The Driven Snowe (20 page)

But that would be five weeks away from him.

Maybe you could bring him with you.

He couldn't—she knew that. He had all that business stuff to attend to, things he couldn't just leave alone while he wandered around somewhere for several weeks on a whim.

He'd asked you to go to this party, with only a few days' notice.

It was different, she justified. Then she felt her grip on his fingers tighten. She deliberately relaxed them.

What's happening to me?

She didn't know what she would do if she lost him, but at this rate, she was rapidly losing herself.

 

J
OSH LOOKED AROUND
the room. It was dark in the restaurant. The walls were painted a deep midnight blue and covered here and there with exotic-looking tapestries. His salespeople were having a great time, he could tell. Everyone was seated at low tables, sitting on pillows on the floor. They were laughing, talking loudly, nipping various dainty pieces of meat-filled pastry or roasted chicken off of plates with their fingers. Belly dancers would periodically come out. Men and women alike both cheered and caroused in response.

All of them, he noted, except for Angela.

He had seated her next to Adam, trusting him to
entertain her. She barely cracked a smile, he noticed. And he continually checked for one, as he made his rounds to the crowded tables, exchanging a joke or a word of congratulations.

She hadn't gone into specifics, but he got the feeling that her friends had given her a rough time about breaking her plans with them. She had gone tight-lipped, and said that it didn't matter. In Angela-speak, that meant it had been difficult, painful, but she was blocking it out as best she could. He hated that, and felt guilty that he had been the cause of it.

In retrospect, maybe this party thing wasn't such a good idea. But he hadn't known what else to do, and it was starting to wear him down.

He'd been ecstatic when she'd admitted that she loved him, in his car that night, now almost four weeks ago. He had insisted on bringing her home, and repeating the experience, several times—first the lovemaking, then the profession of love. He couldn't get enough of it, or her. And slowly, he'd convinced her to keep staying at his house. Spending more time with him. He would see her toothbrush sitting companionably next to his in the toothbrush holder on his sink, and it would make him smile. There were signs of woman all over his house, now—her pink razor crouched in the shower next to her shampoo, her clothes were hanging tentatively in a corner of his closet. He'd spent almost every night with her, spoke with her every day. She made coming home a welcome relief.

All of this was marred by only one tiny problem, and he wasn't even sure if it was in his head or not.

He would come home, and she would be reading a travel magazine, and look up at him, her face carefully
blank. He would nuzzle her, talking of some future plan, and even though she was listening, it seemed like she wasn't there. She was spending more time with him physically. He just wasn't sure where her mind was.

Or her heart, for that matter.

He realized he was scowling, and carefully schooled his face into a nonetheless strained smile as he got his hand pumped by an eager sales executive. “Congratulations. Great quarter.”

“Wait till next month!” the man said, already a bit red-faced from the champagne being served.

Wait till next month.

Their six-month anniversary was coming up. That was yet another source of tension.

He couldn't believe that she would just walk away…she'd acted like she wasn't, but he couldn't be sure. And he knew he couldn't go through with this sick feeling of worrying, wondering if he'd made the cut somehow or not. What was he going to say? That he didn't want to go month-to-month anymore…he was sick of renting, and now finally wanted to buy? Not temporary anymore, but permanent?

He paused, midstride, and almost got run over by two enthusiastic dancers.

He moved to one side, stepping halfway behind a curtain. He studied Angela. She smiled politely at Adam, her eyes darting around the room.
Looking for me,
he thought, with a surge of warmth.

Permanent.
That was exactly what he wanted. And that was exactly what he'd do. He'd ask her to marry him.

Suddenly, he felt lighter, as if his tension were a suit of armor that he'd finally been able to remove. He moved
toward her, sitting down next to her. The relief was visible on her face.

“Having a good time?” he asked, taking her hand and kissing the back of it gently.

He ignored Adam's amused expression, choosing instead to focus on how her eyes glowed in response. “I am now,” she whispered, leaning closer to his collar. He leaned forward and kissed her, not caring what the rest of the table thought. This was the woman he loved and was going to marry. A few public displays were allowed.

He rested an arm around her, watching the dancers, not really paying attention. He stroked her shoulders, feeling the tension there. “Thank you, again.”

She glanced over at him. “For what?”

“For canceling your San Francisco plans for me.”

She looked uneasy. “Well, that's okay.”

“No, really,” he said, tipping her chin up. “I mean it. It was important to you, and I really, really appreciate it.”

He didn't let go until her darting gaze finally focused on him. “You're welcome,” she said slowly, with a small smile.

“How about I make it up to you?” A plan was starting to take shape in his head. He'd have a whole week to make the arrangements. “I'll take you into San Francisco next weekend, instead. We'll do whatever you want.”

She made a skeptical face. “I don't know, Josh. It's not quite the same.”

He leaned in close to her ear. “Trust me. It'll be even better.”

He was satisfied when she shivered. “Okay, Josh.”

He kissed her again, then turned back to the dinner
conversation. His mind wasn't really on it—it was swarming with ideas. A hotel with a view of the bridge, he thought, top-notch with room service and a deep hot tub. Candles, everywhere, and flowers. Lots of flowers.

And a ring, he thought. Something unusual, something beautiful, like her.

It was a perfect plan—in theory. He glanced over at her, once again unplugged from the conversation.

Now, if only he could guarantee that she would say yes.

 

W
HAT ARE YOU DOING?

Angela was hiding in the rest room of the Moroccan restaurant Josh had persuaded her to go to, dodging the party he'd wanted her to attend…blowing off her friends in the process.

They had taken it well—that is, Tanya had taken it well. Ginny had simply crossed her arms.

“You're getting that in-over-your-head look, Angela. You might want to evaluate why you're always breaking plans for him these days. And what would happen if you decided not to do it anymore?”

Ginny had a point there. What
would
happen, Angela mused?

He would be hurt. She would hate to see him hurt, she thought. At this point, she hated even seeing him uncomfortable.

But that wasn't the real reason, was it?

He might leave.

Just the thought made her uneasy enough to fiddle with something, fidget, do anything but dwell on the supposition. She glanced around the bathroom instead.
Actually, this wasn't even the bathroom…it was an adjoining sitting room, away from the stalls and the sinks. There was a large cushioned couch against one wall, and a brightly lit mirror obviously meant for use by women touching up their cosmetics. It looked very much like a boudoir, done in royal blue velvet.

“Angela. I should have known you'd be here.”

Angela glanced over, and saw Shelly, wearing a lipstick-red dress, obviously a signature color of sorts. She looked at odds with the cool blue of the room. She sat on one of the chairs in front of the mirror, studying Angela in the reflection rather than head on. From her small purse, she pulled out a small compact, an eye shadow duo, a blush and a lipstick, and proceeded to apply them with the precision of a portrait painter. Angela wasn't sure why Shelly bothered—her face looked porcelain perfect to begin with.

Angela knew nothing had happened between Josh and Shelly on the night they'd had dinner together. She trusted him enough to know that. Still, seeing the woman who had managed to cause not one but two of the major fights between herself and Josh was enough to make her uneasy. She started to get up, walk away, but Shelly's next question stopped her.

“So…are you looking forward to Italy?”

Angela frowned. And now, hitting her with the twenty-million-dollar question. “My ticket is fully refundable,” she murmured. “Isn't that right?”

Shelly's hazel eyes widened. “You're still considering canceling?”

“Rescheduling,” Angela hedged. “I'm thinking of rescheduling. Maybe something later. Now isn't the best time…”

Shelly's eyes narrowed. “This has to do with Josh, doesn't it?”

Angela felt her temper blossom like an icy explosion. “Does the Travel Center always include relationship therapy with its services, or did I get that thrown in when I asked for business class?”

Shelly didn't rise to the bait. Instead, she sighed, philosophically. “You must hate me.”

“I don't hate you,” Angela said, although she was feeling closer to it than she'd thought possible. “I just wonder what business it is of yours what my relationship to Josh is. Afraid of losing your commission?”

“No. Just speaking as a woman who's been there.”

Angela felt a muscle in her neck tighten to the point of snapping. “You've been there with Josh?” Her voice was low, frigid.

“Hmm? Oh, no. Not for want of trying, I'll have to admit. Josh is a very good-looking man, and a wealthy one. He's got a reputation for treating women well.”

“He doesn't have women, plural, anymore.” Angela felt her hands balling into fists. That this woman would
dare…

“I know that. You're an incredibly lucky woman, Angela.”

Angela paused, wondering what Shelly's angle was. “Yes, I know.”

“No, I don't think you do,” Shelly said, surprising her. “I moved back to Manzanita because I got divorced, did you know that?”

“Um, no.” Angela shifted her weight, unsure where this conversation was going. “I'm sorry,” she added awkwardly.

“So am I,” Shelly said. “We lived in Oregon. He spent
most of our money, left me in debt and desolate. I had to move back in with my parents. I had just moved into my own apartment not long before the night Josh and I had dinner.” Angela saw the lines creasing the corners of her eyes—worry lines, that no expensive makeup could erase. The bitterness in Shelly's voice was palpable. “I had always insisted on being an independent woman, when we got married. Had my own life, my own friends. I married my husband in a rush, but I let him know exactly what I wanted. I thought he was okay with that. I think he even was, for a while.”

Shelly shifted, staring at herself in the mirror, as if she were telling the story to the face in front of her and not a riveted stranger like Angela. “But then he changed. He started getting jealous and demanding. I thought we'd work it out. Next thing I know, he's divorcing me. Leaving me for a waitress in a Mexican restaurant. When I asked him why, he said…” She took a deep breath. “He said he wanted a wife, and I ‘sure wasn't being one.'”

Angela took a quick inhalation of breath, a surprised hiss.

“I was shattered when he left. When I got back here, I vowed that I was looking for a man who'd take care of me, and that I would do everything I could to make him happy. If he wanted me to focus on him, then that's damned well what I was going to do. I'd screwed it up once, and I'm not going to do it again.”

Angela swallowed hard. “Why are you telling me this?”

Shelly finally looked back at her. Her eyes were almost emotionless, glassy, like a doll's. “I'm telling you this,” she said patiently, “because Josh Montgomery is
just what I'd be looking for in a man. He's what every woman looks for in a man. And if it's going to be a choice between Josh and a trip to Europe, I'd say you're out of your mind if you leave.”

Angela blinked. Of all the advice she could receive, from all the people she could receive it from, she had hardly been expecting this.

“One more thing,” Shelly said, dabbing one last puff of powder on her forehead before shutting her compact with a click. “If you choose to leave Josh alone, I guarantee you, while you're gone, a lot of other women
won't.
And men don't like to be alone for long, I've discovered.”

“Josh isn't like that,” Angela stated flatly.

“All the more reason you ought to weigh your choice carefully, don't you think?”

“I've wanted this for a long time,” Angela said, slowly. “If he really loves me, he should understand that. He should be supportive. I can't be the one that keeps bending.”

Shelly looked at her, shaking her head. “Believe me. Men don't bend. They break. And they break you with them.”

Shelly left, leaving only a dusting of spilled powder and a trace of floral perfume in her wake.

Angela leaned back against the deep blue couch cushions, thinking hard.

She'd given up so much, already. She'd given in. She felt like she was always giving in.

Was it really that bad?

She rubbed her eyes, suddenly weary.

She had a ticket for two weeks from now in a drawer
in her apartment, and a lover who was no doubt growing impatient in the other room.

What am I going to do?