The Pre-Nup Page 8

  She let his crisp white shirtfront absorb her tears and thanked the Lord she hadn’t put on mascara that morning.

  “I’m not just doing this for Hannah’s sake.” She wavered for a moment, then remembered what Dr. Kline had said about owing each other total honesty. “I still…love you. Even though I don’t actually like you right now.”

  “I love you, too.”

  “I want our family to work again.”

  “It will,” he swore. “Track all my text messages and e-mails, cell phone records, credit card statements, you name it. Stalk my every move, because this really is going to be the world’s most tedious business trip.”

  “And having a stalker will make it more interesting?”

  “Sure. Makes me feel important,” he teased. “And when I get back on Monday, we’ll continue with our excellent progress with Dr. Kline.”

  “I can hardly wait. Have a safe flight.” Ellie let him kiss her lightly on the forehead. “Call me when you land.”

  “Will do.” He flashed his rakish dimpled grin. “And, hey, check the glove compartment.”

  “Right now?” She pushed the silver latch beneath the dashboard. “Why?”

  “Just a little something to keep you sane while I’m gone,” he said as she pulled out a creamy white envelope tied with a green ribbon.

  “What did you do?” She made every effort to appear delighted, even though part of her—the part that was not making excellent progress, apparently—was screaming guilt gift, guilt gift!

  “Well, you always have to take care of everything with Hannah and the house and even my parents while I’m away,” he said. “You deserve a little pampering.”

  Guilt gift, guilt gift!

  She opened the envelope and pulled out a gift certificate to her favorite day spa.

  “You’re going to spend the whole day there tomorrow. Starting at nine A.M.” He looked inordinately proud of himself. “Facial, pedicure, massage, the works. Even a mud bath.”

  “A mud bath? Sounds intense.”

  “The girl on the phone said it was all the rage and, I quote, ‘very centering.’ She was quite the sales shark, now that I think about it,” Michael mused. “I should hire her.”

  “Do you think there’ll be seaweed and salt scrubs along with the mud?”

  “You’re the spa expert; you’ll have to report back to me.”

  They shared a smile and, just for a moment, Ellie’s anger and despair subsided to the point that she could glimpse the possibility of a future with him. For a split second, she felt back at home in her marriage. Maybe Patrice was right. Maybe time could heal the rift between them. “I wish you didn’t have to go out of town right now.”

  “Me, too. God.” He raked his hands through his dark brown hair. “Believe me, El, if there were any way I could skip this trip…But we’ve got a major potential investment on the line here, big money, and my dad really wants me to handle it myself.”

  She nodded. “Well, that’s why the company’s called Barton Properties, right?”

  “Maybe I can come home a day early.” He opened the driver’s side door and walked around to let her out of the passenger side. “See you in seventy-two hours, okay?”

  “Seventy-two hours,” she echoed softly. The air was cold and filled with stale diesel fumes and shrill security guard whistles.

  “Have a good time at the spa.” Michael touched her cheek again and gazed at her with an expression she didn’t recognize. “I already checked with my mom—she’ll watch Hannah tomorrow while you’re getting centered in the mud.”

  “Wow. You thought of everything. I’m impressed.”

  “I better go,” he said as the sliding doors to the terminals opened and a garbled voice on the loudspeaker announced an impending departure. “Security line’s a mile long these days.”

  “Okay.” She brushed her thumb against his. “I’ll, you know. Miss you. Hannah, too. She’s already informed me she’ll be dictating an e-mail to you after dinner. I’m to act as her secretary.”

  He nodded distractedly as his brain shifted into work mode. “Don’t worry about picking me up on Thursday; it’ll be right in the middle of rush hour, so I’ll have the office send a car.” Then he hurried through the sliding doors, his stride purposeful and commanding.

  Ellie watched him disappear into the crowd and tucked the beribboned envelope into her purse. She merged into outbound traffic and headed for the freeway, then picked up her cell and dialed the one person she knew who needed a spa day even more than she did.

  “Hey, Mara, it’s me. Wait, wait, don’t hang up. I know you’re still upset about last Friday and I deserve it. But maybe I can make it up to you tomorrow with a ninety-minute shiatsu followed by ten minutes of intensive groveling?”

  Jen Chapter 11

  Keep the change.” Jen thrust a fistful of bills at the cab driver who had ferried her from the airport to the posh Manhattan hotel where Eric was staying. She wrapped her thin wool coat tighter around her torso while she waited for the driver to unload her hastily packed suitcase from the taxi’s trunk. As a lifelong resident of the Southwest, Jen usually avoided traveling to the Northeast between November and April. She couldn’t bear the snow, slush, and gloomy gray skies that dominated New York on February mornings like this one. The rows of skyscrapers created giant wind tunnels, channeling blasts of frigid air across the city. Less than sixty seconds outside, and she was already losing feeling in her cheeks and nose.

  The first pale streaks of dawn feathered across the horizon as she slung her bag over her shoulder and hustled through the hotel’s revolving doors. She’d managed to catch the red-eye from Phoenix last night (also anathema in her personal travel philosophy, but desperate times called for desperate measures) and after a cramped five-hour flight she’d arrived in Midtown exhausted but utterly determined.

  The lobby was deserted at this hour on a Sunday morning, save a uniformed housekeeper polishing the mirrored wall by the elevators. An abandoned newspaper lay strewn across the cluster of maroon upholstered chairs.

  She approached the registration desk, her steps buoyed by optimism. The time had come to take action and she had a plan. She always had a plan.

  The stoop-shouldered clerk greeted her with a rather weary “Good morning. Welcome to the Hotel McMillan. Checking in?”

  “Actually, I’m joining my husband. He’s already a guest here—Eric Kessler.” She spelled out the surname and stifled a yawn while the clerk checked the computer records.

  “Very good.” The clerk picked up the desk phone. “Shall I call him and let him know you’re here?”

  “No, no, it’s kind of a surprise visit. Just give me his room number, and I’ll be on my way.”

  The clerk’s forehead creased. “I’m not authorized to do that, ma’am. We’re supposed to clear all visitors with our guests.”

  “But I’m not a visitor; I’m his wife.”

  “Yes, well, nevertheless…” The clerk shifted his weight from foot to foot.

  “Oh.” Jen suddenly got it. “Oh. You’re afraid I’ll catch him with another woman?”

  The clerk’s face reddened. “Of course not, ma’am. But it’s strict hotel policy. I’m sure your husband isn’t—I mean, the Hotel McMillan doesn’t—”

  Jen had to laugh. “Have no fear, my husband’s definitely not up there canoodling with some chippy. Trust me.”

  The clerk hesitated. “Even so…”

  Jen glanced left, then right to make sure that the coast was clear before peeling a fresh fifty out of her wallet and sliding it across the counter. “Tell you what. You don’t have to say anything. Just write down the room number. Come on, I flew all the way across the country for this. Help a girl out.”

  The clerk stopped dithering and fixated on the cash. “This is highly irregular.”

  “Well, love makes us all do crazy things. Here’s a pen.”

  “I have principles, you know.”

  “So do I; I’m not coughing
up another fifty. My final offer’s on the table,” she bluffed. “Take it or leave it.”

  The clerk cleared his throat and reached for the money. “If my manager finds out about this…”

  “Finds out about what? I’m not allowed to tip a helpful hotel employee?”

  The clerk seized the pen and scribbled down a number on a piece of hotel stationery. “Have a nice day.”

  “Thanks.” She snatched up the slip of paper and hurried toward the elevator. “I fully intend to.”

  Jen announced her arrival at room 3316 with three quick knocks. She leaned forward, tense with anticipation, and waited.

  And waited. And waited.

  She knocked again, louder this time. Still no response.

  “Eric?” Rap, rap, rap. “Honey?”

  Finally, she heard something on the other side of the door: a long, rumbling snore.

  She had often envied her husband’s ability to fall into an almost impenetrable slumber at the drop of a hat. Even on airplanes, he could sleep peacefully through turbulence, loudspeaker announcements, and squalling infants. She should have thrown that front desk clerk an extra ten-spot for a copy of the room key.

  So much for taking him totally by surprise. She set down her bag, dug out her cell phone, and dialed Eric’s number. She heard his phone ringing on the other side of the door, the chirpy ringtone alternating with his snores.

  When she got bounced to voice mail, she hung up and dialed again, then pounded on the door with the heel of her hand.

  The snore sputtered into a cough as Eric stirred and answered his phone. “’Lo?”

  She stopped knocking and lowered her voice to a breathy, teasing lilt. “Hey, honey, it’s me. Guess where I’m standing right now?”

  He mumbled something unintelligible.

  “Honey?” she cooed.

  “Jen?” He sounded bewildered. “What’s going on? Is everything okay?”

  She sighed. “Everything’s fine. Open the door.”

  Muffled rustling on the other end of the line. “What door? I’m in New York, Jen.”

  “So am I.” She struck a pose and rubbed her lips together to freshen the gloss she’d applied in the elevator. “Go open your hotel room door. It’ll be worth it, I promise.”

  “Can I call you back in the morning?” His words slurred together.

  “Hey. Don’t fall asleep on me,” she barked. “Just get up for two seconds and open your hotel room door. Humor me.”

  “But I—”

  “Please.”

  The door swung inward and her husband’s sleep-lined, unshaven face peered out at her. His sandy blond hair stuck out from his head at odd angles and he was clad in plain white briefs and a white undershirt, but he’d never looked better to her.

  “Surprise.” She hugged him, tucking her head under his chin. His body felt warm and solid against hers, and she inhaled deeply to savor his clean, soapy scent.

  He didn’t say anything for a minute, just absorbed the impact of her embrace. Then he put both arms around her waist and squeezed.

  “Hi,” she whispered.

  “What on earth are you doing here?” he murmured.

  “I missed you.” She clung to him and said a silent prayer of thanks for her steady, solid husband. He would always be her anchor. He would never let her down.

  He was, in short, the polar opposite of Patrick Spillane.

  She tilted back her head. “Did you miss me? I know you said not to bother coming all this way, but I just couldn’t wait.” She faltered for a moment before purring, “I need you.”

  His eyes snapped wide open.

  “Well, look who’s awake.” She pressed the full length of her body against his.

  His arousal stirred and hardened against her side, but the rest of him remained absolutely still. He seemed to be holding himself in check, afraid of scaring her off.

  She pulled away long enough to unbutton her jacket, then glanced around to make sure the hallway was empty before peeling off her sweater. Underneath, she wore a skimpy black lace demibra she’d bought right after their honeymoon. The bra had been buried at the bottom of her sock drawer, tags still attached, for five years. She and Eric had never been a sexy-lingerie kind of couple. Until now.

  Eric’s eyes got even bigger, as did the bulge in his shorts.

  She lowered her eyelashes and threw him a sultry half-smile. “Aren’t you going to ask me to come in so I can show you what I’ve got on under my jeans?”

  Eric yanked her inside, hung the “Do Not Disturb” sign over the knob, and slammed the door shut. His fingers fumbled with the zipper on her jeans as they stumbled toward the bed.

  She let herself fall back against the crisp cotton sheets that were still warm from her husband’s body. She closed her eyes and cleared her mind and made love to her husband with a focused, ferocious energy that she hoped would bridge the gulf widening between them.

  Jen listened to the slow, steady rasp of Eric’s breathing and repositioned her pillow. She’d been lying here for the last half hour, her agitation mounting as the minutes ticked by on the luminous digital clock on the nightstand. His warm, solid body curled around hers and she couldn’t bear to be so close to anyone right now. Not while the scent of sex still clung to the sheets and all of her emotions were roiling so close to the surface.

  Carefully, inch by inch, Jen pulled away from her husband and tiptoed across the bedroom, nearly stumbling as her feet got tangled in a comforter that had been tossed to the floor. She needed to staunch all the hope and fear and pain coursing through her heart. She needed to go numb.

  She retrieved her laptop computer from her suitcase, retreated to the alcove between the bedroom and the bathroom, and clicked the cursor to open up some marketing reports. The light emanating from the screen bathed the dark walls in a pale blue glow. She stared at the data, refusing to think about anything except the numbers directly in front of her.

  She heard rustling behind her, then Eric’s voice, thick with sleep. “Jen? What are you doing?”

  “I thought you were asleep.”

  “I was. But I’m freezing in there by myself now that we kicked all the blankets onto the floor. What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  He came closer. “Was I snoring?”

  “No. I’m just too wired to sleep right now. I can’t relax.”

  “Well, if you need to work off some excess energy, I’m up for round two.” He placed his palms on her shoulders and gently kneaded the muscles at the base of her neck.

  She pulled away from his touch. “Sorry. I’m a little jittery. Travel.”

  “I’ll stay up with you,” he offered. “Want me to make coffee?”

  “No, I’m okay.”

  “Or, I know, there’s a twenty-four-hour diner around the corner. We could grab something to eat and read the Sunday paper. You must be starving.” He sounded so happy and confident.

  “Not really.”

  “What can I do to help you?”

  This was her chance to talk to him about everything. She could smash through the barriers of silence between them and use last night’s lovemaking as the first step in establishing a marriage worthy of the title. She could finally let him in.

  “Nothing.” She squeezed her hands together until her knuckles hurt and the edges of her wedding ring bit into her fingers. “I need a little time alone, that’s all.”

  He hesitated. “But you just got here. And we haven’t seen each other in almost two weeks.”

  “I know, but…”

  “Staring at your laptop in the dark isn’t going to help you. A little fresh air and some food will do you good. Come on, I’ll get your coat.”

  “No!” she said, her voice louder than she’d intended. “I can’t do this right now.”

  “Do what? You flew across the country and showed up at my hotel room in the middle of the night and ripped off my clothes and now you’re telling me you can’t stand to look at me?”

&nbs
p; “I know it doesn’t make sense, but…” She drew up her knees and covered her face. “It’s not you. This has nothing to do with you.”

  “Then what does it have to do with?” The confusion and anxiety in his voice vanished. “Oh.”

  “What?” She twisted around to look at him, but he’d already turned his back to her.

  “You can have the bed. I’ll sleep on the couch in the other room. Have your alone time. Have as much as you want. See you in the morning.”

  Jen startled awake to find bright afternoon sunlight filtering through the hotel curtains and onto her face. She could hear muffled traffic noises in the distance—horns honking, doors slamming. Her neck ached from hunching over her computer and her throat was parched. It took her a moment to remember where she was.

  She’d been too distracted to appreciate it last night, but the McMillan Hotel offered quite the cushy digs. Lustrous ice blue wallpaper offset the heavy, dark wood four-poster bed and armoire. The linens were high-thread-count and a pristine white duvet enveloped the fluffy down comforter. The pillow next to hers still bore the concave impression of Eric’s head. As the memories of their conversation came rushing back, she swung her feet down to the carpet.

  She heard faint clinks and clatters from the other side of the door next to the armoire. “Honey?” she called.

  The clinking ceased. “In here.”

  She arranged herself into what she hoped was an irresistible picture of morning-after dishabille and waited for him to come to her, but the door remained closed.

  Not a good sign. She clambered out of bed, slipped on an embroidered white robe she found hanging in the bathroom, tugged a damp comb through her hair, and prepared to face the consequences of last night’s amorous ambush.

  Eric sat reading the newspaper in a gray wingback chair in the corner of a small sitting room. His stocking-feet were propped up on a glass coffee table, but the rest of him was decked out in full office regalia: starched shirt, striped power tie, pressed black pants. Jen noticed the remains of a room service meal on the side table next to him: buttery crumbs and smudges of jam on an elegant silver-rimmed plate.