quite as apprehensive of the “M” word or the idea of settling down and starting a family.

Maybe it was time to seek some of them out.

 

Peter scowled, his brows dipping so low, they almost completely obliterated his vision.

What the hell did she think she was doing? And who the hell had told her to pack a dress like that, anyway?

Lucy sat across the table from him, entirely too close to William Dawson, laughing loudly and hanging on the man's every word. And Dawson, in return, was practically drooling on Lucy.

This was supposed to be a business dinner, but she'd changed from her classy purple suit to a low-cut, high-hemmed cocktail dress. Black, with flowered and filigree lace at the edges, which left much too much of her arms and neck and legs and chest bare for Peter's peace of mind.

She'd come with him in a secretarial capacity, but she acted as though she was on a date—with Dawson, no less. And they had yet to discuss Dawson's company or the plans he had for Peter's involvement. The man seemed content to bask in Lucy's feminine attention,
and she, in turn, seemed determined to work Will into a lather.

But if she thought she could send Peter back up to the hotel rooms and take off on Dawson's arm to spend the evening doing God knows what, she had another think coming.

If she spent the night with anyone, it would be Peter. And if she wound up in anyone's bed, it would be his, not Will Dawson's. He didn't care how much she was flirting or how receptive the man obviously was.

Lucy laughed again at something Will said and Peter felt his blood pressure spike. One more suggestive joke or over-the-top giggle and he thought he might snap. He'd shatter the wine glass in his hand or drive the tines of his fork into his former friend's fingers where they covered and wrapped around Lucy's atop the linen tablecloth.

“Don't you think we should get down to business?” he finally said, the words rumbling from his throat in something close to a growl.

Both Lucy and Will cocked their heads, glancing at him for the first time in more than an hour, as though they'd forgotten he was even present at the same table.

Untangling their twined arms and hands, Lucy sat back a bit in her chair, away from Will and gave a small smile.

“Of course,” she murmured. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to distract you from your purpose.” She pulled a small legal pad and pen from her handbag, poised to take notes. “Please, go on. I'm ready when you are.”

Peter felt a punch to his gut as powerful as any an opponent could have delivered in a title fight. He had used the excuse of needing her along as his assistant to manipulate her into coming, and now she was throwing her notepad down like a gauntlet. Showing him she knew her place, reminding him of their professional arrangement, and all but spelling out that their conversation on the plane meant if he wasn't open to marriage and family, then she wasn't open to him.

He'd known that. Even as he was relating facts from his childhood to her, he'd known that she would take it to mean he wasn't interested in developing anything of a permanent nature with her.

Lucy had grown up very differently than he, and though she may not be on the hunt for a husband right this minute, he knew she had visions of picket fences and two-point-three kids running through her brain. He might be fun to have as a lover for the short term, but he would either have to let her go or turn into a long-term kind of guy right quick. And knowing he never intended to marry or reproduce meant she'd likely knocked him off her list completely the minute he'd admitted as much.

A little voice in the back of his brain cheered. He should be happy, relieved, grateful she'd cut off any chances of an ongoing relationship. That way, he would never have to worry that she'd begin to expect more from him than he was willing to give. He'd never have to prepare a speech for letting her down easy or explain
why she might share his bed, but would never share his life. He would never have to see her tears or listen to her wails as she stormed out of his house and cursed him for wasting her time.

Been there, done that.

So why, instead, was his stomach churning, his upper lip sweating? Why was there a sharp pain in the region of his heart?

Because he was a sap, that's why. Ridiculous to think it could be more than a fanciful notion of keeping Lucy with him forever. As anything other than his assistant, at least.

Maybe he'd been watching too many chick flicks lately or leaving the television on the wrong channel while he worked. Whatever the cause of his recent bout of melancholia, he was damn certain he didn't plan to change his lifelong goals and beliefs just because he'd spent one night in an overheated elevator car with Lucy. Best sex of his life or not, no woman was worth running the risk of turning into his father, of irreparably ruining multiple lives.