Marriage On The Edge. Sandra Marton
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mouth thinned.
If it was over with Natalie, it was over. And maybe it was for the best. What was the point in a relationship in which silence had replaced conversation and accommodation had replaced passion?
“Is there something wrong?” he’d said a couple of weeks ago. God, what the words had cost him, especially when he’d seen the look of disdain that had crept over Natalie’s beautiful face.
“I don’t know,” she’d said in that polite voice that made his blood pressure zoom. “You tell me. Is there?”
For the first time in his life, Gage had considered that it was possible, just possible, that a man might have a reason for slugging a woman. Well, if the woman were a man. If she were as big as he was, at six feet two, or if her muscles had been hardened by years of physical labor before things started coming together right.
But Natalie was none of those things. She was tall, yes, and with a toned, beautiful body, but she was definitely all woman.
He would never hurt her. Never. And yet, it didn’t seem to mean a damn to her that she was hurting him. Okay, not hurting him. How could she, when he didn’t really feel the same way about her anymore? Still, he was entitled to common courtesy. And after ten years of marriage, it looked as if Natalie had even given up on that.
“She knew I was only going to this damned party because of her,” Gage said to the open closet. “But did she phone my office to say she wouldn’t be going with me? No,” he growled, answering his own question. “No, she did not.”
No call. No explanation. Nothing but the red light blinking on the answering machine to greet him as he came in the door half an hour ago, and then Natalie’s clipped voice saying, “I’ve been delayed. I’m not promising anything but if I possibly can, I’ll meet you at the Holcombs’s.”
At least she’d gotten that right, he thought grimly, as he shouldered his way into a white dress shirt. No promises. And now, no Natalie.
“So, here you are, Baron, going to this party alone,” Gage muttered as he zipped up his fly, then slipped on his jacket. “What do you think that makes you, huh?”
A jerk, that was what. A jerk in a tuxedo. He glared into the mirror, ran his hands through his dark hair, adjusted his bow tie, tried a smile and wondered if people would run in terror when he tried it on them.
This was going to be one terrific night. He’d shelled out a thousand bucks to spend the evening trapped in a monkey suit, munching soggy canapés, drinking flat champagne, wondering where Natalie was…
And why the hell should he? Gage’s pale blue eyes narrowed. Natalie was a big girl. She could take care of herself, as she was so fond of telling him.
If it was over, it was over. The sooner he got used to the idea, the better.
Gage plucked his car keys from the top of his dresser, tossed them in the air, and headed for the door.
The lineup of cars headed for the Holcomb mansion began half a block from the driveway.
“Great,” Gage muttered, as he eased down through the gears of his vintage Corvette, “just great.”
There was nothing like being stuck on the tail end of a line of Caddies and Mercedes to make a man wish he were sitting in the lounge of the Baron Windsong, enjoying a glass of vintage chinon blanc.
The Cadillac ahead of him jerked forward a couple of inches. Gage sighed as he moved the Vette up behind it.
Never mind the wine. Never mind the hotel. He saw enough of it during the day, and wine was a great idea, given the right time and place, but just now what would really do it was a chilled bottle of a good dark ale. And a beach, not here in Miami but somewhere out in the South Pacific, where that same big, white moon that was floating overhead would cast its ivory light over an untouched stretch of sand. Man, he could just see it. He’d be in a pair of cut-down denims, leaning back on his elbows, his face turned up to the night sky as he watched all those falling stars flame through the blackness while the cool surf kissed his toes…
A horn beeped behind him. Gage blinked, frowned, saw the car-length space that had opened before him, and eased the Vette forward.
What was wrong with him tonight?
It was years since he’d sat on a beach, or wanted to; years since he’d spent so much time in foolish introspection…
Years since a woman had made him feel so uncertain.
His hands flexed on the steering wheel.
This couldn’t go on. Okay, he’d endure the Holcomb shindig for an hour. Half an hour; that would be enough. Then he’d slip out the door, confront Natalie when she finally showed up at home, demand answers, and end the nonsense between them one way or the other.
If she wanted to go on, he’d consider it. If she wanted to finish things, so be it. Life would go on, divorce or not…
In which case, what was he doing here, waiting his turn to go to a party he didn’t want to attend, courtesy of a woman he wasn’t sure he wanted anymore?
That was the truth, and admitting it, finally, made him feel as if a weight had been lifted from his chest.
To hell with this. Gage’s jaw tightened. He’d cut out of line, go back to the house, peel off this silly suit, climb into his cutoffs…
“Sir?”
He could feel the knot in his gut start to loosen. All he had to do was back up a couple of inches, thread the Vette’s nose out into the road…
“Sir? Excuse me, sir?”
Gage jerked his head towards the window. “What?” he snarled, and blinked.
Without realizing it, he’d reached the driveway. A kid stood outside the car, his red jacket pronouncing him the parking attendant for the night. His face was pimply, his Adam’s apple was bobbing, and Gage sighed, tamped down his temper, and once again managed that thing he hoped might pass for a smile.
“Yeah,” he said, and because fate had intervened, or he’d taken too damn long to come to his senses, he did what any man would do under the circumstances, stepped out of the Vette, handed the kid his keys along with a ten dollar bill to make up for the way he’d snarled, and climbed the steps of the Holcomb mansion to what he knew would be a couple of hours of brutally civilized torture.
Torture was too polite a word.
Who was it who’d invented cocktail parties, anyway? Charity ones, especially? Not a man, he was certain of that. Only a woman would expect human beings to pay for the privilege of standing in a crowded room clutching a glass of undrinkable wine in one hand and a lump of inedible something in the other, while a string quartet on the patio sawed its way through something that had probably been just as dull and lifeless when it was written a couple of hundred years ago as it was now.
The smile he’d practiced seemed to be working well enough. It made him feel like an escapee from a funny farm but nobody seemed put off by it. Hank Holcomb had pumped his hand, muttered something about how pleased he was to be hosting the party even as he rolled his eyes in denial. Liz Holcomb had swooped down in a cloud of perfume dense enough to gas anybody around her, air-kissed both his cheeks and urged him to try the battered shrimp.
“Where’s our Natalie?” Liz had said, but she’d squealed at the sight of someone else before he’d had to come up with an answer. “I’ll see you later, darling,” she’d cried, kissed the air in his general direction, and flown off.
So he’d wandered through the football-field-size living room, out to the patio, back through the dining room, accepted the glass of wine and the limp canapé from passing waiters once he grew weary of saying, “No, thanks,” every two minutes, and now he’d found himself a fairly quiet spot in a corner nobody coveted because the potted palm that filled it did an effective job of shielding from view whoever might stand beneath