Anything for Her Marriage

Nancy shifted to lean heavily on the edge of the counter, bending over to remove her shoes, which she carried out of the room. Again, he followed, until he realized she was headed toward her bedroom. “I’ll be right back, but I just cannot deal with this torture instrument—” she pointed in the general direction of her bosom “—a second longer.” She disappeared into the room, leaving her door open a crack. “Anyway, about the cats,” she called from the other side. “See, I couldn’t have any in my apartment. So I figured, when I moved here—” a groan of undisguised relief drifted from behind the door “—I’d get me a cat. One cat, maybe a cute little kitten, you know?”

Clad in an oversized red sweatshirt, gray leggings and thick socks, she padded back out into the living room, pulling her hair back into one of those funny long clips. Had she given up on the seduction idea, or was she wearing a black lace teddy underneath her outfit?

Curious woman.

She crossed the room, rubbing at a spot high on her rib cage. “So, anyway,” she said, stopping at the kitchen door, one hand on the frame, “I get to the pound—there’s a small one, right outside town—and they had these six grown cats. No kittens. And I realized, since there didn’t seem to be a run on the place, the ones I didn’t take would be…” She lowered her voice. “You know.”

Rod leaned back against the arm of the sofa. “So you took them all.”

“What else could I do?”

What a gal. “So where’d the seventh come from?”

“Wouldn’t you know—a stray wandered up onto my porch the day after I brought these guys home. It was either take him in, or send him to that place.” She shrugged. “Um, coffee’s ready. You want it in here or out there?”

Impulsive. Kindhearted. Crazy. Oh, yeah…he definitely needed to leave as soon as possible. “Kitchen’s fine,” he said.

Her smile shot straight to his groin.

Did he have any idea how nervous she was? How close she was to making a fool of herself? He had to hear it in her nonstop prattling—she could hear her mother saying, “For God’s sake, Nancy, give it a rest!”—see it in her incessant movement. Distractedly, she pulled a pair of crockery mugs from the cupboard.

Why can’t you do anything right, Nancy? Why can’t you be like Mark?

No. Her brother wouldn’t lower himself to a cheap seduction, that was for sure. But then, having married the Jewel of Scarlet River, New Jersey, the summer after he got his master’s degree in Computer Engineering—a real degree—and then in due course presented his parents with two adorable grandchildren, her brother probably didn’t find himself in the position of being sex-deprived on a regular basis. Not if Shelby Garver was anything like Nancy remembered, at least. Her mouth quirked up into a half smile. Her mother should only know.

“Nancy?”

Rod’s voice brought her back to the land of the somewhat-living. “Sorry. Lost in thought.”

Instead of sitting, he took the mugs from her hands, set them down, poured the coffee. A small, insignificant thing. But since no one had done anything for her since she was about five, she was fascinated to discover how much the gesture pleased her.

“Sugar?” he asked.

“And milk, yes,” she said, reveling in letting him serve her. He fixed the coffee, handed her a mug. He took his black, she noticed. She also noticed the crease in his brow as he regarded her over the first sip.

He set down the mug, linked his arms over his chest. “You look like someone who needs to talk.”

She nearly laughed. Oh, yeah, right…like he was going to relate to being the child who always screwed up, no matter how hard you tried. So she shook her head. “Not about that. Besides…” She moved over to the table, took a seat. “It’s my house. I get to grill you.”

One side of his mouth hitched north. “Oh, really?” He scraped back the other chair, dropped down into it. Somewhere along the way, he’d removed his jacket. Now she was faced with a mind-boggling array of torso muscles encased in soft, luxurious, black-as-sin cashmere. Hoo, boy. “You’re pretty sure of yourself,” he said, his voice rumbling through her senses like a lazy freight train.

She wasn’t sure of anything. But she smiled, took a swallow of coffee. “I’m a salesperson, remember?”

“Damn good one, too, from what Elizabeth tells me.”

The first flicker of pride she’d felt in ages warmed her blood. “I used to be.”

“Used to be?”

“It was easier in Detroit, I guess. I’m starting over out here. And I was doing a lot of commercial stuff. Now it’s mostly residential, which yields less return for time invested.” Then she laughed, slapped the table. “Hey! You shifted the conversation to me when I wasn’t looking—”

His hands shot up, as did both corners of his mouth. “Oh, no. You did that to yourself.”

“Piffle. You knew exactly what you were doing!” Laughing, she leaned forward, pointing at him. “Let’s get one thing straight—I’m the manipulative one here, got that?”

Rod leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest again. He wasn’t frowning, exactly, but he sure wasn’t smiling, either.

“And why is that?” he asked softly. “Why do you feel you have to force things to go the way you want them to?”

Her own laughter died as the old, chronic hurt twisted her heart. “Because,” she said on a deep breath, daring to meet his gaze, “single women have to take care of themselves. And since the world at large ain’t too keen on giving its women what they need, forcing things to go our way is generally our only option.”

He didn’t seem to take offense. “Survival instinct?”

“Maybe.”

He surprised her by reaching across the table, capturing her hand in his. “Platinum butterfly,” he said, lifting her fingers to his lips. Just as soon as she collected a few brain cells, she was going to ask him what he meant. He beat her to it. “Durable, exquisite, delicate, all at once.” He let go of her hand, leaned back again. “Quite a combination.”

The calico cat jumped out of her way when she shot up from the table, not knowing where she was going.

“I really must be out of practice,” Rod said behind her. “What did I say?”

Arms folded across her stomach, she paced the tiny kitchen, the cat mewing in sympathetic confusion at her feet. “I’m not sure. It’s just that…” She blew out a stream of air, then faced him, twisting a strand of hair around her finger. Stupid, the way she felt dizzy like this. “Oh, man…this is going to sound corny, but no one’s ever called me exquisite before.”

Rod frowned. “I’ve seen that painting, Nancy.”

It took a moment. “Oh…yeah, well, to hear Stan tell it, my main allure was being free and available. Of course, I didn’t know that at the time.” No. At the time, she was thrilled that someone of Stanley Metzger’s talent thought her interesting enough to paint. There’d been times when she wondered if he’d married her just so he wouldn’t have to pay a model. But since he’d only painted her once, and she had the painting…

She looked up at Rod, unprepared for the mixture of compassion and apprehension in his eyes, even less prepared to deal with either of them. The wine-induced buoyancy had fizzled out some time ago, she realized, rudely dumping her into a vat of self-pity. At the moment, every mistake she’d ever made seemed to be screaming, “Hey! Remember me?” Or maybe that was her mother’s voice.

Nancy faced her fogged kitchen window, absently stroking the ginger tom, and decided she was too tired and too fed up with life in general to worry about making an impression on this man. On any man. “Call me superficial, but until ten seconds ago, I didn’t know how much it mattered to have someone, anyone, consider me…attractive. To care enough about me to at least…lie…”

Out of nowhere, tears bit at her eyes. She took a deep breath, trying to control them, only to fall apart when Rod took her into his arms.

“I don’t lie,” he said quietly, and she let ’er rip.

She had no idea how long they stood there, how long she cried. But when she was done, rather than feeling better, she felt like an idiot. She pulled away, grabbing a paper towel from the rack to blow her nose and wipe her eyes.

“Just what you needed tonight, I bet,” she said between swipes. “Coffee with a maudlin drunk.”

He’d followed her, only to hesitate—she could see the questions in his eyes, wondering how much to do or say, how far to wade in—before lifting a hand to her face. Kindness winning out over caution, she thought. With one thumb, he wiped away a tear. “You’re not drunk,” he said gently. “And hardly maudlin. My guess is, someone’s been trying too hard. Trying to be what she thinks she’s supposed to be, not what she wants to be.”

Realization sliced through her, threatening new tears, even as she wondered how this man she barely knew could hone in on things she hadn’t even admitted to herself. “Maybe so,” was all she said, then sniffed.

“I know so. Better than you might imagine.” Her eyes shot to his, waiting for the explanation, but apparently none was forthcoming. Instead, he traced one escaped strand of hair with his fingertip, frowning. “Were you serious about no one ever telling you you’re pretty?”

A raw, wretched laugh stumbled from her throat. “Oh, yeah.”

“Not even your parents?”