Hurts So Good (20 page)

"Well... yes. Not that he likes it, but he respects me enough to accept it and support what I want to do. Only he doesn't have an inkling of what that really is. I'm a journalist, Liza. It's in my blood and always will be. Like Neil. How am I ever going to reconcile one with the other?"

Liza patted Andrea's hand. "Ain't no two ways about it. You're gonna have to gut up, gal."

"You mean tell him the truth? Tell him I wormed my way into his confidence to get a story, then changed my mind? I'm scared to death he won't listen, that he'll accuse me of setting him up, then shut me out. We've known each other less than four months. How can that possibly compete with his past? It's twisted him."

"He's been twisted fo' sho', but you've done strung him up and turned him inside out. He's set on making you his wife. This here place proves that what you two've got is strong and good. Leastwise, it's a sure sign that's what Neil believes. How come you don't look around you and believe it too?"

"Because 'this here place' is part of the problem. Neil knows how to show his love through money, and I've got jewelry, paintings, clothes, and dolls to prove it. His trust isn't so freely given.
Trust.
It's something he thinks we have, but we don't. I don't trust him enough to spill my guts, and once I do, the trust he has in me could be shattered."

"Hmmm... guess you've got a point. Let me think a spell. You sure he won't find it? You'd look ten times worse if he came upon it, like you was hiding something instead of taking it on yo'self to show him."

"He won't find it. We shook on never going through each other's things without permission. And as you know, once Neil gives his word, it's etched in stone. He believes in privacy and trust as much as he hates cheats."

"That he does. They're right up there with liars and unfaithful wives. The problem you say you've got is that you qualify for one and hit the gray line with the other. But now that I've given this some thought—"

"You have an idea?" Andrea urgently asked.

"Not exactly. Just a good dose of common sense. Seems to me you been hidin' them secrets so long you can't stand 'em no more. But you don't know when to tell him. Listen to yo' heart, honey. It always tells the truth. You'll know when the time's right, for you and him both."

Andrea kissed Liza's cheek. "Thank you, Liza. Thank you for listening and understanding."

"Oh, fiddle-dee-dee, gal. I thank you for loving our son and giving him the home you both deserve. Come to think of it, it's a good thing you like to write. That could be a point in your favor, having a career where you could mostly stay at home. Even Slick couldn't argue with that."

"I hope so, Liza. I do hope so."

* * *

Neil bounded up the steps to the bedroom, whistling his latest tune. One of his best, even if he did say so himself. In the two months since he and Andrea had moved into their third-floor love nest, he'd written enough for a year. It kept coming and coming, as if he'd tapped into a rich, bottomless well.

And all of it was pure gold. The kind of stuff he could sell for a mint—but didn't. Why, he wasn't exactly sure, but somehow it was too personal to let anyone else have it for any price. He couldn't let it go.

Wishing Andrea would hurry up and come home, he hung up his fall coat next to the cashmere cape he'd bought her recently. Late October was a colorful time of year in New Orleans, though it couldn't compare with the tint of Andrea's cheeks that of late had deepened to a rosy glow.

Reaching into his shirt pocket, he withdrew two plane tickets. First class, like his woman. He checked the departure date. Two weeks from today. They'd be in New England in time to see the magnificent fall foliage. Not that he planned to let her out for long from the honeymoon suite he'd reserved—under the name of Mr. and Mrs. Neil Grey.

He wasn't about to take no for an answer. Besides, he had no reason to expect anything but a yes. Since that night he'd fired her and rehired her, he hadn't asked again. Andrea, however, had been dropping hints like crazy.

"Neil, I've been thinking that I'd rather work at something besides tending bar. I like to write, and I'm pretty good at it, and if I could make a go of it, it's the kind of job that would let me spend more time at home..."

He smiled, the same big grin he'd worn when the jeweler had handed over the custom-designed ring. Neil fished the box from his pocket. Right pretty, he thought, the way it was wrapped in shimmery foil and topped with a cascade of ribbon. Red, just as he'd asked, to match her hair.

Neil went to the chest of drawers and looked at himself in the mirror. He could use a shave, but Andrea said she liked his night shadow; his whisker burn excited her. He'd let his hair grow out again, but the barber had shaped it nicely.

"Just look at you," he said to his reflection. "If you ain't a cool cat on a hot streak, getting all fixed up for a woman who's got you shuttin' the toilet lid and picking up her underwear to boot."

He laughed softly. Andrea wasn't a slob by any means, but he did seem to pick up after her more than she did him. They'd probably need to hire a housekeeper once they started having babies.

Every time he passed the sleek mahogany banister, he imagined standing at the foot of it while a little voice shouted, "Daddy! Daddy!" then slid down to his waiting arms. Then Andrea would greet him with a kiss while they all hugged.

There'd be fights for sure, and days when nothing went right. He knew that. Hell, he'd been a realist a lot longer than a man who was claiming his dream. But if he could have his dream, he could handle whatever got thrown his way. If he'd had that sooner, he'd likely still be recording.

The thought tugged at him, but he shook it off. Right now he had a proposal to rehearse.

Clearing his throat, Neil began, "Andrea, I have been patient, but my patience has run out. We're getting married, and I've got a ring here that says so. I did spend a small fortune on it, and they do have a no-return policy..."

That didn't come out right. Best he try again.

"Andrea,
chere.
I love you more than words can say. You're the music in my life, the song in my heart. Do me the honor of wearing this ring, and be more than my friend and lover. Say you'll be my wife."

Nah, too sappy. Maybe he should forget the words and make it a surprise. He did that a lot, leaving a rose on her pillow, whisking her downstairs to a waiting horse and carriage, or tucking a little something into a clothes pocket so that next time she wore it she'd discover the keepsake inside.

He needed a special hiding place, one that she was sure to go to tonight. Tomorrow wouldn't do; his insides were hopping like Mexican jumping beans as it was.

Clothes—no telling what she'd wear when. Under her pillow—no good either, since he had plans to make it official before they celebrated in bed. Maybe the refrigerator where he had champagne chilling? Didn't seem too romantic putting a ring next to leftover red beans and rice.

Then where? She'd see it right away on the bureau top where the tickets rested.

Neil's gaze dropped a few inches to her lingerie drawer. He didn't poke around in there, not even to put in laundry or any of the nighties he'd bought on impulse upon imagining how she'd look in some sexy next-to-nothing garment. They'd shaken on trusting each other never to go through the other's things.

Hmmm. So what if he bent the rules a tad? Once she saw what he'd placed in there—the ultimate symbol of his trust and love and respect—well... surely she wouldn't mind. He'd gladly return the favor. Alter all, husbands and wives shared everything. There was no room for secrets. He'd certainly shared most of his.

Hell, maybe after tonight they'd even share drawers. His suspenders tangled up with her panties? Yowzah, he did like that idea—and the naughty ideas it stirred.

Neil winked at his image, then slid out Andrea's top drawer and promptly decided that she
was
a slob.

"What a mess." He chuckled, sifting his fingers through lacy bras, garter belts, and French stockings, all mixed up with teddies, slips, and chemises, most of which he'd bought. If he straightened out the sexy contents, she'd probably even thank him. Besides, from the looks of the drawer, she could go a week and miss the ring.

Neil gathered a handful of feminine garments and inhaled the scent of lemon and lavender as he pressed his nose into satin and silk. He tossed it to the bed and filled his hands with a second batch. With the third scoop he emptied the drawer... and saw a stack of typewritten pages.

His brow furrowed, Neil pitched aside the lingerie. He wasn't a cheat, and his relationship with Andrea was based on trust, so as curious as he was, he denied the urge to read what was on the pages—except he'd already seen the cover page.

Three lines in clear black letters he couldn't believe:

Neil Grey, Man or Myth?

by

Andrea Post

Chapter 16

Fingers numb, Neil picked up the pages.

He felt cold, so cold that ice water seemed to rush in his veins, circulate through shivering muscles, and pool in his chest.

Neil replaced the unread pages exactly where he'd found them. Didn't matter what they said. Didn't even matter that he'd been a stupid dupe who spilled his secrets on the pillow he shared with her eager ears. Didn't matter if she'd planted a tape recorder to save herself the trouble of taking notes.

Didn't matter because she'd said she loved him. But that must have been a lie, too, because if she
truly
loved him, the way he loved her, she never would have played him for a sucker. Such a sucker he'd renounced the Vow, gotten into her head and lost his, listened to her cheating heart and served his to her on a platter of trust.

He'd played it straight with Andrea, laid the rules out nice and clean: Love without trust didn't exist for him. Didn't take a mathematician to figure out where that left them.

He turned to the bed, mechanically picking up her things that had lost all sense of familiarity. Strange. But maybe not. They did belong to an intimate stranger. The Andrea he knew wasn't capable of deceit, of betrayal. Of saying she loved him to his face while she stabbed him in the back with her pen.

He watched his motions as if from a distance, as if his hands were detached from the rest of him. Neil felt a sudden urge to wash them and hurried to finish, then went to the bathroom and soaped up. He began to shiver. Had to borrow some warmth to stop his crazy shaking.

Neil reached into his back pocket. Where the hell was that flask? Oh yeah, he didn't carry it with him anymore.

He headed to the entertainment room and latched on to a bottle of brandy at the bar. The damn thing wouldn't cooperate with him long enough for him to pour. Who needed a glass anyway?

His gaze wandered across the room to an original painting he and Andrea had fallen in love with and had hung on the wall with care. His hand shot out to hurl the glass, and the sound of crystal shattering against canvas, then falling like jagged tears, broke his trance.

With a harsh, ugly laugh he grabbed the bottle and returned to the bedroom, drinking as he went.

Sinking into a chair, he fixed his unseeing gaze on the open bedroom door.

The shaking stopped. The coldness became a seething heat.

Neil put aside the bottle. And he waited.

* * *

Andrea unlocked the front door. A coward no more, she knew it was now or never. She'd "gut up" as Liza had wisely urged, and then pray that everything would work out. Even if her history with Neil wasn't nearly as long as his past, surely they'd had long enough for him to hear her out.

She had no choice but to bet on the strength of their love and his trust. He had to listen—and believe—her side of the story.

And once he did, she would tell him. Tell him the most wonderful news that she still couldn't believe herself.

"Neil! Neil! Where are you?" Andrea walked up the stairs, her heart doing a tap dance. At the open door to the bedroom, she stopped. The curtains were closed against the waning light outside.

She saw him lounging in the chair as he struck a match against the sole of his shoe, then touched the flames to the cigarette drooping negligently between his lips.